Tag Archives: vivien leigh

Breathing life into drama: A Streetcar Named Desire

Posted on by under 5-star films, brandie's faves, drama, hays code, lit adaptations

Each September, the life and career of renowned playwright Tennessee Williams is celebrated in his birthplace, Columbus, Mississippi. As I’ve mentioned multiple times on this blog, Carrie, Nikki, and I are proud alumnae of Mississippi University for Women, which is located in Columbus and has an active hand in this event every year. In the wake of that annual celebration (and regrets that I couldn’t be there), Williams has been on my mind somewhat as of late, leading me to revisit some of my favorites from his body of work. For one reason or another, I’ve always felt a bit of a connection with many of Williams’ plays–Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, The Night of the Iguana, and The Glass Menagerie among them. But his 1947 masterpiece A Streetcar Named Desire, which I’ve discussed previously on this blog in the context of the 1951 film version’s challenges to the Production Code, is my favorite Williams play by far.

Streetcar is doubtlessly one of the best American plays ever produced–one of the best plays ever written, period. It is a searing, uncompromising, painfully honest examination of a group of broken, utterly fucked-up people. I mean, there’s really no better way to put it: these characters are less than whole, filled with weakness and depravity in almost equal measure. And yet, at the same time, they are intriguing, and their interactions completely engrossing, because the way in which Williams paints these characters is unerringly lively and vital–ripe for interpretation on stage and screen, as befitting the dramatic genre.

Drama, as a literary form, has appealed to writers practically since the dawn of written language. There is a reason that it has remained an unfailingly popular genre for centuries upon centuries, from the times of the ancient Greeks through the days of Shakespeare and Marlowe, from George Bernard Shaw to Eugene O’Neill to Henrik Ibsen and countless others. And it is summed up pretty succinctly by an African-American playwright, Amiri Baraka, whose work came to prominence in the midst of the Civil Rights Movement. In his 1984 memoir The Autobiography of LeRoi Jones, Baraka, in discussing the genesis of his controversial 1964 play Dutchman–in which a young white woman encounters a young black man on a train and engages him in a flirtatious, heated conversation, only to (spoiler alert!) viciously stab him to death in the end–explains his own initial attraction to the field of drama:

“I can see now that the dramatic form began to interest me because I wanted to go ‘beyond’ poetry. I wanted some kind of action literature, and the most pretentious of all literary forms is drama, because there one has to imitate life, to put characters upon a stage and pretend to actual life.”

In referring to drama as an “action literature,” Baraka makes a solid point about the nature of dramatic characters and storylines. When the words of playwrights are actually performed for an audience (whether that audience sees it live in a theater or projected onto a screen), those lines gain a power and a life that is sometimes inaccessible when merely reading them for oneself. And, I would argue, nowhere is this more evident than in Elia Kazan’s cinematic adaptation of Streetcar, starring Marlon Brando and Vivien Leigh. Brando, one of the most renowned devotees of the Method brand of acting, brings a raw, sexualized energy to the role of Stanley that is described, but not fully embodied, by the words in Williams’ play. Likewise, Leigh, a more classically-trained actress, lends the character of Blanche DuBois a subtle kind of dignity that is only hinted at in the play. Drama, by its very nature, allows readers to act out the lives of characters by placing them squarely in the character’s shoes and letting them vicariously—and temporarily—experience the action for themselves. By fleshing out these two fictional characters and presenting them on the screen, the filmed version of Williams’ play reveals the limitations of other forms of literature–those that are bound to the static page–by demonstrating the unparalleled power of fully-animated interpretation.

Characterization is highly important to the success of drama, particularly as a form of “action literature.” Dynamic characters are vital to move the plot of the play along, and when an equally dynamic actor is matched to an appropriate part, the performance only heightens our enjoyment and our understanding of the character’s actions and motivations. The antagonist of Streetcar, Stanley Kowalski, is a loathsome, cruel character in Williams’ play. But when the character is brought to life through the machinations of Brando, we begin to see new facets to the man. He is still loathsome—no mistake about that.  But certain elements of Brando’s portrayal of the character elicit new interpretations of Stanley’s behavior.

Stanley, Williams tells us, is a brute. His first action in the play, tossing a slab of meat to his adoring wife, Stella (Kim Hunter in the film), gives us the first hint of the primitive, Neanderthal-like nature of his physicality—the hunter has returned home to provide for his family. In fact, most of Stanley’s interactions throughout the play reflect this same primitive mindset: his questioning of Blanche’s story about the loss of the DuBois family home, Belle Reve; his drunken attack on Stella, culminating in a series of primal screams in the street; and, most telling of all, his almost nonchalant raping of his sister-in-law. That Stella endures his abuse says more about her reliance on him than any true remorse on Stanley’s part—for we see a definitive lack of remorse in the way in which he continues to bait and torment Blanche, finally sending her over the edge through his brutish attack. In the play, when he tells her, “We’ve had this date with each other from the beginning,” this adds an even more chilling, sinister twist to his machinations, as it becomes clear that Stanley has been planning his attack for weeks, lying in wait for the perfect opportunity.

When Brando slips into Stanley’s tight-fitting t-shirts, however, he adds an element of slyness and winking humor that is not fully evident within the text. Through Brando’s performance, we see the satisfaction he feels when Blanche fails to convince Stella to leave him. We experience the gleeful derision Stanley heaps upon Blanche, and the sheer joy he takes from reporting his findings about her past, including the affair with the young student: “They kicked her out of that high school before the spring term ended—and I hate to tell you the reason that step was taken! A seventeen-year-old boy—she’d gotten mixed up with.” There is an element of intelligence to this Stanley—he sees things in Blanche that are not evident to us, at least initially, and he knows how to manipulate a situation.

Furthermore, in actually seeing someone fill Stanley’s shoes, we are impressed anew by the sheer presence of the man. When he is in the same room with Stella and Blanche, he overshadows them easily, even when he is not speaking. Leigh underscores this in her performance, as many scenes find her cringing away, putting space between her oppressive brother-in-law and herself. When reading the play, however, these little elements are unclear, and Stanley is not as imposing on the page—his small actions have the effect of making the written character seem equally small in his pettiness.

The physicality of the character in the film is a necessary element to explain to contemporary audiences why the Kowalski marriage continues to thrive. True, Stella and Stanley share a strong sexual bond, and Stella herself tells Blanche that her husband’s brute strength tends to excite her more than frighten her: “Stanley’s always smashed things. Why, on our wedding night—soon as we came in here—he snatched off one of my slippers and rushed about the place smashing light bulbs with it … I was—sort of—thrilled by it.” Still, when Stanley pummels her after a long night of drinking, Stella leaves initially only to come back soon after, forgiving him without question. Such an action may seem impossible to fathom for some readers. Sexualizing Stanley by placing his lines in the mouth of a charismatic Brando, however, makes it clearer why Stella endures a relationship that is so unpredictably reliant on her husband’s moods. When Stanley, filled with remorse after beating the pregnant Stella, bellows her name from the street, collapsing at her feet–shirt torn, muscles bulging, and eyes brimming with torment–it’s such a powerful, erotically-charged moment that it’s easy to see why Stella wraps her arms around him and so readily brings him back to her bed.

The protagonist, Blanche, has come to her sister’s home in New Orleans to escape from the shame of her past. Her faded Southern belle act is convincing enough to fool Mitch (Karl Malden), at least for a while, and to convince her sister that all is well. But Stanley is no fool, and Blanche realizes she is up against a master. Leigh’s portrayal of Blanche illuminates the trapped quality of the character much more so than mere stage directions ever could. Her aversion to light is not only physical but mental; we see her withdrawal occurring by inches, with each expression of wide-eyed disbelief and almost childlike fear.

When the truth of her past comes to light for the audience, it is through Blanche’s interaction with a young newspaper boy with whom she flirts while waiting on a date with the much more age-appropriate Mitch. Leigh’s delivery of the line, “I want to kiss you just once, softly and sweetly on your mouth,” is almost innocent in its wistfulness, making it seem like nothing more than a foolhardy attempt for Blanche to grasp her youth once more. But the next line indicates that there is something much more disturbing at the heart of her flirtation: “Now run along, now, quickly! It would be nice to keep you, but I’ve got to be good–and keep my hands off children.” With this statement, our suspicions are aroused, a sense that is doubled in Leigh’s calculated portrayal, as the predator almost immediately gives way to the simpering Southern belle upon Mitch’s imminent arrival at the apartment.

Just as physicality is vital to the embodiment of Stanley on the screen, so, too, is it important in crafting the character of Blanche.  Although Leigh’s performance may at times elicit thoughts of another infamous Southern belle whom she portrayed on the big screen—the erstwhile Scarlett O’Hara of 1939’s Gone with the Wind—the world-weariness she brings to the role is a fitting interpretation of the character’s continued fall from grace. Her constant need to take baths—attempting to cleanse herself of her past sins—and the resistance she shows to being seen in the full light of day are mentioned in the play, but to actually watch Leigh attempt to dodge any source of potentially unflattering illumination and, very literally, hide from the light of truth, heightens the sense of fear and fragility that clings to Leigh’s portrayal of the character. Stanley approaches and Leigh’s Blanche visibly shrinks, as if trying to blend in with the furniture. Her overt femininity is a stark contrast to his oppressive masculinity, making the demonstration of the disparity between these characters’ physical presence much more viable on screen than in print.

Even though the end product was heavily censored, and some of the most unsavory scenes (such as the potentially graphic rape) were muted or otherwise completely excised from the film at the time of its release, A Streetcar Named Desire still embodies Baraka’s assertion that drama is an “action literature” that more closely imitates reality than any other literary form. Drama by definition reflects society’s values perhaps more so than any other type of literature because it is linked so closely to performance—to living, breathing life. In Kazan’s version of Streetcar, seeing Brando and Leigh spar on the screen underscores the importance of “action” in enhancing our understanding of some of the subtler themes of the play … which is just as it should be. When the lines of a play are performed for an audience, the viewers are subjected to an experience that closely mirrors their own, for drama, at its heart, is nothing less than an all-encompassing human experience.

Censorship and a Streetcar: Part Two

Posted on by under 5-star films, brandie's faves, from stage to screen, hays code, lit adaptations

Note: you can find the first part of this entry here.

Joseph Breen’s second caveat in adapting Streetcar revolved around the character of Blanche, whose more sexually predatory side could not be fully explicated on the screen per Production Code regulations. The faded Southern belle’s lack of sexual satisfaction in her marriage and her guilt over Allan’s suicide lead to an overcompensation, of sorts, as she is unable—and perhaps unwilling—to control her urges, engaging in a series of illicit affairs that tarnish her reputation beyond repair.  In the play, this hypersexuality (which could be technically be labeled nymphomania) is much more explicit.  But Blanche’s desire is not only sexual–she also demonstrates an overwhelming desire to find some kind of redemption in the arms of another man.

Blanche’s encounter with the young newspaper boy in the play reflects both sides of Blanche’s desire—the sexual longing and the need for salvation—but the film’s version of the scene somewhat blurs her sexual urges for the boy.  When Blanche says, “I want to kiss you just once, softly and sweetly on your mouth,” it seems at first wistful and innocent, and Vivien Leigh’s delivery of the line neatly avoids the crass implication that seducing young men is a regular exercise for Blanche.  However, the subsequent line, “Now run along, now, quickly! It would be nice to keep you, but I’ve got to be good–and keep my hands off children,” suggests that this is not the first time she has found herself desiring the company of a younger man.

Blanche’s preference for the younger male set is later confirmed by Stanley, who gleefully reports that Blanche was fired from her teaching position for dallying with a teenage boy, and further hints that Blanche even dabbled in prostitution while living at the Flamingo Hotel—something that is spelled out more clearly in the play.  Her motivations are muddled in the film adaptation, as per the strictures of the Code; instead of painting Blanche as an unmitigated whore, as Stanley does in the play, the film depicts the character in a somewhat melancholy, romantic light.  Blanche is portrayed as being so damaged by her role in causing her young husband’s suicide that she seeks him in every new man she encounters–neatly circumventing the insinuation that Blanche merely desires sex for sex’s sake.

Blanche’s sexual proclivities apparently run in the family; as Blanche says in the play, when questioned about the loss of the DuBois family mansion, Belle Reve, her “improvident grandfathers and father and uncles and brothers exchanged the land for their epic fornications—to put it plainly.”  And like the rest of her kin, Blanche’s sister, Stella, seems to be guided, in large part, by her sexual desires, as her relationship with Stanley revolves around the excited sensation his overtly masculine and animalistic behavior arouses within her.  When Blanche questions Stanley’s temper, Stella dreamily relates a tale from their honeymoon when Stanley went around smashing lightbulbs with Stella’s slipper, implying that such scenes arouse her.

The mingling of violence and sexual arousal in Stella and Stanley’s marriage is not as explicitly depicted in the film, though the infamous scene preceding Stella’s story, where a drunken, remorseful Stanley screams Stella’s name in the street, demonstrates this effectively.  Stella dreamily wanders down the stairs at a languid pace, staring at Stanley silently until he collapses on his knees, and she finally surrenders to her baser instincts and embraces her bellowing husband, allowing him to carry her back into the apartment.  Stella’s blissful wallowing in the sheets the morning after “making up” with Stanley further indicates the ferocity of their sexual union, and though the carnality of their love is spelled out much more clearly in the original play, Kazan’s inventive staging of the scenes insinuates what the screenplay only dances around in a deliberately sly manner.

The violence inherent in the Kowalski marriage is heightened to disturbing levels when Stanley turns his predatory gaze toward the increasingly fragile Blanche.  As Stella is at the hospital giving birth to their child, a drunken Stanley returns home, encountering an even drunker Blanche.  A tentative camaraderie born of Stanley’s joy at his impending fatherhood quickly dissolves into menace: Stanley advances on Blanche, determined to break her once and for all while claiming, “We’ve had this date with each other from the beginning.” The music swells, and Stanley proceeds to rape Blanche, sending her over the edge into madness.

However, while the play makes it quite clear that Stanley has sexually assaulted his sister-in-law, Breen was insistent that the scene be completely removed from the screenplay, certain that audiences would not accept a film that depicted so horrific an act.  Kazan categorically refused, declaring that if the scene were eliminated, he would quit—and, as Kazan’s participation was a requirement for Williams’ allowing the play to be filmed, the playwright would leave as well.  In light of Kazan’s determination, Breen then suggested that the rape be portrayed as one of Blanche’s “delusions.”  Again, Kazan balked at the suggestion, and eventually, Breen conceded the point and allowed Kazan to film the rape—provided that 1) the rape be suggested, not shown, and 2) that the ending of the movie be changed so that Stanley would be “punished” somehow for assaulting Blanche. And indeed, the scene depicted on screen seems more of a physical beating than a sexual assault, thus toeing the PCA line.  The film also eliminates Stanley’s line about their “date;” to include the line in the movie would imply that Blanche welcomed the attack, and in order to adhere to the Code, Blanche could not be implicit in her own rape, nor could there be any suggestion that she desired Stanley on some subconscious level.

In Williams’ original ending to the play, Stella rejects Blanche’s claim of rape and forces herself to deny the truth in order to remain with Stanley.  Per Breen’s insistence, the ending was altered, and Stella purportedly leaves Stanley for good, taking her child and going to stay with the upstairs neighbors.  But the wily director indicates that Williams’ ending may still occur as the film winds to a close.  Though Stella claims she’s “never going back,” she doesn’t leave the premises–she goes to stay with the neighbors, as she always does when angry with Stanley.  It is inevitable—considering the pattern of behavior leading up to the end of the film—that Stella will, at some point in the future, go back downstairs to her man, regardless of what he has done.

Still, even with the required cinematic comeuppance for Stanley’s crime against Blanche, allowing just the hint of rape marked an unprecedented move on Breen’s part—for years, the Production Code’s self-proclaimed guru had steadfastly insisted that rape could not be portrayed on-screen, no matter how “delicately” it may have been filmed. His concession in regards to Streetcar enraged the PCA’s longtime allies, the Catholic Legion of Decency, who slapped the film with an initial rating of “C”—indicating that the film was “condemned” for Catholic viewers. 

But even the Legion was willing to compromise, promising if further cuts were made to the film, they would alter the rating to a more acceptable “B.” Jack Warner subsequently demanded those cuts, eliminating another five minutes of filmed material, and those alterations were not restored to the original print for more than forty years. 

The precedent was set: by permitting Kazan to present even the implication of rape, Joseph Breen and the Legion violated their own long-set interpretation of the Production Code, an allowance that would repeat itself with growing frequency in years to come, eventually contributing to the abolishment of the Code in the late 1960s.  The final cut of the film ultimately met with Breen’s approval, and he awarded A Streetcar Named Desire with a PCA seal before its release.  And despite its controversial subject matter, Streetcar went on to become a success both critically and commercially, receiving twelve Academy Award nominations and winning four Oscars (Vivien Leigh for Best Actress; Kim Hunter for Best Supporting Actress; Karl Malden for Best Supporting Actor; and Best Art/Set Direction—Black-and-White). 

It is a shame that A Streetcar Named Desire had to be censored at all, at least from a modern perspective; the harshness of Williams’ vision, so poignantly clear in the play, loses some of its hopeless verve in the watered-down ending of the movie.  But examining the Code-dictated differences between the play and the film gives current audiences a glimpse at life in the 1950s, in which the American culture, by and large, both expected and purportedly desired a rather insipid look at stark reality.  That we are still given a glimpse of the cruel truth through Kazan’s gifted direction and the stellar performances of its lead actors, however, indicates that some facets of American society were fully prepared for—and eagerly anticipating—the cinematic changes to come in the next decade, as the Production Code gave way to the current motion picture rating system, allowing filmmakers much more freedom in the subjects brought to the silver screen.

Censorship and a Streetcar: Part One.

Posted on by under 5-star films, brandie's faves, from stage to screen, hays code, lit adaptations

We’ve previously touched on issues of censorship here at True Classics, but our next two entries this week will take a more in-depth look at the Hays Code, particularly in regards to the struggle to adapt the controversial source material of A Streetcar Named Desire for the big screen.

By 1950, Hollywood had reached an impasse.  For nearly twenty years, the movie industry had largely been under the control of the studio system and bound to follow the rules of the Production Code, a set of regulations and standards designed to limit the corruptible influence of entertainment on American society.  But as the new decade dawned, a young, fresh group of filmmakers began to emerge who, in the ensuing years, would challenge the status quo and lead to the abolishment of the Code and a broader definition of what would be deemed “acceptable” on film.

Enter Elia Kazan, an Oscar-winning director of controversial films such as 1947’s Gentleman’s Agreement, which deals with anti-Semitism, and 1949’s Pinky, a race-relations drama.  Never one to shy away from divisive subject matter, Kazan directed the Broadway version of Tennessee Williams’ Pulitzer Prize-winning play A Streetcar Named Desire, and in 1951, brought the material to the big screen with much of the original play’s cast intact (save Vivien Leigh, who replaced Jessica Tandy in the role of Blanche DuBois). 

Yet the version seen on the Broadway stage was far from the same story seen in the film version.  While Broadway plays were not, by and large, subjected to the rigors of censorship, Hollywood was a different matter altogether: mirroring the purported whims of a conservative American society, films were regularly edited to remove supposedly unsavory or contentious elements.  By sanitizing controversial material for film audiences, however, the Production Code did viewers a grave disservice; in the case of A Streetcar Named Desire, the adult nature of the original story was watered down into something decidedly blander and less powerful.  Ultimately, the differences between Williams’ original play and the bowdlerized screen version demonstrate the limits censorship places on filmmakers and artists who strive to portray the sometimes brutal honesty of reality.  At the same time, these differences also illustrate the ways in which filmmakers could creatively side-step the restrictions placed upon them and still get “salacious” or “troublesome” points across to viewers.

Censorship in the American film industry originates almost from the inception of the first movie picture houses in the early twentieth century.  But the all-encompassing Production Code—sometimes referred to as the “Hays Code” after the first president of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America (MPPDA), Will H. Hays—did not actually originate from the desire to censor films, but rather from efforts to prevent such censorship and interference in the film industry by the United States government.  Hays, who served as Postmaster General during the administration of President Warren G. Harding, was brought into the position in 1922 by film industry leaders who sought to head off federal attempts at censoring films.  Hays and the MPPDA maintained that the American public did not need nor desire censorship of films, and thereby set out to circumvent the possibility.  But within a decade, religious groups within the country had mobilized vocal anti-Hollywood efforts, and calls for government regulation of films had grown more adamant.  It soon became clear to Hays that self-regulation of the industry had become a necessity, and in 1930, the Production Code was established.

The Code begins with the creed, “No picture shall be produced that will lower the moral standards of those who see it. Hence the sympathy of the audience should never be thrown to the side of crime, wrongdoing, evil or sin,” and outlines the things filmmakers cannot express on the screen, including: depictions of murder, detailed crime, sex, childbirth, adultery, sex “perversion,” vulgarity, obscenity, profanity, nudity, explicit dancing, ridicule of religion, and unpatriotic feelings, among a laundry list of other offenses.  The second part, labeled “Reasons,” outlined why adherence to the Code was tantamount; this section clearly demonstrated the influence of religious dogma—particularly Catholic religious dogma—on the development of the new industry standards.  In fact, the Catholic Legion of Decency was a particularly strong influence on the development of motion picture censorship, able to quickly mobilize vociferous publicity campaigns in opposition to films deemed too inappropriate or vulgar for viewing.  By 1934, through a series of cultural and economic developments—the advent of sound, the Great Depression, growing Legion-led outcry over the moral bankruptcy of the movie business—the film industry was forced to cave, and a Production Code seal of approval became absolutely vital to ensure a film’s success at the box office.

Joseph Breen

That same year, Joseph Breen, one of the driving forces behind the formation of the Legion of Decency, became head of regulations for the newly-established Production Code Administration (PCA).   He was a polarizing figure in Hollywood, gaining a reputation in some circles for being … well … an asshole. But Breen was nevertheless supported by a majority of the big studio heads, who knew that after the fight to gain PCA endorsement of their films was done, he would then fight for those films in the face of opposition or disapproval from both religious groups and the government. Indeed, Breen was often one of filmmakers’ most valuable allies, as he would generally offer suggestions as to how directors and producers could work around Code-violating material in their scripts.

Breen’s willingness to work with filmmakers was perhaps most evident in the fight to bring A Streetcar Named Desire to the screen.  When approached by Jack Warner in 1950, Breen outlined three major problems in translating Williams’ play to film: the homosexuality of Allan Gray, Blanche’s ex-husband; Blanche’s perceived nymphomania; and the rape scene at the end of the play, in which Stanley forces himself on his sister-in-law.  Other minor changes occurred throughout, including the elimination of “vulgar” language and innuendo that were judged inappropriate for film audiences.  Though Breen insisted that changes be made, he offered ideas for alterations while conceding on several points at the demand of Warner, Kazan, and Williams.  Indeed, in large part, the ultimate success of the film comes in spite of the obstacles that had been placed against it.

On Breen’s first point—Allan’s sexuality—the ruling was absolute: there could be no mention of the character’s so-called unnatural sexual perversion in the film.  In the sixth scene of Williams’ play, Blanche, who had always realized there was “something different” about her husband, tells Mitch of the night she discovered Allan in bed with an older man.  After pretending that nothing had happened, the trio went dancing, and as a polka played (the “Varsouviana,” the same tune that recurs throughout the play as Blanche slips closer to madness), she snapped, telling Allan, “You disgust me,” and causing him to run out of the room and shoot himself in the head.  Blanche’s judgment of her husband’s sexuality reflects the same judgment faced by other gay men in the 1950s—including the playwright himself—and her attitude would not have been an unfamiliar one to audiences of the time.  But the idea of allowing a reference—even a judgmental, biased one—to a homosexual character was verboten according to the rules of the Code.

Breen’s solution, therefore, was relatively simple: any explicit reference to Allan’s homosexuality or the exact circumstances of his death was forbidden.  Instead, Blanche’s ex-husband was described as “weak” in the film.  But savvy viewers can read between the lines; Blanche’s claim that her young husband cried himself to sleep at night hints that he could not sexually perform with her, and the tender nervousness which she attributes to him indicates a stereotypically effeminate homosexual man.

Friday: part two of our examination of censorship and A Streetcar Named Desire.

Some people simply DO give a damn.

Posted on by under best.films.ever., classic film fans are the best fans, in the news

In a mere three weeks, Gone With the Wind fans raised more than $30,000 to ensure the restoration and care of five costumes from the 1939 film.

The iconic green curtain dress, worn by Scarlett as she appeals to Rhett for money to pay the taxes on Tara, is one of the costumes to be restored.

The Harry Ransom Center at the University of Texas at Austin, which holds the costumes, intends to restore them in time to display them (and perhaps tour other museums) for the 75th anniversary of the film in 2014.

Scarlett's red dress, worn to Ashley's birthday party after rumors have spread about their "embrace," is also part of the collection.

According to Reuters, more than 600 people from the United States and across the world donated to the restoration fund.

The collection also includes Scarlett's dress from her first marriage to Charles Hamilton.

Kudos to the fans of this classic film, who acted with mind-boggling speed to guarantee that a piece of film history would not be … well, gone with the wind!

You can read the whole story here.

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?