Birth of a Notion: 1944

Showing posts with label 1944. Show all posts

Sunday, December 14, 2014

'National Velvet' Holds Up After 70 Years

"Some day you'll learn that greatness is only the seizing of opportunity — clutching with your bare hands 'til the knuckles show white."

Mi Taylor (Mickey Rooney)

Mickey Rooney (who died last spring) got top billing in "National Velvet," which premiered 70 years ago today.

But Elizabeth Taylor is the one who really made it the children's classic it became.

Before I saw it, I assumed from the title that the movie was about a horse named National Velvet — but that was not the way it was. Velvet was the name of Taylor's character, and the National part came from the Grand National steeplechase for which she trained the horse (who was known as "The Pie," short for "The Pirate," a name he acquired from a previous owner).

Rooney was in his 20s and a veteran of dozens of movies when "National Velvet" hit the theaters. Taylor, who was 12 years old, had been in only four, and two were uncredited (her most recent credited appearance had been in the first of the Lassie movies, "Lassie Come Home").

Even more of a newcomer was 19–year–old Angela Lansbury, who made her movie debut in "Gaslight" seven months earlier. Lansbury's role was small, like the roles of the other members of the family (including Anne Revere and Donald Crisp, who starred as the parents). They were mostly there as filler; by and large, it was a two–person show.

As attractive as Lansbury was as a young woman, I have often heard it said that Taylor was a great beauty even as a girl. The term woman–child seems like an exaggeration for most, but it might be appropriate for Taylor — for it almost seems as if she went from being an infant to being a woman overnight — with nothing in between.

I once saw a clip of an interview with a producer who was in the business in the 1930s and 1940s. He said Taylor was more beautiful at the age of 7 than most women ever are at any age.

Mr. Hallam (Arthur Shields): So you're to win the gelding, are you, Velvet?

Velvet: Oh, of course, I'm to win.

Mr. Hallam: There are ways of arranging it, aren't there? And your father's a clever man ...

Velvet: Oh, I didn't bother him, Mr. Hallam. I just arranged it with God.

Some people would argue about that, I guess, but there is no disputing the fact that Taylor was a very beautiful woman — and stunning as a girl.

And she played a resourceful character.

Rooney's character believed himself to be a coward because he wouldn't ride horses — he was a jockey at one time, but he caused an accident that led to the death of another jockey.

Anyway, for reasons that are best left to individual viewers to discover, the horse had no jockey the night before the Grand National, and Rooney tried to muster up enough courage to ride him — but Taylor decided she wanted to ride. She told Rooney to cut her hair so she would look more like a boy.

And he did.

I've seen a few horse racing sequences in the movies — some were good, some were not.

I was disappointed in the racing sequence in "Seabiscuit." I was more impressed with the sequences in "Secretariat," but, as in real life, the 1973 Belmont lacked suspense.

The sequence in "National Velvet" holds up well, even 70 years later, but if I was going to compare it to anything, I wouldn't compare it to another racing sequence. I would compare it to the fight scenes in the original "Rocky."

Both movies were mentioned in the American Film Institute's list of the top 100 inspiring movies. ("Rocky" was #4; "National Velvet" was #24.) "Seabiscuit" was on that list, but, inexplicably, "Secretariat" was not.

It's a heart–pounding, pulse–racing experience, all the more impressive because it was done with the limitations of 1940s technology.

While her screen time was limited, Revere won Best Supporting Actress, one of two Oscars won by "National Velvet" — Robert Kern's editing was the other.

Tuesday, December 09, 2014

Dick Powell's Transitional Movie

"She was a charming middle–aged lady with a face like a bucket of mud."

Philip Marlowe (Dick Powell)

I have no memory of Dick Powell before he first portrayed film noir detective Philip Marlowe on the big screen in "Murder, My Sweet," which premiered 70 years ago today.

That I have no memory of it should be no surprise, really. My parents were teenagers and wouldn't meet for several years yet when "Murder, My Sweet" hit the nation's movie screens.

But what I really mean to say is that I don't recall ever seeing Powell in any of his song–and–dance flicks. That, apparently, was what he did until making the movie that made its debut 70 years ago today.

That was a pretty big development. Before "Murder, My Sweet," as I say, Powell was known as a song–and–dance and romantic lead, but he didn't have to do anything that strenuous in "Murder, My Sweet"— just deliver ironic and, at times, sarcastic lines. Powell, who took the role in large part because he felt he was too old to play romantic leads, went on to play Philip Marlowe in additional movies and on the radio.

He successfully reinvented himself as a dramatic actor at the age of 40. That reinventing yourself stuff isn't easy to do. Well, I guess the reinventing yourself part isn't too difficult. It's the successfully part that seems to throw so many folks.

Of the story, there really isn't much to say. Powell was hired to find the former girlfriend of an ex–con who lost track of her while he was in prison for eight years. Other things happened, too, but I'll leave that for you to discover on your own. Just make sure you don't confuse the story lines.

If it seems familiar to more modern audiences, it is worth mentioning that it was remade in 1975 under the original title of author Raymond Chandler's novel upon which it was based — "Farewell, My Lovely," which was primarily noteworthy for being an early screen appearance of Sylvester Stallone.

But, for the most part, "Murder, My Sweet" endures as the origin of many of the film noir cliches with which you are familiar.

For many folks, it's the answer to a trivia question. You'll see what I mean when you watch this movie. I remember watching movies like that with some of my college buddies. We would laugh at certain points, suddenly realizing where something we had joked about all our lives actually originated.

For me, whenever I watch "Murder, My Sweet," I expect to see Steve Martin in a cameo from "Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid."

No kidding.

I was once watching this movie with some friends of mine (actually more like friends of the family, several years older). Suddenly, I was reminded of a scene from "Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid," and I burst out laughing. My friends stared at me as if I were crazy. I couldn't let them in on the joke.

Maybe eventually they got it.

Friday, November 28, 2014

The Premiere of Judy Garland's Transitional Movie

"A lie's a lie, and dressed in white don't help it."

Katie the maid (Marjorie Main)

Vincente Minnelli's "Meet Me in St. Louis," which premiered 70 years ago today, is highly regarded by the American Film Institute — as well as many devotees of the movie musical.

I say that from personal experience because my grandmother was a fan of movie musicals, and she always liked "Meet Me in St. Louis." Maybe that was because she really liked Judy Garland — which I knew as a child. But, when I got older and saw the movie for myself, I kind of felt the main attraction for "Meet Me in St. Louis" really was 6–year–old Margaret O'Brien, who appeared in several movies in 1944 and was rewarded with a special juvenile Oscar.

It was O'Brien's most memorable role in a movie career that was too short; she wasn't able to make the transition to adult roles as Garland (who also won a juvenile Oscar) had.

(Whatever the reason, I often heard my grandmother singing songs from "Meet Me in St. Louis." My grandmother loved to sing, and she had a pretty good voice, too. As a child, I didn't know which musical featured those songs, but the first time I saw the movie, I knew the words to the songs — and, in my head, I could hear my grandmother singing them.)

"Meet Me in St. Louis" was something of a milestone for Garland, though. It was her transitional movie, marking her shift from children's roles to adult roles. She was 22 when it premiered. She had been a teenager when she made "The Wizard of Oz," which was probably her breakout role (even though she had already made movies with Mickey Rooney by that time), but it was also a children's role.

And movie purists might argue that "Meet Me in St. Louis" wasn't really her first adult role; they might be inclined to mention "Presenting Lily Mars" or "For Me and My Gal," but I'll stick with "Meet Me in St. Louis" because it was more commercially successful than the others.

The story was set around the turn of the century — in St. Louis in the months before the opening of the 1904 World's Fair. It followed the Smith family, who enjoyed a middle–class lifestyle (which, at the turn of the century, was pretty darned affluent — affluent enough to afford a maid to take care of the family and the large house it occupied).

Leon Ames played the head of the household, and Mary Astor, not too far removed from her role in "The Maltese Falcon" and her Oscar–winning part in "The Great Lie," played his wife. Garland was one of their daughters. So were O'Brien, Lucille Bremer (who always reminds me of Julianne Moore — maybe it's the red hair) and Joan Carroll; Henry H. Daniels Jr. played the only son.

Carroll and Daniels had relatively small roles; Garland, O'Brien and Bremer got the most attention. Marjorie Main, who was best known for playing the movies' Ma Kettle, was the maid.

When I saw it for the first time, it was already three, maybe four decades old, and it struck me as being similar to "Life With Father" (which came out a few years later but was set perhaps 20 years earlier than "Meet Me in St. Louis").

Both movies were so frothy and sweet they could give you cavities — but they were also charming and endearing with stories that were mostly told from the young people's points of view. When Mr. Smith's work required him to uproot the family and move to New York, it created crises within the family: They would have to leave St. Louis before the start of the fair they all had been eagerly anticipating, and Garland's blooming relationship with the boy next door would collapse.

Oh, the humanity.

What's more, O'Brien (who was more aware of mortality than most children her age) began a serial execution of snowmen upon learning the news.

O'Brien stole the show, but "Meet Me in St. Louis" really was built around two themes — music and crises. It started with songs, then there was a family crisis, followed by more songs, then more crises, then more songs ... well, you get the idea.

Astonishingly, it was nominated for four Oscars. It didn't win any, but it was still nominated for its cinematography, screenplay, musical score and song ("The Trolley Song" by Hugh Martin and Ralph Blane).

"Meet Me in St. Louis" was noteworthy for something else.

It was the first pairing of Garland and Minnellii, who married the following year.

The marriage ended in divorce, but it did produce a child — Liza Minnelli — who has enjoyed some professional success of her own.

They worked together on "The Clock" (1945) and "The Pirate" (1948) before they divorced, but Liza remains their most famous post–"Meet Me in St. Louis" collaboration.

The movie itself was remade twice for television — in 1959 and 1966.

The second remake was made without music and was intended as a pilot for a TV series, but it wasn't picked up. That's for the best, I suppose. O'Brien notwithstanding, it's hard to imagine "Meet Me in St. Louis" without Garland, isn't it?

(By the way, you can see "Meet Me in St. Louis" tomorrow at 11:30 a.m. Central time on Turner Classic Movies.)

Monday, November 03, 2014

The Spell of the Woman in the Window

Richard (Edward G. Robinson): The flesh is still strong, but the spirit grows weaker by the hour. You know, even if the spirit of adventure should rise up before me and beckon, even in the form of that alluring young woman in the window next door, I'm afraid that all I'll do is clutch my coat a little tighter, mutter something idiotic and run like the devil.

Dr. Barkstane (Edmund Breon): Not before you got her number, I hope?

Richard: Probably.

A lot of movies are labeled film noir, but "The Woman in the Window," which debuted 70 years ago today, is a classic of the genre — purely film noir.

And, when I say it is "purely film noir," I mean that is really all that it is — no distracting subplots.

Fittingly, then, "The Woman in the Window" is credited, at least in part, with the first use of film noir as a description of that particular genre. It is my understanding that film noir was first applied to American movies in 1946 when several of the movies that are now recognized as the early ground–breakers — among them "The Maltese Falcon," "Double Indemnity," "Laura" and "The Woman in the Window" — were first released in France.

In many ways, it reminded me of "Double Indemnity," another film noir that was in the theaters only a couple of months earlier and featured Edward G. Robinson — but in a different kind of role. In "The Woman in the Window," he played the same kind of part Fred MacMurray played in "Double Indemnity." He, too, was involved with a seductress; he, too, killed a man who was connected to the woman.

MacMurray's character killed as part of a plot, though, whereas Robinson's character killed in self–defense. Or did he? Was he an unsuspecting pawn manipulated by the woman in the window?

Robinson's femme fatale was played by Joan Bennett. Before I saw "The Woman in the Window," I knew her only as Elizabeth Taylor's warm–hearted mother in "Father of the Bride." But that was a later phase of her career. It really was like watching a completely different actress in "The Woman in the Window" and "Scarlet Street," both of which were directed by Fritz Lang and starred Bennett, Robinson and Dan Duryea.

As I say, Robinson's character shared some similarities to the one played by MacMurray in "Double Indemnity," but there were some differences as well. MacMurray was in insurance; Robinson was a psychology professor. Well, I suppose there were some similarities there as well. I mean, an insurance salesman has to comprehend a certain amount about human psychology, right? Actually, I guess that is true of a successful salesman of any kind.

They both tried to dispose of the bodies of their victims, and the women with whom they were involved tried to help. Afterward, they both tried to nonchalantly learn details of investigations into the disappearances of their victims — in "Double Indemnity," MacMurray, as an insurance salesman, tried to learn about the investigation from the claims adjuster, played by Robinson.

In "The Woman in the Window," Robinson tried to find out what the police knew by prying details from the district attorney, played by Raymond Massey. And Robinson took some good–natured teasing from Massey — not unlike the joshing Robinson threw MacMurray's way — about really being guilty of the crime (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) that was much more on the mark than any of the characters knew.

Of course, the audience knew — and, in "The Woman in the Window," Robinson actually managed to make viewers sympathize with him. He was, after all, a lonely professor whose wife and children were on a vacation; it was purely a random thing that he found himself in the wrong place with the wrong person. He and Bennett met when he noticed a painting of her in a display window, and it turned out she was there to observe people's reactions to the painting.

They struck up a friendship and went back to Bennett's home, where her wealthy lover showed up and got into a fight with Robinson. In self–defense, Robinson stabbed him with a pair of scissors.

The rest of the story was about how Robinson and Bennett (Robinson mostly) disposed of the body and tried to keep from being discovered.

That led to a surprise ending of which the filmmakers were quite proud.

By and large, film noir can be a bit heavy–handed for my taste. For example, the first time we saw Robinson in this movie, he was lecturing his students about the legal degrees of homicide.

"The various legal categories such as first– and second–degree murder, the various degrees of homicide, manslaughter, are civilized recognitions of impulses of various degrees of culpability," Robinson told his students, neatly foreshadowing what was to come. "The man who kills in self–defense, for instance, must not be judged by the same standards applied to the man who kills for gain."

Did I say "foreshadowing?" It wasn't as subtle as that. How about "telegraphing?"

If there was a theme to the story, I suppose it was that conditions often resolve moral dilemmas, one way or the other. That certainly was true of Robinson and Bennett. Everything they did was dictated by things that, for the most part, appeared out of their control.

And if I have a blanket criticism of film noir, it is the general absence of subtlety. Maybe it is because the facts of the case are assumed to be known — or at least strongly suspected — by the audience, whether that much information actually has been communicated to the audience or not.

I'm not saying that was the case with "The Woman in the Window," only that it has been a problem with many of the film noirs I have seen in my life.

"The Woman in the Window" was a pretty good movie. It's a shame that many of the entries in the film noir genre that followed didn't come close to its standards.

Sunday, October 26, 2014

Christie's Venture into Historical Fiction

"It's as easy to utter lies as truth."

Agatha Christie
"Death Comes as the End" (1944)

There is more than one reason why I have always liked Agatha Christie's "Death Comes as the End," which was published 70 years ago this month — but I think it really boils down to one thing.

It really was quite a departure for her.

As far as I know, it is the only one of her books that was not set in the 20th century. Nearly all of her books were set in or near the time of the book's publication. Whenever Christie wrote about the past, it was in the context of a character's flashback.

It had no European characters, either, being set near the ancient Egyptian city of Thebes in 2000 B.C.

It wasn't Christie's only book to be set in an exotic locale. She did that lots of times.

But, as far as I can tell, it is the only book she ever wrote that wasn't set in the 20th century — and it didn't have at least one European character. Usually, the European character(s) solved whatever crime had been committed. But there was no Europe in 2000 B.C.

It was similar to a book that Christie published five years earlier, "And Then There Were None," in the sense that there were many deaths. And it was, as far as I can tell, the first book to combine a detective story with historical fiction. I have read many historical novels in my life, and I've enjoyed most of them. I'm an amateur historian, I suppose. It was my minor in both college and graduate school, and it's always been an interest of mine.

Perhaps that is why I have always liked "Death Comes as the End."

The fact that she didn't write more historical fiction doesn't surprise me. Good historical fiction is tougher to write than ordinary fiction. It demands a lot of research to make it plausible — almost as much research as a good term paper or thesis will require.

And, as I say, in this novel, as in "And Then There Were None," there were many deaths. The first was a woman who had married the patriarch of an affluent Egyptian family. The new wife antagonized everyone — and turned up dead just when anyone would be a likely suspect.

But she wasn't the last to die. And when the identity of the murderer was revealed, it was about as surprising as the revelation in "And Then There Were None,"

I've heard it said that Christie was inspired to write "Death Comes as the End" after working with her archeologist husband in the Middle East. Makes sense to me. Christie found inspiration in her life's experiences — as all writers do. Why not an archeological dig?

Saturday, October 11, 2014

'Laura' Was Baffling, Even for Film Noir

"I shall never forget the weekend Laura died. A silver sun burned through the sky like a huge magnifying glass. It was the hottest Sunday in my recollection. I felt as if I were the only human being left in New York. For Laura's horrible death, I was alone. I, Waldo Lydecker, was the only one who really knew her."

Waldo (Clifton Webb)
Opening line

"Film noir is known for its convoluted plots and arbitrary twists," wrote movie critic Roger Ebert more than 10 years ago, "but even in a genre that gave us The Maltese Falcon, this takes some kind of prize."

That's for sure. Not only is "Laura" a whodunnit, it's a whogotit as well. As in who got killed? For that matter, did anyone get killed?

From the beginning, viewers were told that Laura (Gene Tierney), a young advertising executive, had been murdered. A streetwise detective (Dana Andrews) investigated.

As the detective went deeper and deeper into the case, he began to fall in love with the beguiling Laura, a woman he had never met but had seen frequently in a portrait.

Then, just when Andrews (and the audience) thought the case was wrapped up, who should walk in but Laura herself, very much alive?

There were several interesting characters in the story — a rather prissy newspaper columnist (Clifton Webb), Laura's leech of a boyfriend (Vincent Price), her affluent aunt who was also interested in the boyfriend and her housekeeper.

When Laura was believed to be dead, any one of them would have been a worthy suspect.

But it turned out that she wasn't the victim after all, which changed the whole emphasis of the investigation.

I won't tell you how the investigation turned out — or who the victim turned out to be.

I will say that I thought it was an excellent film noir, the kind that would really keep you guessing — but I probably would have tried to find a different leading lady. Tierney was pretty, yes, but she came across as a bit young for the role of an advertising executive (she was not yet 24 when "Laura" premiered). She seemed better suited for the role of a schoolgirl.

Maybe the movie's producers tried to get someone else to play the part. Maybe Tierney wasn't their first choice. Not that she didn't give it her best shot. I just thought that someone else would have been more effective. She was a veteran of nearly a dozen movies by that time, but she just didn't have the look for it. She needed to look like someone who was old enough to be teaching a college class, not leading cheers on Saturday afternoons.

Anyway, that would have been my recommendation. Someone with a little more gravitas.

"Laura" was nominated for five Oscars and won one (Joseph LaShelle for Best Black and White Cinematography).

Oh, the Stories Bacall Could Have Told

"You know, you got to be careful of dead bees if you're goin' around barefooted, 'cause if you step on them they can sting you just as bad as if they was alive, especially if they was kind of mad when they got killed. I bet I been bit a hundred times that way."

Eddie (Walter Brennan)

There was an ... I don't know ... impertinence about Lauren Bacall in Howard Hawks' "To Have and Have Not," which was released 70 years ago today, that was very appealing.

She was 19 when the movie was filmed and pretty ... and making her big–screen debut opposite Humphrey Bogart in a movie directed by Howard Hawks. How could it be much better?

Bacall and Bogart later married and co–starred in three other movies together, each memorable in its own way, but "To Have and Have Not" was always the standard against which the others were judged.

There was an electricity between Bogart and Bacall that simply could not be duplicated completely in their other movies. Part of that may have been the story, but a lot of it, I think, was due to the chemistry between Bogart and Bacall as they began one of the most successful Hollywood relationships of all time. It practically crackled on the screen.

Like when Bacall told Bogart, "You know you don't have to act with me, Steve. You don't have to say anything, and you don't have to do anything. Not a thing. Oh, maybe just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow."

That line, by the way, is #34 on the American Film Institute's list of the Top 100 movie quotes of all time.

Lots of movie fans came to think of the character Bacall played as being Bacall herself. I guess that was — and still is — a fairly common misconception.

In fact, as I have heard it, Bacall's character was modeled in many ways after Hawks' wife, who was also known as "Slim," wore captivating dresses, had long blonde hair and a sultry voice and was perplexing.

Ernest Hemingway wrote the original story, but, beyond the title, there really were few similarities between the book and the movie.

I felt it was like a remake of "Casablanca" — perhaps better. Bogart played the same I–stick–my–neck–out–for–nobody kind of character. He wasn't running a night club this time; he was a fishing boat captain in the Caribbean who sometimes smuggled French Resistance fighters to the island of Martinique. His faithful sidekick wasn't Dooley Wilson playing the piano but alcohol–swilling Walter Brennan.

And he had a beautiful love interest — who was even younger than Ingrid Bergman had been. (Was she more beautiful? That's a matter of personal taste.)

Several members of the "Casablanca" cast were in "To Have and Have Not" — primarily minor characters, probably not readily recognizable to anyone who isn't familiar with "Casablanca." But they were there.

As I mentioned earlier, Dooley Wilson wasn't around to play the piano, but Hoagy Carmichael was there.

There's an old story that says Andy Williams, who would have been about 16 at the time, did the singing for Bacall, but it isn't true. It was confirmed that Williams and some female singers were brought in to audition to do the dubbing because of fears that Bacall wouldn't be able to handle it. But, apparently, those fears were overridden by the wish to have Bacall do her own singing.

And, while I will admit that she wasn't perfect, she wasn't bad, either.

I regret that she didn't live to see this anniversary, the 70th of her movie debut. It would have been great fun to hear the tales she had to tell.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Murder and Mayhem in Brooklyn

Mortimer Brewster (Cary Grant): Insanity runs in my family. It practically gallops.

In 1944, Cary Grant was one of the most popular movie stars in Hollywood.

He's been called "the best star actor there ever was in the movies," and, if he wasn't, he should have been. The American Film Institute agrees. When AFI named its top 50 male and female movie stars, it listed Grant as second only to Humphrey Bogart.

During his career, Grant must have co–starred with nearly all of the most beautiful leading ladies of his time, but I don't think he ever really had the same chemistry with any of them that he had with Priscilla Lane in "Arsenic and Old Lace," which made its big–screen debut 70 years ago today.

Grant seemed to have chemistry with everyone, but there was something special about his chemistry with Lane. She had a definite girl–next–door quality, not unlike Mary Ann on Gilligan's Island, that set her apart from Grant's other co–stars. That was a good quality for her to have because, in "Arsenic and Old Lace," she was the girl next door. The viewing audience knew her as Grant's new bride, but, before that, she had been the girl next door.

Lane was young and vivacious — and not a star in the sense that Katharine Hepburn, Ingrid Bergman, Irene Dunne and many of Grant's usual co–stars were. Lane probably would have qualified for one of those "you know the face, but do you know the name?" contests — if such a thing existed in 1944.

Lane didn't upstage Grant, who was clearly the star (and, therefore, the primary attraction) of the movie — perhaps that was part of what made the movie so appealing. In reality, Grant was 11 years her senior, but they looked very natural together on screen. It worked in a way that Grant's other on–screen relationships did not.

Lane's character wasn't submissive, she was deferential. The thesaurus may tell you that those words are synonyms, but they don't really mean precisely the same thing.

Maybe a big part of the movie's success was the dialogue, which came from Joseph Kesselring's 1939 stage play. It was a huge hit, opening in January 1941 and moving to the Hudson Theatre in 1943 before finally wrapping up in 1944 after more than 1,400 performances.

That's an important fact to remember because the movie was made in 1941; but it couldn't be released until after the play had concluded its run on Broadway because of a mutual agreement between Warner Bros. and the producers of the play.

That led to some interesting quirks in the story. For example, the story itself took place in Brooklyn, and it was supposed to be set in the present day. When the movie was made, the then–Brooklyn Dodgers had won their first National League pennant in more than 20 years (they lost the World Series to the New York Yankees, four games to one), and the opening sequence shows the jubilation of Brooklyn baseball fans.

In the next three years, the Dodgers plummeted to 42 games out of first place, and, what with the war and everything, the '41 pennant was a distant memory by the time the movie made it to the theatres — so the references to Brooklyn's championship season had no real relevance to moviegoers in 1944.

One of my favorite lines in the movie was when Aunt Martha (Jean Adair) said she was anxious to leave Brooklyn because the community had changed since the Dodgers "won that old pennant thing." That certainly would have been a lot more amusing in 1941. Audiences in 1944 had to reach too far into their collective memory bank.

Aunt Martha and Aunt Abby (Josephine Hull) were delightful supporting characters who, as one of their charities, poisoned lonely old bachelors and widowers to end their suffering, then buried them in the cellar — with the assistance of their nephew Teddy, who believed himself to be Teddy Roosevelt.

(A nice touch was the way Teddy would run up the stairs and yell "Charge!" It was his re–enactment of Roosevelt's famed charge up San Juan Hill.)

I don't think I ever saw Adair in any of her other film roles (there weren't that many of them; most of her career was spent on the stage) so I think of her performance as Aunt Martha when I think of her, but Hull is different. I always associate her with her Oscar–winning role in "Harvey." It was a similar kind of role, I guess — a peculiar, even eccentric, older lady — and she was awfully good at it.

It wouldn't be right to discuss the supporting characters without mentioning two other, more sinister characters — played by Raymond Massey and Peter Lorre.

Massey took the place of Boris Karloff, who was still appearing in the stage version on Broadway when the movie was being made. Adair and Hull were in the Broadway play, too, but they were given leaves of absence to make the movie. Karloff was the main attraction of the Broadway show, however, and couldn't be spared.

The movie retained a line that was written for Karloff. His stage character was supposed to have had facial surgery by his companion, who had been intoxicated and made the character of Jonathan look like Karloff. The resemblance was mentioned in the script and, presumably, it drew a huge laugh from theater audiences when Karloff was said to look like Karloff.

To support the story about the surgery, Massey was made up to look like he had scars on his face.

As a student of history, though, I have more appreciation for a line that Massey's character delivered.

To set the table, as it were ... there was a discussion about Massey's murder record stacked up against the record of his aunts in Brooklyn. One of the victims Massey claimed to have killed had died of pneumonia — but he had been shot first. Lorre's character insisted that it didn't count.

"He wouldn't have died of pneumonia if I hadn't shot him," Massey replied.

I don't know if Americans of that time were as ignorant of the nuances of history as they are today, but that was an allusion to the death of President James Garfield in 1881.

Garfield was shot in early July 1881 and lingered for weeks, at times appearing to improve only to get worse. Eventually, he died more than two months after being shot. Officially, he died of a heart attack and pneumonia, neither of which probably would have occurred if not for the facts that he had been shot earlier and the inadequate medical treatment he received had taken a toll on his system.

So Massey's assertion that a victim wouldn't have died of pneumonia if he hadn't been shot was a reference to the manner of the president's death.

I wonder how many people knew that in 1941 or 1944.

Saturday, September 06, 2014

A Trail-Blazing Film Noir

"It was a hot afternoon, and I can still remember the smell of honeysuckle all along that street. How could I have known that murder can sometimes smell like honeysuckle?"

Walter (Fred MacMurray)

Most people probably associate Billy Wilder with outrageous comedies like "Some Like It Hot," but he worked on some of the great dramas in film history as well — like film noir "Double Indemnity," which premiered on this day in 1944.

Film noir became something of a refuge for movie people who had been pigeonholed. Take Dick Powell, for example, who found a whole new career, thanks to "Murder, My Sweet," which premiered a few months after "Double Indemnity."

Rightly or wrongly, many film historians have said "Double Indemnity" was the first film noir. There were others that were made around the same time but, like "Murder, My Sweet," premiered later. It cannot be said that those films were influenced by "Double Indemnity," only that they came along later — by a few weeks or months.

But because of its chronological prominence, I suppose, "Double Indemnity" is perceived as the first and, therefore, the one that established the rules for film noir. That was true to an extent, I suppose. But film noir has always been reinventing itself, rewriting its rules.

On the surface, "Double Indemnity" was a story of two people who used each other to commit murder and collect the insurance money — all the while insisting they loved each other. But they didn't act the way I would expect two people in love to behave. They didn't have to be bumping into the furniture, but they could have been more convincing.

I thought I knew what motivated Barbara Stanwyck's character, Phyllis. The victim was her husband. Through Walter (MacMurray), she got a life insurance policy with a double indemnity clause if her husband died accidentally. The $50,000 payoff seems like chump change in the 21st century, but it was a small fortune in the '40s. Phyllis was clearly a phony, with her obvious wig, and she oozed sleaziness with that anklet she wore. Shouldn't an insurance salesman like Walter Neff, who dealt with all kinds of people every day, be able to see through her?

What was it that motivated Walter? Did he lust for Phyllis the way he said he did? Or did he want his share of the money? Or both? Maybe even he didn't know.

I guess most critics interpret Walter as being overcome with lust and greed. Walter was a weak man, and he was easily manipulated by Phyllis, who was much stronger psychologically. Perhaps Phyllis was driven entirely by profit — the audience knew her husband had been losing money so it was easy to accept that as both her motivation and the source of her sense of urgency — and she used Walter to accomplish her goal.

The first time I saw "Double Indemnity," I had no problem believing that Walter and Phyllis worked together to kill Phyllis' husband for the insurance money. I just never really felt they were as into each other as they claimed to be.

And the more I thought about it, the more I doubted that either one was in it for lust or greed. Money was the surface motivation; I think it was more primal than that. They were in it for the thrill of the kill — one of those cases you hear about from time to time, like the killers of that family in Kansas that Truman Capote immortalized in "In Cold Blood." Alone, they were capable of primarily petty crimes, might even hurt someone now and then but could never kill anyone. Paired with a complementary personality, they could.

They became like one.

If you watch the movie, pay particularly close attention to how Phyllis reacts to Walter's first visit to her home. It is as if a light bulb suddenly has come on in her head and a plan to kill her husband begins to take shape. Was Walter its inspiration? Did Phyllis really love him, or was he merely a convenient element of the plan?

By the time the movie was over, I just didn't think they were behaving like two people helplessly in love. I guess that goes without saying, though; I mean, they did shoot each other in the end.

I really liked Edward G. Robinson's character, the veteran claims adjuster. Even after repeated viewings, though, I still can't figure him out. Not entirely.

Was he wise to Walter all along? Or did he only learn the truth when he overheard Walter recording his confession?

The thing I can figure out is that his character was good at his work.

"This Dietrichson business," he said. "It's murder, and murders don't come any neater. As fancy a piece of homicide as anybody ever ran into. Smart, tricky, almost perfect — but I think Papa has it all figured out. It's beginning to come apart at the seams already. Murder is never perfect. It always comes apart sooner or later. When two people are involved, it's usually sooner."

I guess the folks who vote on the Oscars didn't really know what to make of "Double Indemnity," either. It got seven Oscar nominations — including Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actress and Best Writing — but didn't win any.

Thursday, July 31, 2014

Zanuck's Factually Challenged Presidential Tribute

"Now I know why the Democratic Party chose a jackass for a mascot."

Professor Henry Holmes (Charles Coburn)

Being something of a historian, I guess I hold historical movies — depending upon the subject, some are also known as "biopics" — to a high factual standard.

Most historical movies can't live up to those standards — but I'll cut such a movie some slack if it is generally faithful to the spirit of the truth.

I learned early in my life that truth really is stranger than fiction so I generally think that true stories rarely, if ever, need to be embellished. Hollywood is all too willing to sacrifice accuracy for drama, as far as I am concerned, but, as I say, I'm willing to overlook some discrepancies.

The movie "Wilson" — which was the story of America's 28th president, Woodrow Wilson, and made its debut 70 years ago tomorrow — had several such errors, but they were the kinds of things most people wouldn't necessarily know.

For example, in scenes showing Washington, D.C., on the day of Wilson's first inauguration as president, the city was shown with the trees and grass in a lush springtime green with flowers blooming. That wouldn't be possible in just about any part of the country today because modern presidents take the oath of office in January. In Wilson's day, presidents took the oath in March — by which time flowers may well be blooming here in Texas, but it is unlikely in D.C., where the average high in March is about 56° and the average low is just below 38°.

And I read in a biography of Wilson that the day of his first inauguration was cold and breezy — with snow.

Once I become aware of one factual error in an historical movie, I start consciously watching for others. And they certainly were there to be found in "Wilson." Woodrow Wilson was president from 1913 to 1921, and he died in 1924, but, in the part of the movie that covered his national campaign for his League of Nations proposal, numerous car models could be seen that probably didn't exist until the 1940s.

There were several details like that. For example, there is a shot that was set on that same inaugural day showing the Washington Monument's reflection in the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool on the National Mall. That is certainly the kind of scene that almost any modern American would recognize as the nation's capital — but the reflecting pool did not exist until a few years after Wilson left office.

But let's go back to the inaugural day. There was a scene in the movie in which Wilson and his family were being shown around the White House after he had taken his oath of office, and they came across a portrait of Wilson's predecessor, William Howard Taft. It didn't just appear in passing on the screen; the Wilsons pointed it out and talked about it.

My understanding is that the official portrait of a president is neither completed nor hung on the day that president leaves office.

Now, having said all that ...

I understand that producer Darryl F. Zanuck was a great admirer of Wilson, and Zanuck wanted to make a film tribute to him. But it was a flop at the box office, and Zanuck was plunged into a deep depression by that. For several years, no one mentioned the movie in his presence.

That seems like a shame to me because, other than its profitability, the movie appears to have been a success. It was nominated for 10 Oscars and won five. Director Henry King and Canadian–born actor Alexander Knox (who, in an unusual leading role for him, played Wilson) were both nominated but lost to "Going My Way."

And, while it had its share of factual errors, as I have already established, it was faithful — by and large — to the spirit of the historical record.

I don't know if the factual errors affected the movie's box–office receipts. Probably didn't. But if Zanuck was that careless about the details, if he was in too much of a hurry to get the movie into the theaters to worry about its accuracy, that could have adversely affected the movie's box–office performance. Not immediately, of course, but possibly quite soon after its release. Many of those who saw it in 1944 would have been old enough to remember Wilson's presidency, and major issues with the movie about his life were bound to spread by word of mouth.

Actually, there's an interesting story about the premiere of "Wilson." Zanuck decided to unveil his homage in his hometown of Wahoo, Nebraska. Wahoo's population was probably less than 3,000 in 1944.

Anyway, apparently there was a pretty good–sized crowd for opening night, but, on the second night, Zanuck observed that there was practically no one in the theater. He asked the theater owner why that was so, and the answer was that the folks in Wahoo never cared much for Wilson when he was president, and they weren't going to pay to see him in a movie.

Reportedly, Zanuck left his hometown, which had been a big disappointment for him. In the days before the premiere, he had gone on a kind of sentimental journey to visit all the places he remembered from his childhood, but each had been a letdown. The people and places from his childhood were nothing like he remembered.

Then he found out that his hometown didn't share his admiration for Woodrow Wilson. That must have been the last straw.

I guess it's true. You can't go home again.

And, apparently, Zanuck didn't for the remainder of his life.

Sunday, June 29, 2014

Ground Zero

Many years ago, I recall reading an article in a news magazine that traced the steps of a killer and his victim, who were strangers to each other, in the hours leading up to their fatal encounter.

Countdown style.

The victim was a clerk in a convenience store. As the story followed the killer toward the time and place, the author inserted a neat little sentence that went something like this: "The stars were coming into line."

There are times in life when it really seems to be that random, even ironic. A person walks into a convenience store, thinking about how to make a healthier choice for a snack or a drink, and finds himself in the middle of a robbery and gets shot, for instance — or perhaps a typically meek person is thrust, by circumstance or fate or what have you, into a situation in which he/she has no choice but to act heroically.

And, of course, we really don't have to look beyond the headlines in the daily paper for examples of people who had to react when someone in their midst — in a mall or on a school campus — started shooting.

That kind of thing has been happening in America a lot longer than you probably think. Thirty years ago this summer, a man killed 21 people and injured 19 more at a McDonald's in California.

Surely, we have all, at one time or another, contemplated the apparent randomness of life. If something bad is prevented or avoided, it affects not only those who are there but also other things and people in the future.

Hasn't that very "what–if" theme shown up at the movies many times? "Schindler's List" told the story of how about a thousand people were physically saved from death during the Holocaust — and from them were born thousands more, the generations that were saved. The initial generation that was saved multiplied by all the generations that came to be.

"Towards Zero," which was published 70 years ago this month, was kind of like that. Not nearly as dramatic as "Schindler's List," of course, but it kind of explored that "what–if" theme.

In "Towards Zero," Christie showed how she felt about suicide by using suicide as a plot device. In this case, a character attempted to commit suicide and was foiled. It was one of a series of apparently unrelated events that took the reader to a zero point, a murder.

Christie once told an interviewer that her philosophy about life was "any moment before the end might be the important one."

And that, I think, tells the reader everything he/she might want to know before starting to read "Towards Zero."

Along with the fact that the murder occurs comparatively late in "Towards Zero," which put off some readers. Some reviewers, too.

That could be part of the reason why, although it is written as well as others that were written in the 1940s, it has never been as popular.

Maurice Richardson of The Observer liked that element. The murder had "a deliciously prolonged and elaborate build–up," he wrote, "urbane and cosy like a good cigar and red leather slippers."

He noted the absence of Hercule Poirot, Christie's far more popular detective, and noted that it "might well have been a Poirot case," which could be another reason why "Towards Zero" never got the recognition it deserved. "Towards Zero" was the last appearance of Superintendent Battle, one of Christie's lesser sleuths.

Battle always struck me as being an early 20th–century version of TV's Columbo. I never got the impression that Battle was disheveled, but he did show remarkable good sense, which he managed to keep hidden most of the time, and he depended a lot on appearing to be stupid. It gave his adversaries a false sense of security.

Who knows? Maybe Columbo got that from Battle.

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Pay No Attention to Those Flickering Lights

gas·light [gas-lahyt]

noun
1. light produced by the combustion of illuminating gas.
2. a gas burner or gas jet for producing this kind of light.

adjective
3.gaslit ( def 2 ) .

verb (used with object), gas·light·ed or gas·lit, gas·light·ing.
4. to cause (a person) to doubt his or her sanity through the use of psychological manipulation: How do you know if your partner is gaslighting you?

Origin: 1800–10; gas + light1 ; def 4 in reference to the 1944 movie Gaslight, in which an abusive husband secretly and repeatedly dims and brightens the gaslights in the house while accusing his wife of imagining the flickering

Random House Dictionary

Ingrid Bergman won her first Oscar for George Cukor's "Gaslight," which premiered 70 years ago today. That movie also earned the rare distinction of serving as the illustration for a term in the dictionary — in this case, a verb.

I don't know if gaslight is used frequently anymore, but, surely, everyone can understand the concept. Bergman's character was driven to the very brink of madness through the psychological manipulation of her husband (Charles Boyer).

"I think [Bergman]'s my favorite movie actress," wrote Roger Ebert, and I think many people would agree. Bergman was still young in 1944, but she already had a reputation and a following. She was pretty well known by the time she won her Oscar for "Gaslight."

See, Bergman played a turn–of–the–century young singer who fell for a dashing older man (Boyer). They got married and set up their home in a house Bergman's character had inherited from her aunt, also a singer who had been murdered there a decade earlier.

The man who had murdered her aunt had been searching for her jewels, but he was interrupted by Bergman as a child and fled. He was never identified.

"If it was I who took that picture down ... if it was I who took it down the other times, if I do all these senseless, meaningless things, so meaningless, why should I take a picture down? But then, I don't know what I do anymore. ... But then, if that's true, then you must be gentle with me. You must bear with me, please."

Paula (Ingrid Bergman)

It was all part of Boyer's character's plan. You see, he was the one who had killed Bergman's aunt, and he tried to manipulate her psychologically. When he moved around in the attic, looking for the jewels he left behind all those years ago, his footsteps could be heard, and the gaslights in the house flickered when he switched on the lights in the attic because that reduced the gas supply to the rest of the house.

He systematically attempted to drive her insane. If she were certified insane and put in an institution, he would be free to search for the jewels whenever he pleased.

As her paranoia increased, Bergman's character became convinced that her maid (Angela Lansbury, a real spitfire in her first movie role) detested her.

It was Joseph Cotten, as an inspector from Scotland Yard, who provided the alliance Bergman needed to convince herself that all the odd things really were happening, that they weren't her imagination — and, most importantly, that she was not responsible for them. There was a reasonable explanation for what had been happening.

The movie got seven Oscar nominations, but only the mesmerizing Bergman and four others (for Art Direction) took home the statuette. Boyer and Lansbury were nominated for their acting, the movie was nominated for Best Picture, and John Balderston, Walter Reisch and John Van Druten were nominated for their adapted screenplay, but Cukor was not nominated for his direction.

There were some heavyweights in that category that year, though (Billy Wilder, Otto Preminger, Alfred Hitchcock, Henry King and the winner, Leo McCarey), and it is hard to imagine how Cukor could have been wedged in.

Saturday, January 11, 2014

Survival in the North Atlantic

It would be quite a challenge for a modern movie director to make a film like "Lifeboat," the Alfred Hitchcock drama that made its debut 70 years ago today.

It isn't that disaster movies are so rare. They aren't. But disaster movies like "Lifeboat" — which require a good story and great acting in the absence of splashy special effects — are quite rare, if not nonexistent, today.

Hitchcock had been playing it safe, I suppose, in the years before "Lifeboat." He had made some of his best movies in the preceding years, but they were mostly melodramas, not quite as thrilling as the thrillers he produced later in his career. In fact, many of his projects could be described as routine.

Apparently, he decided to stretch his creative wings with "Lifeboat."

"Lifeboat" was a real challenge for Hitchcock. It was really his first movie to be set entirely in a confined space. He revisited that style in a couple of movies a decade later — "Rear Window" and "Dial M For Murder."

In "Lifeboat," a diverse group of people found themselves together in a lifeboat in the North Atlantic after their ship and a U–boat sank each other, and they were forced to work with each other to achieve a mutual objective — survival.

The group included mostly British and Americans, but there was one German survivor who was pulled into the boat. That led to some remarkable discussions ...

For example, at one point, it was suggested that the German should be thrown overboard and allowed to die. But, after a spirited argument, the German (who was later revealed to have been the captain of the U–boat), was allowed to stay on the boat.

One could hardly imagine a more diverse cross–section of passengers in a cramped lifeboat — but Hitchcock's exploration of the characters made for a gripping story.

Hitchcock was known for his cameo appearances in his films. Usually he appeared briefly and casually as a very minor character, but a movie like "Lifeboat" presented him with some unusual problems.

Given the fact that "Lifeboat" was set at sea, Hitchcock couldn't exactly walk by as he did in other films. But he could be seen as the before and after photos in a newspaper ad for a weight–reduction project.

Hitchcock's greatest influence in the film could be seen in the performances he drew from his cast. Tallulah Bankhead gave what may have been her best performance as a cynical columnist, but she didn't outshine her co–stars, like William Bendix and Hume Cronyn.

If you've never seen "Lifeboat," you should — and you will have your opportunity a week from today. Turner Classic Movies will be showing it next Saturday at 7 p.m. (Central).