Showing posts with label Ann Sheridan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ann Sheridan. Show all posts

Sunday, January 01, 2017

Monty Woolley's Defining Role



"Is there a man in the world who suffers as I do from the gross inadequacies of the human race?"

Sheridan Whiteside (Monty Woolley)

There are some actors and actresses who become typecast for spot–on portrayals in large — and not–so–large — roles. Carroll O'Connor as Archie Bunker comes to mind. So does Max Baer Jr. as Jethro Bodine.

Monty Woolley almost surely fit that description for audiences of an earlier generation with his portrayal of Sheridan Whiteside in "The Man Who Came to Dinner," a movie that premiered 75 years ago today but was based on a play in which Whiteside starred on Broadway a few years earlier.

Sometimes people who become typecast in the public's imagination as certain characters embrace them, and Whiteside could be put in that category. After hundreds of stage appearances and a big–screen performance of the same role, he went on to be Sheridan Whiteside on TV, too. He didn't just embrace the role, he embraced the emerging technology of his day.

There probably was no one more qualified to play Whiteside on the big screen than Woolley, who gave nearly 800 stage performances as the sharp–tongued radio curmudgeon who slipped on some ice and injured his leg when visiting the home of a prominent Ohio family (the matriarch was Billie Burke, perhaps better known as Glinda the Good With of the North from "The Wizard of Oz") during the Christmas season.

Whiteside was told he had to stay where he was until he healed so the wheels were set in motion. Do you think millenials are self–centered? They are amateurs compared to Sheridan Whiteside. If you look up the word narcissist in the dictionary, you'll probably find a picture of Sheridan Whiteside next to the definition.

The conniving Whiteside soon came to dominate the household and all who came in contact with it.

As this guest who would not leave, he began to wreak all sorts of havoc — all under the guise of being seriously injured. You see, Whiteside — and the audience — learned fairly early on that he wasn't as seriously injured as previously thought. Still he faked his injury and sought to impose his will on everyone else.

He lavished insults on everyone, ran up huge phone bills, entertained a parade of unsavory visitors and monopolized the time and energy of the house staff. He told the patriarch's children to follow their dreams, which was very much against their father's wishes (not to mention the societal norms of the times). He tried to sabotage his assistant (Bette Davis) in her budding romance with a local newspaperman using Ann Sheridan. Then when his plan backfired he tried to get Ann Sheridan out of the way with the help of his buddy, played by Jimmy Durante.

Woolley wasn't the only original Broadway cast member to appear in the movie. Making her big–screen debut was Mary Wickes, who returned as Nurse Preen. She became a familiar face but was known more as a character type, not a specific character.

Woolley, with his trademark whiskers, was the embodiment of his character type, and that character type was synonymous with his elitist–sounding name — Sheridan Whiteside.

I guess Woolley had every right to be proud of his performance. Both Charles Laughton and Orson Welles were considered for the role even though Woolley had been in all those Broadway productions. Welles did eventually play Sheridan Whiteside — in a TV adaptation.

Sunday, November 29, 2015

Ann Sheridan's Little Known Gem



Inspector (Robert Keith): Don't you eat anything but dog food?

Eleanor (Ann Sheridan): He's not particular, and I'm lazy, so we eat out.

With its snappy dialogue, I'm kind of surprised that "Woman on the Run," which debuted on this date in 1950, didn't receive an Oscar nomination for its writing.

But not really. A film noir seldom seems to have been recognized by Oscar in those days — unless a big name was involved.

It was still a good story. When the movie began, a fellow was out at night walking his dog, and he saw someone in a car talking about a crime. That person was shot at point–blank range by the driver of the car, who then saw the shadow of the fellow and fired at it twice, thinking it was a person and, consequently, missing both times. Unseen by the audience, the killer then drove off in a hurry.

Turned out that the person who was shot had been planning to testify in court against a gangster. He wisely went into hiding.

The police then tried to get information from his barely wife (Ann Sheridan), who didn't seem to have much love left for her husband but did appear to be loyal to him. When he called her and the police tried to trace the call, the wife warned him and he promptly hung up.

Dennis O'Keefe played a newspaperman who was after an exclusive story, and he managed to enlist the wife in helping him search for her husband.

And thus was launched a kind of competition between the wife (with the newspaperman) and the police.

As the story went on, Sheridan's character learned that her husband was still in love with her — and the audience learned that O'Keefe's character was really the killer, trying to find — and silence — Sheridan's husband with her help.

At one point, the police thought they had found Sheridan's husband — or what was left of him. The body had been badly beaten, and the police had to ask Sheridan to come in to make an identification. When she saw the body, she got weak at the knees and had to be helped from the room. But she later confided to O'Keefe that the corpse had not been her husband.

And, in a scene that foretold an event early in Alfred Hitchcock's "Strangers on a Train," which made its debut the following year, Sheridan and O'Keefe found themselves in a seaside amusement park at night — and Sheridan took a harrowing roller coaster ride.

Before Sheridan rode that roller coaster, the movie had one of my favorite dialogue exchanges. It's the kind of snappy dialogue that was sprinkled throughout "Woman on the Run," so much so that it may well have been overlooked by audiences then — and now — simply because it came late in a movie in which that kind of dialogue was commonplace.
Eleanor: I don't like this place.

Danny (Dennis O'Keefe): It's a good spot. I used to come here with my girl when I was a kid.

Eleanor: It's more frightening than romantic.

Danny: It's the way love is when you're young ... life is when you're older.

Sheridan's character was a hardened woman of her times who probably would be uncomfortable in the modern world. In a conversation with the police early in the movie, she spoke of how her husband was a drifter who drifted from job to job and city to city. When she was asked if she had ever gotten a job to help the couple through the rough patches, she observed that supporting the family was his responsibility, not hers.

Saying that her role in "Woman on the Run" may have been the best of Sheridan's career probably doesn't mean much to modern viewers. Few have ever heard of her. If they have seen any of her movies, it was purely by accident, and they may not even remember seeing her.

But if "Woman on the Run" had been recognized at the time, Sheridan might be better known today.

As I say, a film noir typically does not receive that kind of recognition. But "Woman on the Run" wasn't a typical film noir.