Showing posts with label 1949. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 1949. Show all posts

Sunday, December 21, 2014

Fighting a War at 'Twelve O'Clock High'



General Frank Savage (Gregory Peck): [on stalling the transfer paperwork] There can be trouble in this.

Major Harvey Stovall (Dean Jagger): I don't think so, sir. I never heard of a jury convicting the lawyer.

People who only know Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch owe it to themselves to see his performance in "Twelve O'Clock High," which premiered on this day in 1949.

Atticus Finch, of course, was the heroic character in "To Kill a Mockingbird," the #1 hero on the American Film Institute's list of heroic characters from the movies.

AFI also listed its top villains, and, for much of the movie, Peck's performance might well have made him a candidate for it as far as many viewers were concerned. Truly, his character, General Savage, seemed, at first, to be aptly named, but as the movie went on, the audience saw that General Savage was merely doing his job — leading a talented but tired and demoralized group of pilots during the early days of World War II.

History tells us the Allies won World War II, but the outcome was far from certain when "Twelve O'Clock High" was set.

Actually, the movie began in what was then the present day — 1949 — and Dean Jagger, playing an attorney from America, was on vacation in Britain. As he passed an antique shop, he noticed a rather unextraordinary Toby Jug in the window and went in to ask about it.

He was convinced that it was the same jug that had been used to silently announce bombing raids to the crews at the nearby British station where Peck's character and Jagger's character had served.

So he bought it and took it with him to the base, now abandoned, but the main structures were still there.

From there, the story was told mostly in flashbacks — to the early 1940s when Peck's character took command of the base and was forced to deal with disciplinary problems among the men. His methods did not make him popular at first, but, gradually, the men began to see the wisdom in his actions.

During the war, Jagger's character had been an accomplice to Peck's character — in many ways, providing the same kind of support to Peck that Ben Kingsley's character gave to Liam Neeson's character in "Schindler's List."

I suppose it is kind of ironic for me to say that because, like "Schindler's List," "Twelve O'Clock High" was based on a true story. Peck's character was, by and large, the big–screen version of Col. Frank Armstrong, but his character was really a composite of the experiences of several wartime commanders.

Peck earned his fourth Academy Award nomination for his performance in "Twelve O'Clock High," but it was Jagger who took home the statuette — for Best Supporting Actor — topping John Ireland, James Whitmore, Arthur Kennedy and Ralph Richardson.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Was 'Adam's Rib' Hepburn and Tracy's Best?



I don't know if "Adam's Rib," which premiered 65 years ago today, was the best of the Spencer Tracy–Katharine Hepburn movies.

Tracy and Hepburn made nine movies, after all.

But the American Film Institute ranked it higher than any of their other movies — #22 overall.

They played a variety of roles in their movies. In this one, they played married lawyers who had to oppose each other in court. Hepburn was defending a woman accused of shooting her husband. Tracy was the prosecuting attorney. The defendant was played by Judy Holliday in only her second credited movie. Her husband was played by Tom Ewell, who went on to star in "The Seven–Year Itch" on both stage and screen.
Amanda (Katharine Hepburn): What I said was true, there's no difference between the sexes. Men, women, the same.

Adam (Spencer Tracy): They are?

Amanda: Well, maybe there is a difference, but it's a little difference.

Adam: Well, you know as the French say...

Amanda: What do they say?

Adam: Vive la difference!

Amanda: Which means?

Adam: Which means hurrah for that little difference.

Seems Ewell's character had been itching in "Adam's Rib," too. That is why Holliday shot him. She believed he had been having an affair, and she opened fire on him when he was with his girlfriend, but she wasn't a very good shot and only managed to strike his shoulder. She was distraught, not responsible for her actions.

Well, that was Hepburn's argument.

Hepburn's defense really was ahead of its time — it was, essentially, the battered wife syndrome. Well, not so much battered as abused — as in emotional, not physical or sexual, abuse. Hepburn argued that Holliday had been forced to act as she did because of Ewell's poor treatment of her.

Tracy thought Holliday was guilty of attempted murder — then found out he had been assigned the case. Normally, that would be cause for celebration, but Tracy immediately realized it would mean a pretty unpleasant home life until the trial was over.

Therein lay the plot of "Adam's Rib." I'm sure you can guess many of the jokes. It could have been a routine comedy except for the professional approaches of Hepburn and Tracy.
Amanda: No part of marriage is the exclusive province of any one sex.

Even obvious jokes were enjoyable when they were delivered by Hepburn and Tracy, though. "Adam's Rib" may not have been an Oscar–worthy movie — unlike other movies they made together — but it delivered on entertainment. In fact, there are those who consider it a classic of the romantic comedy genre.

Saturday, November 08, 2014

A Man of the People



"Now, shut up! Shut up, all of you! Now listen to me, you hicks. Yeah, you're hicks, too, and they fooled you a thousand times like they fooled me. But this time, I'm going to fool somebody. I'm going to stay in this race. I'm on my own and I'm out for blood."

Willie Stark (Broderick Crawford)

Robert Penn Warren's novel "All the King's Men" was published and the movie that was based on it (which premiered 65 years ago today) hit America's movie screens long before I was born — but my guess is that everyone knew it was inspired by the life of Huey Long — just as everyone probably knew that "Citizen Kane" told a fictionalized account of William Randolph Hearst's life.

I remember the first time I watched it on TV. I don't remember how old I was, only that I saw it in the TV listings, and I asked my mother if I could watch it. She said I could.

I don't recall anyone telling me that it was based on Huey Long. I just knew. I don't recall reading it anywhere, either. However old I was, I knew enough about American history and Huey Long to recognize his character as it was portrayed by Broderick Crawford.

Some people will tell you life is part of some divine plan, that things are meant to be. I don't know if that is true all the time, but I do believe it is true some of the time and with some people. Crawford, I believe, was born to play Willie Stark. I know that Sean Penn played the role in a remake half a century later, and I respect many of the performances I have seen Penn give, but he wasn't Willie Stark. Broderick Crawford was Willie Stark. The words Willie spoke seemed very natural coming from Crawford's mouth. Sometimes they seemed forced coming from Penn's.

"Man is conceived in sin and born in corruption."

Willie Stark

Stark considered himself a hick, and all the people who voted for him were hicks in his eyes as well. He spoke disparagingly of the hicks. It wasn't complimentary; it was almost a sneering kind of way, derisive. Stark knew the hicks very well — or he thought he did — and didn't have a high regard for them, but he did want to elevate them all (especially himself) above their station in life.

That — being a hick — definitely was not part of Willie Stark's plan. He was meant for grander things. That was Huey Long's belief about himself as well. And it was his undoing. Same with Willie Stark.

Huey Long lived before my time, but in my studies of American history I have read several accounts of his life. He was a professional politician, a cynic, the kind of guy who plays real hardball and plays it well, both in his private life and in the public arena. Willie Stark was that way, too.

I once heard a story about Huey Long that shows how manipulative he was.

In Louisiana, most people are Catholic or Baptist. During a campaign, Long was speaking to a predominantly Catholic audience, and he told a story of getting up early on Sunday mornings to hitch the family mule to the family wagon to go pick up his Catholic grandparents and take them to Mass.

Then, in another speech during the same campaign, Long was speaking to a predominantly Baptist audience, and he told a story of hitching the mule to the wagon on Sunday mornings to take his Baptist grandparents to church service.

One of the reporters who was covering Long's campaign approached Long and said admiringly, "Huey, you've been holding out on us. I didn't know you had Catholic grandparents on one side and Baptist grandparents on the other."

"Hell," Long replied, "we didn't even have a mule."

"You wanna know what my platform is? Here it is. I'm gonna soak the fat boys and spread it out thin."

Willie Stark

That was a story that was worthy of Willie Stark.

"All the King's Men" was nominated for seven Oscars and won three — Best Picture, Best Actor (Crawford) and Best Supporting Actress (Mercedes McCambridge).

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

The Middle Installment of Ford's Cavalry Trilogy



Captain Nathan Brittles (John Wayne): Were you ever scared, "Captain" Tyree?

Sgt. Tyree (Ben Johnson): Yes, sir. Up to and includin' now.

John Ford's "She Wore a Yellow Ribbon," which premiered nationwide on this day in 1949, took home the Oscar for Best Color Cinematography.

And why shouldn't it? It was filmed against the backdrop of the awe–inspiring Monument Valley along the Utah–Arizona border. Nature gave Ford the perfect set, and it cost him nothing to make — which was good because, as it was, "She Wore a Yellow Ribbon" was one of the most expensive westerns ever made — at the time.

(Ford and Wayne had worked in Monument Valley before — when they made "Stagecoach" 10 years earlier.)

In hindsight, it is viewed as the middle installment in Ford's so–called cavalry trilogy — sandwiched in between "Fort Apache" and "Rio Grande" — although they weren't successive chapters of the same story. John Wayne, however, did star in all three.

Now, when you read your history (as most folks don't seem to do these days), you'll find many accounts of Gen. George Armstrong Custer's last stand. But, other than occasional references to what Custer's widow did, I have seen little about what happened after the massacre at the Little Bighorn.

"She Wore a Yellow Ribbon" tried to fill that gap — albeit with what I assume was a fictional story. Wayne's character, a cavalry captain, was close to his mandatory retirement when he was given his final assignment — to deal with some renegade Indians who had broken out of a reservation.

Wayne's character also had to escort his commanding officer's wife (Mildred Natwick) and niece (Joanne Dru) to an eastbound stage. Dru caused quite a stir, as a young, attractive woman is apt to do when surrounded by soldiers who have been assigned to a remote outpost.

Wayne gave one of the greatest performances of his career — some will tell you it was his greatest performance, and I won't argue that. I can live with it — although there are other roles for which I could make a pretty good case.

Although they had worked together before, Ford supposedly said he didn't know Wayne could act until he saw him in "Red River."

The Academy didn't agree. Wayne didn't receive an Oscar nomination for "She Wore a Yellow Ribbon." He was nominated the year before ("Sands of Iwo Jima"), but the only nomination he ever received for a role in a western was the one he received for playing Rooster Cogburn in "True Grit" 20 years later.

And he won that one.

Monday, October 06, 2014

Living and Learning From Experience



Catherine Sloper (Olivia de Havilland): Don't be kind to me, Father. It doesn't become you.

Try as I might, I just can't think of Olivia de Havilland as plain.

I say that having seen "The Heiress," which premiered 65 years ago today. She won the Best Actress Oscar for her performance as Catherine Sloper (the title character of an adaptation of a play based on a Henry James novella that supposedly was inspired by a true story) and that character was very plain and very shy.

But I would never call Olivia de Havilland plain. She considered herself a classical actress when she was appearing regularly in the movies, and she paid a professional price for refusing to play bimbo roles. A skilled makeup/hair person could make her look plain, I suppose, but she wasn't naturally plain.

Nor would I call her particularly shy, either. She sued Warner Bros. for extending her contract at a time when studios virtually enslaved their talent through unfair contract extensions. She paid a price for that, too, but, in the end, she won, and "the de Havilland Law," as it is known, shifted the balance of power in Hollywood from the studios to the performers.

I've never read James' novella, but if plain and shy is an accurate description of its heroine, I imagine that de Havilland really must have done a superb job of portraying her because she was clearly playing against type.

The only thing that her father (Ralph Richardson) thought she had going for her was her wealth, and he was determined that de Havilland's handsome, young suitor Morris (Montgomery Clift) wouldn't get his hands on it. Catherine saw her father as emotionally abusive. I think a pretty good case could be made for protective. I've known many fathers who didn't approve of their daughters' choices for husbands.

But as Lysander said in Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream"...

"The course of true love never did run smooth."

It wasn't really true love, though. Turned out Catherine's father was right. Her suitor was after her money, and he disappeared the minute it seemed her dowry would be cut off.

Richardson's relationship with de Havilland was devastating to watch. He was well–meaning and wanted to protect his daughter, but he also felt disdain for her. The scene where she realized that was painful to watch — and remains so even after several viewings.

Morris surfaced again several years later, after Catherine's father had died, and insisted he left because he wanted to spare her the "grief" of being disinherited. Her words told him he was back in her good graces, but the audience could see facial expressions he didn't see and body language he failed to pick up.

She told him to pick her up that night and they would be married, but she had no intention of going away with him.

"He's grown greedier over the years," she told her aunt. "Before he only wanted my money; now he wants my love as well. Well, he came to the wrong house — and he came twice. I shall see that he does not come a third time."

"Can you be so cruel?" her shocked aunt asked.

"Yes, I can be very cruel," replied Catherine. "I have been taught by masters."

And when he returned, the door was bolted. He kept knocking, but there was no answer.

One of the things I liked best about "The Heiress" — but I never hear it mentioned — was how director William Wyler made parts of the set silent characters.

Take, for example, the tall, narrow stairway in her father's home. When Catherine was anticipating Morris' arrival to take her away from her old life, one could imagine her bounding down the stairs in excitement. The audience didn't actually see that part, just the glowing Catherine with her bags all packed waiting by the front door.

But when she made the long, arduous climb back up those stairs after reaching the agonizing conclusion that Morris wasn't coming after all, each step was more painful than the last.

The acting in "The Heiress" was spellbinding, and de Havilland, as I mentioned, did win the Best Actress Oscar, but Richardson lost Best Supporting Actor to Dean Jagger ("Twelve O'Clock High"); "The Heiress" also won Oscars for Best Dramatic or Comedy Score, Best Black and White Art Direction and Best Black and White Costume Design.

It was recognized with Oscar nominations for Best Picture, Best Director and Best Black and White Cinematography. The movie's eight Oscar nominations and four victories outperformed every other motion picture that year, even the Best Picture winner, "All the King's Men."

Monday, September 01, 2014

'The Third Man' Was One of the Best Film Noirs Ever Made



"In Italy for 30 years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love — they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock."

Harry Lime (Orson Welles)
American Film Institute's #37 movie villain

All my life, I have heard that "Citizen Kane" is the greatest movie ever made.

But, apparently, some people think "The Third Man," which premiered on Sept. 2, 1949, is the greatest movie ever made. Well, one of them, anyway. And Orson Welles starred in both.

While there was no mistaking Welles' role in "Citizen Kane," it was kind of hard to figure out the part he played in "Third Man" until more than halfway through. See, up to that point in the movie, the assumption everyone made was that Welles' character, Harry Lime, had recently died. There had been a funeral and everything.

The guy with the most screen time was Welles' friend, a writer played by Joseph Cotten (who also appeared in "Citizen Kane"). He showed up in postwar Vienna planning to work for Welles — only to learn Welles' character recently died after being struck by a car while crossing the street.

But was that really what happened? That, as film critic Roger Ebert observed, is "the engine that drives the plot."

Cotten was told that a mysterious third man helped two other men (whose identities were known) carry Welles from the scene. He was also told by a British officer (Trevor Howard) that Welles had been a thief and a murderer, accusations Cotten refused to believe. But, as the movie progressed, he learned that what he had been told was true — and he found out that Welles was very much alive.

"By the time Lime finally appears," Ebert wrote, "we have almost forgotten Welles is even *in* the movie."

And, thus, the stage was set for the final scene — a chase through the sewers of Vienna.

It was in that final scene that the movie's distinctive cinematography was most in evidence, with its severe lighting and unusual camera angles.

"The chase sequence ... is another joining of the right action with the right location," Ebert wrote. "Harry escapes into the sewer system like a cornered rat, and [director Carol] Reed edits the pursuit into long, echoing, empty sewer vistas, and closeups of Lime's sweaty face, his eyes darting for a way out."

And the music. Its influence on the mood of the movie was unmistakable.

"Has there ever been a film where the music more perfectly suited the action?" Ebert wrote, referring to the nearly constant zither music. Reed came across the musician who performed it one night in a Viennese beer house where the musician was playing. The movie's theme was one of the biggest hits of 1950.

My answer to Ebert's question would be "Probably not."

I don't think "The Third Man" was the greatest movie ever made — I'm still inclined to give that designation to "Citizen Kane" — but I definitely think it was one of the great film noirs ever made.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Enmity at First Glance



Did you ever see "The Shop Around the Corner" with Jimmy Stewart and Margaret Sullavan?

It was a romantic comedy about two co–workers in a Budapest gift shop in the 1930s who couldn't stand each other — and had no idea that, in reality, they were each other's secret pen pals and had fallen in love.

That's a familiar plotline for anyone who saw "You've Got Mail" with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan a few years ago.

Or "In the Good Old Summertime," a musical starring Judy Garland and Van Johnson that premiered on this date in 1949.

In this version, they weren't in Budapest. They were in Chicago, it was the turn of the century, and the store was a music store. Other than that, the plot was pretty much the same.

Oh, and it was a musical. Did I mention that? Of course I did. Well, it just about goes without saying, doesn't it? Nearly everything Judy Garland did involved music.

And, in "In the Good Old Summertime," Garland not only sang, she also sold music.

Garland was multi–dimensional. She had great talent and could do many things well.

Fred Astaire said Garland was "the greatest entertainer who ever lived," a designation she earned long before she made "In the Good Old Summertime." She added to that reputation with "In the Good Old Summertime."

Craig Butler of AllMovie.com wrote that Garland was "in superb voice" and "in peak comedic form, delivering an exceptional performance." No argument.

"In the Good Old Summertime" introduced the world to the song "Merry Christmas" — sung by Garland, of course — which apparently became a holiday staple for some people.

Its popularity had faded considerably by the time I came along. In fact, I can't recall ever hearing it during a Christmas season.

Johnny Mathis and Bette Midler recorded versions of it, but I don't think it was ever regarded as the holiday standard that, say, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" (from Garland's movie "Meet Me in St. Louis" five years earlier) turned out to be.

I'm not the fan of Van Johnson that some people are, and I certainly wouldn't rate his performance in almost anything ahead of Jimmy Stewart's. But I will say that, for a musical version of this story, Johnson was clearly preferable to Stewart. Stewart might have been able to sing, but I doubt that his singing voice could match Johnson's.

"In the Good Old Summertime" was noteworthy for a couple of other reasons, too.

Buster Keaton, the famed silent–movie star, made one of his appearances in a non–silent movie as Hickey the shop owner's nephew in "In the Good Old Summertime." He'd been serving as a comedy consultant for MGM, and it was decided that he was the only one who could execute the moves he suggested. Butler observed that he was "largely wasted" in his role. Again, no argument.

The other noteworthy point was that Garland's daughter, 18–month–old Liza Minnelli, made an on–screen appearance in Johnson's arms in the final scene.

Some folks believe it was Minnelli's movie debut — but it wasn't. That was in "Easter Parade," another one of her mother's musicals, in 1948.

Saturday, June 21, 2014

Taking Care of Family Business



"It is so difficult to make a neat job of killing people with whom one is not on friendly terms."

Louis (Dennis Price)

The humor from Ealing Studios' black comedy, "Kind Hearts and Coronets," which made its British premiere 65 years ago today, is deliciously understated, as the humor in British movies often is.

Alec Guinness, who was in his mid–30s by this time, played eight members (of varying ages and genders) of an aristocratic family. They represented the blood line to inherit a dukedom, and they stood between Louis (Dennis Price), the son of a disowned woman and the opera singer with whom she ran away, and what his mother told him was rightfully his.

After his mother's death, Louis vowed to avenge her by claiming his birthright, and the only way to do that was to eliminate the eight family members who stood between him and his inheritance — so he set about doing precisely that.

The story was told in a flashback style. Louis sat in his prison cell, convicted of committing multiple murders and waiting to be hanged the next morning. While he waited, he wrote about his crimes, explaining how each of the murders was accomplished.

His descriptions of his acquaintances with his unsuspecting victims were delightfully droll. At one point, he wrote of liking one of his victims and lamented the fact that he would have so little time with him.

Other regrets regarding his actions were equally understated.

"I was sorry about the girl," he wrote about killing his cousin and his cousin's mistress, who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, "but found some relief in the reflection that she had presumably during the weekend already undergone a fate worse than death."

He made mention also of the two women who divided his affections — Sibella (Joan Greenwood), a friend from his childhood, and Edith (Valerie Hobson), the widow of one of his victims.

"While I never admired Edith as much as when I was with Sibella," he wrote, "I never longed for Sibella as much as when I was with Edith."

Then, at the very end of the movie, evidence was brought to the prison that saved him from the gallows, and Louis left the prison in triumph.

As he left the prison, he was approached by someone in the British media about his memoirs — and he realized with a start that he had left his manuscript in his cell.

The audience was left to speculate about what happened next.

Of course, he didn't actually kill all of his relatives — the admiral, for instance, went down with his ship and thus spared Louis the responsibility for his death.

But, by and large, he was responsible for the deaths of most.

It was a classic black comedy from Ealing Studios, which has been a movie/TV production facility for more than a century, but its true golden era was the period just after World War II, when Ealing was producing movies like "Kind Hearts and Coronets."

"Kind Hearts and Coronets" may just be the best of Ealing's black comedies — with the possible exception of 1955's "The Ladykillers," which the Coen brothers remade 10 years ago.

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

'It Happens Every Spring' Was One of Best Sports Flicks



Manager (Ted de Corsia): Kelly's not indispensable.

Monk (Paul Douglas): I know, but the team can't get along without him.

Early in "It Happens Every Spring," which premiered 65 years ago today, some folks at the college where Ray Milland's character was a teacher were talking. The subject was Milland's potential as a chemistry professor. It was observed that he was a top–notch instructor during the fall semester, but he was iffy in the spring. That was when he was "absent–minded."

"It happens every spring." That's what the head of the chemistry department told the school president (Ray Collins).

Based on the context of the story and its title — and the trailers most movie audiences probably saw before they saw the movie — it probably was assumed to be baseball. And, to be sure, the movie was about baseball.

It was also about Milland's classroom work — but mostly as it related to baseball.

See, Milland was working in his chemistry lab when he stumbled onto a formula that would make an object (for example, a baseball) go over, under or around an object made of wood. He confirmed this astonishing property in an early morning tryout with a couple of student–athletes, one of whom was played by Alan Hale Jr., 15 years before he became Skipper on Gilligan's Island.

(When I first saw this movie, I could have sworn it was inspired by Walt Disney's "Flubber," but "Flubber" didn't come along until nearly 50 years after "It Happens Every Spring" was in the theaters.

(And the movie upon which "Flubber" was based — "The Absent–Minded Professor" — came out more than a decade after "It Happens Every Spring.")

Anyway, armed with this formula, Milland's character won a spot on a ballclub that was looking for a pitcher and became a sensation, striking out every batter he faced. (The scene where he pitched to the batters on the team and impressed management enough to offer him the spot on the club was reminiscent of the scene in 1984's "The Natural," when Roy Hobbs drilled every pitch that was thrown to him into the stands.)

It really isn't as predictable as it sounds. In fact, I found it to be very creative and entertaining. The script was quite clever. At one point, Monk Lanigan (Paul Douglas) mistook Milland's formula for hair tonic. He ran some through his hair and then tried to comb it with a wood comb — unsuccessfully, of course.

As entertaining as the rest of the movie was, I think it saved the best for last — when the team was facing its greatest challenge of the season in the deciding game of the World Series, and Milland's character was out of his formula. Consequently, he had to do — on his own — what his formula had done for him all season. Did he succeed?

I won't tell you that! There are some things people need to discover for themselves.

All I will tell you is that "It Happens Every Spring" — in its understated way — is one of the best sports movies ever made.

And, in her own way, actress Jean Peters helped make it what it was. Peters played one of Milland's students — his fiancee, actually (I guess schools were more liberal about such relationships 65 years ago) — and she gave a strong performance in support of Shirley Smith's and Valentine Davies' story — which was nominated for an Oscar, by the way.

They didn't win, but at least they were nominated — which is more than anyone else involved in the production could say. They lost to Douglas Morrow ("The Stratton Story").

That's a shame. "The Stratton Story" was good, but it was also mostly true. True stories write themselves.

"It Happens Every Spring" required the kind of creativity that should be rewarded.

Monday, May 12, 2014

The Tribulations of a Real-Life Natural



"You told me once, 'A man has to know where he's goin'!' Where are you goin', Monty?"

Ethel (June Allyson)

Yesterday, I wrote about the debut of "The Natural" — a fictional story about a natural–born baseball player.

Today, my topic is a movie about a real natural — Monty Stratton — whose mostly true story was made into a movie starring James Stewart and June Allyson that made its debut 65 years ago today.

Don't feel bad if you never heard of Stratton. His was a very short career — only five years.

And I say the story was mostly true because there were some liberties taken with it. Of course, that tends to be the case with biographical movies, even those that appear to be meticulous about details.

See, the story of Monty Stratton was that he was a baseball player, a pitcher, during the Depression. Frank Morgan (who was the wizard of Oz 10 years earlier) played the baseball scout who discovered Stratton playing semipro ball when he wasn't working on his Texas farm and persuaded him to come to California for a tryout with the Chicago White Sox during spring training.

The tryout went so well that Stratton made the team, and the scout was hired to coach pitching prospects.

It wasn't a fairy–tale career, though. It certainly had its rocky moments.

One of them, Stratton's actual major–league debut, yielded one of the best lines in the movie — but the scene was manipulated, presumably for what would be an understandable reason.

Stratton made his first major–league appearance on June 2, 1934, coming in as the second and final relief pitcher of the day for the Sox, who lost, 12–0. He didn't pitch as poorly as the two pitchers who preceded him; he only gave up two of the runs. But he was sent down to the minors, anyway, and didn't pitch in the majors again until the following year.

In the movie, he told his wife (Allyson) that the game had been against the New York Yankees. In fact, it was against the Detroit Tigers.

I don't know why the identity of the opponent was changed like that, but my guess is that it had something to do with the facts that (a) the Yankees had been in four of the previous eight World Series (when Stratton made his debut), whereas the Tigers had not been in a World Series in a quarter of a century (although, ironically, the Tigers did go to the World Series in 1934 — and 1935), and (b) the Yankees had guys named Gehrig and Ruth in their lineup.

The Yankees simply were better known (although, in a noteworthy filmmaking mistake, Joe DiMaggio could be seen rounding the bases in the stock footage that was used for Stratton's debut. DiMaggio didn't make his major–league debut until 1936).

"Honey," Stewart said to Allyson, "do you know there's a tailor in Chicago that gives a suit of clothes away to any ballplayer that hits the scoreboard in center field? As of yesterday, the New York Yankees are the best–dressed team in baseball."

If Stratton really did say that to his wife, he was exaggerating. Detroit scored a lot of runs that day, but no home runs were hit. The Tigers had a bunch of singles and half a dozen hits for extra bases. Zero home runs.

Stratton's next four years were more successful than his debut. He did struggle in 1935 and 1936, but he won a total of 30 games in 1937 and 1938. He was an All–Star in 1937 and received votes for Most Valuable Player after the 1938 season.

The future looked bright.

But then Stratton was injured in a hunting accident. It was severe enough to cost him one of his legs, and his baseball career appeared to be over.

That much was true. But, in reality, Stratton shot himself with a revolver. In the movie, the wound was inflicted with a shotgun. I don't know why that change was made — unless it was to avoid having to answer questions about why he had a revolver with him on a hunting trip.

If a Supportive and Long–Suffering Movie Spouse Hall of Fame is ever created, June Allyson is sure to be a charter member. At times, it seems to me that she was the very definition of the label supportive movie spouse in her movies, especially (but not exclusively) the ones in which she was paired with Stewart because some sort of personal trial was sure to follow — and Allyson's spouse was equally certain to be in denial about the situation. Thus, it was up to Allyson to be the stronger of the two.

In "The Stratton Story," it fell to her to decide between her husband's leg and his life. She chose his life, realizing that losing his leg meant the end of his dreams of major–league success.

Then she had to deal with her husband's mood swings and his apparent tendency (though never spoken) to blame her for the loss of his leg. As she so often did, Allyson played the supportive, long–suffering wife, putting up with his peevishness in silence.

Of course, I know it wasn't always that way. Allyson once played Jose Ferrer's malicious and shrewish spouse — at Ferrer's request — and she had several separations from her real–life husband, Dick Powell.

In real life, Stratton did come back. He didn't make it all the way back to the major leagues, but he did pitch in the minor leagues from 1946 to 1953 wearing a prosthetic leg. It was a truly inspiring story that was worthy of inclusion in the American Film Institute's list of the most inspiring films — but was not.

There were times during the movie when I thought it was a little heavy–handed in its foreshadowing — of the loss of his leg especially. The hunting accident wasn't presented until about two–thirds into the movie, but there were allusions to it. Early in the movie, for example, the viewers learned that, on the days he pitched for the semipro team, Stratton walked five miles into town, pitched, then walked five miles home — and then worked on his farm.

Another time, he learned how to dance so he could dance with his wife. Unbeknownst to his wife, he had a membership at a dance studio, of which he could take advantage at studio outlets in every American League city. It was a big subject in the movie.

I have never lost a limb — and I hope I never do — so I can't know how the real Stratton must have felt, but it must be an unimaginable blow to be 26 years old and lose one of your legs, particularly if you are a professional athlete. Stewart's reactions rang true — and, as it was with so many of his performances, it was hard to imagine anyone else playing Monty Stratton once the movie was made.

In fact, though, Ronald Reagan tried to get the part, but he was under contract to Warner Bros., and Warner wouldn't let him do it, fearing the movie would be a flop (in fact, it turned a profit). At one point, Van Johnson was inaccurately reported to be playing the role of Monty Stratton.

In hindsight, Johnson would not have been believable in the role. Reagan might have, but his Stratton almost surely would have differed from Stewart's — and Stratton himself said Stewart "did a great job of playing me, in a picture which I figure was about as true to life as they could make it."

Based on that, I think Stratton was at peace with the liberties that were taken. If he was OK with them, who am I to disagree? It must be tremendously challenging to be asked to portray someone who is still living.

Agnew Moorehead played the role of Stratton's mother. It was the kind of role she played frequently in her career, sort of a semi–animated Whistler's mother, and she was usually quite believable in it, but she was an odd choice because of the difference between her age and Stewart's age (she was roughly 7½ years his senior).

Allyson and Stewart were paired in three movies; "The Stratton Story" was the first. In their second movie, they played Mr. and Mrs. Glenn Miller, and Allyson's ordeal was living through the loss of her husband's life. In the third, she played the spouse of another baseball player (fictional this time) who was injured flying a new aircraft for the Air Force Reserve.

"The Stratton Story" won the only Oscar for which it was nominated — Best Story.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

'The Crooked Way' Was Routine Film Noir



I wouldn't call myself an expert in the film noir genre, but, if someone asked me to recommend a movie from that genre, there are several I could choose.

Unless that person needed a title that could serve as a source for some sort of article or term paper, though, I doubt that I would recommend "The Crooked Way," which premiered 65 years ago today.

The plot of "The Crooked Way" was intriguing. A war hero (John Payne) returned to America after suffering a head injury that left him with permanent amnesia (no other details were offered; I guess it was one of those scriptwriter devices, and a cliched one at that, even in 1949). There were many things he didn't know or remember, one of which was that, before he went to war, he had been a violent criminal.

Armed with only the knowledge that he enlisted in Los Angeles, he returned to the area hoping to find someone who could tell him who he was before the war. Almost immediately, he encountered people who had known him before he enlisted — and would be happy to see him dead.

Even with amnesia, Payne's character was able to put two and two together. I mean, he lost his memory, not his intelligence.

He ran across his former wife (Ellen Drew) and all sorts of characters from his previous life. She had a lot of difficulty believing that he had lost his memory, and she wasn't too keen on helping him at first.

I suppose I thought that Drew was the lone bright spot in the cast. Everyone else seemed wooden to me, even Payne, who was the top–billed performer, but no one seemed capable of any real passion. They never sounded as if they were speaking naturally. They never appeared to be acting naturally.

But I had to acknowledge that the cast was only as good as its material, and the story's flow was pretty uneven.

As I say, it is an intriguing idea. I just didn't think the script lived up to the potential.

Having said that, though, there were a couple of things about the movie that I could recommend. While it probably isn't a very good choice to stand as a representative of the film noir genre, it is an interesting subject for anyone who is a student of filmmaking.

In this particular case, the movie was noteworthy for its camerawork, which was done by John Alton. Alton's involvement in his most noteworthy projects — "Father of the Bride," "The Teahouse of the August Moon" and "Elmer Gantry" — came later, but he had acquired a reputation for avant–garde camera angles when he did the work on "The Crooked Way."

The other thing falls under the heading of movie/TV trivia, I guess.

In a relatively brief scene set in a place called "Green Acres," actors Frank Cady and Percy Helton appeared in small roles. That is noteworthy, as folks who remember sitcoms of the '60s will tell you, because Cady and Helton were featured in the Green Acres series.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Day's Dream



Did you ever notice how much dreams figured in the career of Doris Day (who recently marked her 90th birthday)?

This isn't a joke. I'm serious.

Her second hit song was "My Dreams Are Getting Better All the Time."

She had a 10–inch LP called "I'll See You in My Dreams," which was the soundtrack for one of her movies, and she had two 12–inch LPs, "Day Dreams" and "I Have Dreamed" (which had seven songs that included the word dream in the title).

She appeared in two movies that had dream in the title and one TV short from the mid–1960s, "Every Girl's Dream."

Well, to be fair, I guess dreams do figure prominently in the existence of entertainers. In a sense, it is their business to sell dreams. I guess they aren't much different from sales people — except that they have to be entertaining. They're not selling a product; they're selling a mood, a state of mind. That's the key difference.

Most entertainers are not as obvious; they find synonyms (suitable ones for dream, for example, are "imagine/imagination," "fantasy," "thought," "reverie" and so on) to use.

But Doris Day was more direct with her fans, I suppose. And, to be fair, few entertainers have been as entitled to dream — even after it seemed their dreams came true — as Day.

At one time a frequent star of the big screen, Day hasn't been in a movie since the death of her husband/manager in 1968 left her penniless and deep in debt. She re–created herself for the small screen of television.

Initially, her dream was to be a dancer, but after she nearly died in a car crash, she refocused her attention on singing and acting.

In her mid–20s, she made her big–screen debut in a movie with Jack Carson, and a partnership of sorts was born. It may seem as if she made many more movies, but Day was in 39 — some with Carson, and, more widely remembered, some with Rock Hudson.

Her second movie, director Michael Curtiz's "My Dream Is Yours," which premiered 65 years ago today, also co–starred Carson.

Like many of Day's movies, "My Dream Is Yours" was so light and airy it could have floated away on its own.

Carson played theatrical manager for Day, a widowed mom. He took her to Hollywood where she became a star. Her blossoming career, achieved in part at the expense of another performer for whom she has feelings, keeps them apart through most of the film — but not, apparently, off screen.

Suffice to say, the plot was not really the main attraction for the movie — nor is it today.

But, whereas Day was certainly an attraction for audiences in 1949, today the main attraction is to see an early example of a truly Roger Rabbitesque touch.

Day and Carson, dressed in bunny suits, did a live action/animation sequence with Bugs Bunny and Tweety Bird (voices supplied by the late Mel Blanc) to "Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2" by Franz Liszt.

Now that was a dream sequence.

Sunday, March 30, 2014

There Was a Crooked House ...



"There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile.
He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together in a little crooked house."


English nursery rhyme (published in 1846)

On at least a couple of occasions, Agatha Christie said "Crooked House," which was published in March 1949, was her favorite work.

She said it was her most satisfying book, an opportunity to examine the dynamics of family relationships — and, as she so often did, she took her title from a nursery rhyme, but it was only symbolic. Really had little to do with the plot. The story wasn't built around the content of the rhyme, only around the idea, as expressed by one of the characters, that "we hadn't been able to grow up independent ... twisted and twining." The occupants of the house were controlled and manipulated by the elderly patriarch.

It was an interesting household that Christie created in "Crooked House," which was inspired by a nursery rhyme that was about 100 years old when the story took place. It was centered around an affluent patriarch, whose first wife died and whose sister–in–law looked after his house and children from that time.

The patriarch married a younger woman — the difference in their ages could be measured not in years alone but in decades. That, of course, was an issue for others in the household, which the old boy also shared with his sons, their wives and three grandchildren.

One of the grandchildren was engaged to be married, and the story was told by her fiance. His father, a Scotland Yard inspector, was brought in to investigate, and the fiance assisted him.

The patriach suffered from diabetes and required regular insulin injections. On the fateful day, someone apparently switched the insulin with eserine, an eye medication, and it poisoned him.

As in most good murder mysteries, there was no shortage of suspects. Just about everyone in the house had a reason to want him dead. The patriarch's much younger wife was in love with another man, the tutor for the two youngest grandchildren. There had been rampant rumors about the relationship between those two, and the rest of the household hoped it would turn out that they were guilty. The second wife wasn't liked, and there would be a public scandal if someone else was responsible.

She wasn't the only one who had motive and opportunity but no alibi — and everyone stood to gain since the old man's will left generous chunks of his fortune to each family member. Beyond that, however, the family members shared little except a common bloodline.

Christie told an interviewer in the mid–1960s that she "had difficulty" with the ending of the book because her publisher believed the resolution of the crime could not be how she had written it — presumably because her readers wouldn't accept it.

As she almost always did, Dame Agatha prevailed in spite of the book's unforeseen and controversial conclusion. I won't reveal it — although, after 65 years, it is probably pretty well known to readers of mystery novels — but I would like to point out an important difference between this kind of Christie book and the ones that featured her usual detectives — Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, or even her lesser detectives.

In this kind of book, Christie's detective made his only appearance, and that is significant. With her usual detectives, Christie would allow them to maintain their detachment from the crime and observe from a distance. In a book like "Crooked House," Christie let her detective (actually, as I say, there were two in this case, the Scotland Yard inspector and his son) get his hands dirty.

It occurs to me that it might not have been possible for one of Christie's regular detectives to resolve the case from afar. From a distance, one can miss too much. Perhaps it was necessary for the detective to be close to the family. That intimacy allows the detective to pick up on subtle things that the detached detective would be likely to miss.

Distance can distort details — especially in a crooked house.