Monday, February 13, 2012
“There is a difference between apples and men…really, there is…”
By Ivan G. Shreve, Jr.
In the '50s, beginning with Winchester ’73 (1950), director Anthony Mann and actor James Stewart embarked on a series of eight film collaborations — five of which were Westerns, and those were highly influential in transforming that film genre through exploration of more “adult” themes, tone and content. Mann, who had helmed a number of acclaimed film noirs early in his movie career, used much of that film style in his oaters — featuring cynical heroes and other morally ambiguous characters thrust into an amoral, hostile world, characterized by the use of landscapes to portray the feelings of his protagonists and the futility and emptiness in their lives. Winchester ’73 was a tremendous box-office success for Universal, revitalizing the Western at a time when it served primarily as fodder for B-pictures and Saturday matinee “kiddie fare.”
The second of the Mann-Stewart westerns, Bend of the River (1952), was released to theaters 60 years ago on this date and while the film was not generally well-received by critics at the time, it served as another building block in the maturation of Jimmy Stewart’s acting career. Stewart’s reputation as “the boy next door” would develop a little more tarnish with each successive film he made with Mann, as the characters he played were individuals haunted by incidents from their past and dedicated to avenging a serious wrong done to them. They were so obsessive in achieving these ends that their better natures would drift perilously toward the dark side. Bend of the River is a shining example of how a changing world challenged “men of the west” to choose the respective paths they would continue to walk.
Glyn McLyntock (Stewart) is scouting for a wagon train of settlers on its way to Oregon and in checking the trail ahead, we learn of his outlaw past as a Missouri border raider when he rescues Emerson Cole (Arthur Kennedy) from a lynch mob. Both McLyntock and Cole are acquainted with each other’s reputations and cement their friendship when the two of them successfully go after a party of Shoshone Indians who’ve attacked the group of settlers during the night, one of whom wounds Laura Baile (Julie Adams) with an arrow. Though Cole’s intention is to head out to California, he decides to stick around with McLyntock and the settlers (He’s developed feelings for Laura) and follow them to Portland, where they arrange to procure the needed supplies to carry their planned settlement through the winter. They strike a deal with merchant Tom Hendricks (Howard Petrie), who will arrange for their provisions to be sent on to their wilderness encampment. Laura will recuperate from her wound in Portland and McLyntock and company will make better time traveling back to their settlement with an assist from riverboat skipper Captain Mello (Chubby Johnson).
As the work toward establishing the settlement gets underway, McLyntock and Jeremy Baile (Jay C. Flippen), Laura’s father, grow concerned that their food supply may run out with winter only six weeks away because the promised provisions still have not been shipped. The two men make the trip into Portland and find the town caught up in the thrall of gold fever, with supplies now fetching 10 times what they previously were worth. As a matter of fact, the settlement’s provisions still sit on the dock — so McLyntock and Jeremy hire some ne’er-do-wells to load them up on the riverboat while they straighten things out with Hendricks. They discover that both Cole and Laura now work for Hendricks (Cole as a pit boss, Laura running the gold scales since she’s “just about the only person he can trust”) and have no intention of leaving Portland. Confronting Hendricks, McLyntock demands delivery of the supplies but Hendricks continues to put him off and he informs Glyn that if he’s not satisfied he’ll gladly offer a refund (knowing he can get much more for the valuable cargo). This results in a shootout in Hendricks’ saloon, and the boat containing the supplies sets off for the settlement with Cole, Laura and riverboat gambler Trey Wilson (Rock Hudson) joining Glyn, Jeremy and the makeshift crew.
Hendricks and his group of flunkies engage in hot pursuit of the riverboat, and plan to ambush our heroes at the point where they have to head ashore to avoid a nearby waterfall. Instead, Glyn and company dock 20 miles upstream from the falls and plot a risky escape over the mountains to get back to the settlement; and while they do their best to make good time, Hendricks and his posse eventually catch up to them. By that time, however, McLyntock and his crew have set up camp and welcome Hendricks and his men with hot lead via a reverse ambush. Hendricks and some of his goons are killed in the shooting, and the rest of them ride off.
Continuing their journey to the settlement, McLyntock, Cole and the rest get approached by a group of miners who desperately need the supplies at their camp and offer $100,000 for the food; Cole, giving into temptation, falls in with the men Glyn and Jeremy hired to help drive the wagons of provisions to the settlement and makes tracks for the mining camp, leaving a bruised and battered Glyn behind without gun or horse. McLyntock eventually catches up to Cole and his men and, with the help of Jeremy, Laura and Trey, runs Cole’s “employees” off and recaptures the supplies. Cole eventually confronts McLyntock and a climactic brawl in a raging river results in Cole’s death, his body carried by the current toward the falls. It is at this point that Jeremy, whose distaste for Cole stemmed from his outlaw past, admits that he was wrong about the possibility of redemption and the four of them arrive in the settlement to receive the well-wishes of the grateful settlers anxiously waiting for their provisions.
Borden Chase’s screenplay for Bend of the River — based on Bill Gulick’s novel Bend of the Snake — is essentially a tale of two men whose past disreputable actions confront them at the crossroads of civilization. Should a man surrender to the reality that “the times are a-changin’” or will he continue to embrace his violent, amoral ways? Stewart’s Glyn McLyntock has done things of which he’s not particularly proud and in order to obtain acceptance from the group that he wants to be part of, he attempts to keep his criminal past a secret. But his history comes to the fore when he rescues Emerson from being hung by vigilantes and in doing so meets his doppelganger; Cole is the man McLyntock would have become had he not decided to take the road of reformation. The movie points out their similarities in many different ways, chiefly the way each man seems to know what the other thinks, much of this reflected in their dialogue. (When McLyntock meets up with Cole during his second trip to Portland and Cole asks what brought him here, both men say in unison, “A very tired horse.”)
Bend of the River transcends its traditional good-bad morality lecturing by introducing characters that succumb to temptation and stray off the straight-and-narrow path during the course of the film. Chiefly among these is Laura Baile, who decides during her convalescence in Portland that her future isn’t in farming and elects to stay in Portland with the persuasive Cole, telling Glyn that life there is “exciting” and that she’s had “a wonderful time.” Trey Wilson, the gambler befriended by the settlers, also seems to change allegiances whenever it’s to his advantage — working for the corrupt Hendricks as a cardsharp in the saloon, and then joining forces with Cole when Emerson double-crosses McLyntock on the trip back to the settlement. The moral compass of the movie, however, is Jeremy Baile, who acts as a stabilizing influence on both of these characters — Laura shows reluctance to confront her father and tell him that she’s decided to stay with Cole (and she eventually comes back to his side after witnessing Cole’s treachery), and Trey sees Cole’s true colors when Emerson starts slapping Jeremy around after learning that he helped the pursuing Glyn acquire a horse. (Trey defends Jeremy by threatening to kill Cole but can't bring himself to do so; wounded by Cole’s bullet, Cole editorializes that Trey was always “too soft.”)
Jeremy’s black-and-white view of the world tells him that a man “can’t change…when an apple’s rotten, there’s nothing you can do except throw it away or it will spoil the whole barrel.” We, of course, know this not to be true — Glyn desperately wants to escape what he once was and settle down in civilization, becoming a rancher/farmer. Mann shows us in Bend of the River glimpses of the man McLyntock used to be, none more tellingly that when Glyn spies Cole being hung by the vigilante mob and he nervously tugs at his neckerchief, then subconsciously wipes his chin at the sight of the rope tied around Cole’s neck. (Toward the end of the movie, as Glyn is being rescued from the current by a “lifeline” thrown to him by Trey, we learn that Glyn’s neckerchief covers up a rope burn that he suffered when he was in a situation similar to Cole’s.) When Cole decides that he can cash in on the miners’ offer and reap a tidy sum by selling them the settlers’ provisions he has, one of his hired goons jump McLyntock but spares the man from killing Glyn, figuring he owes him restitution for saving his life. We then see the cold son-of-a-bitch that once trademarked Glyn when he warns Cole: “You’ll be seein’ me…you’ll be seein’ me…every time you bed down for the night you’ll look back into the darkness and wonder if I’m there…and some night I will be…you’ll be seein’ me…”
Beginning with Bend of the River, every one of the Mann-Stewart Westerns were filmed in Technicolor — allowing audiences to drink in the breathtaking scenery, which in this case came courtesy of cinematographer Irving Glassberg. (As much as I love Bend, I have to say that I’m more partial to the black-and-white cinematography of Winchester ’73, only because it’s more in keeping with Mann’s film noir pedigree.) Screenwriter Chase’s (who co-wrote Winchester, and later worked with Mann on The Far Country) adaptation also is first-rate, with wonderful moments of wry humor sprinkled into the suspenseful action (my favorite is when Cole responds to Glyn’s observation that he’s “still following that star” with “Sometimes it’s better than having a man with a star following you”).
Because Bend of the River was a Universal picture, the studio used many of its contract players in crucial roles and not necessarily to the best advantage: I’m not all that impressed with Rock Hudson (who also was in Winchester ’73) as Trey the gambler (the legend has it
that Stewart was so pissed at Hudson’s getting more applause at the movie’s premiere that he vowed never to work with “Ernie” again…and he made good on that promise) and I find the presence of both Julie Adams and Lori Nelson (she’s younger sister Marjie, who has it bad for Hudson’s Trey) amusing only in that both actresses later acted alongside the Creature from the Black Lagoon (Adams in the original, Nelson in the sequel, Revenge of the Creature). But the film is buoyed by the superb performances of Stewart and Kennedy (whose ability to trade off between good guy and bad guy was peerless), not to mention solid character support from favorites Jay C. Flippen, Chubby Johnson, Frank Ferguson, Royal Dano and the controversial Lincoln Theodore Monroe Andrew Perry — better known to one and all as “Stepin Fetchit” (he plays Johnson’s sidekick). You’ll also see future TV faces in Harry “Colonel Potter” Morgan (as one of the hired guys, billed as “Henry”) and Francis “Aunt Bee” Bavier (as one of the settlers), and old-time radio fans will giggle that Howard Petrie, who served as the announcer for shows starring Jimmy Durante and Judy Canova, plays bad guy Tom Hendricks. (Lillian Randolph, known for her role as “Birdie” on The Great Gildersleeve, also appears briefly as Hendricks’ maid, "Aunt Tildy.")Six years after Bend of the River, Anthony Mann directed Man of the West, a Western starring Gary Cooper as an ex-outlaw who’s also reformed and become a part of the community in which he now resides and who has been entrusted with the task of hiring a schoolteacher only to meet up with his former gang. The movie, which has quite a cult following, is an interesting “bookend” to Bend of the River in that it offers a glimpse into the life of a man like Glyn McLyntock after he has become “civilized” and it wouldn’t be all that difficult to see Stewart in the Cooper role (his falling out with Mann during the filming of Night Passage sort of put the kibosh on any future collaborations, however). If you’ve seen Man, you might be interested in checking out Bend as a sort of “backstory” and if you haven’t, by all means go with Bend first. It’s long overdue for re-evaluation as one of the examples of the marvelous actor-auteur partnership that was James Stewart and Anthony Mann.
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Labels: 50s, Anthony Mann, Cooper, J. Stewart, Movie Tributes, Rock Hudson
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Friday, December 02, 2011
“I’m going to show you what yum-yum is…”
By Ivan G. Shreve, Jr.
One of the regrettable stigmas about Academy Awards is that they are more often than not handed out to serious performances — portrayals in comedy films are criminally overlooked. There are exceptions, of course: Clark Gable’s triumph in It Happened One Night and James Stewart’s trophy for The Philadelphia Story while on the distaff side you have Claudette Colbert (also for Night) and Judy Holliday’s winning turn in Born Yesterday. (I’m sure there are others — these just came off the top of my head.) You’ll also find a lot of comedic accomplishments in the supporting actor and actress categories, presumably because of the old trope about “second bananas” and “comic relief.” But, as a general rule, comedy need not apply: Oscar-winning performances are defined by big, serious showcases (often with noble or suffering characters) that a certain master thespian might describe as “ACTING!”
In February 1942, Gary Cooper was handed one of his two competitive Oscar statuettes (he also would win an honorary Academy Award in 1961) for Sergeant York — a dramatization of the real-life story of Alvin C. York, the most decorated American soldier of World War I. I’ve always felt that the reason Coop was “decorated” with such a statuette was due to the movie’s enormous popularity (it was the highest grossing film of 1941) and while he gives a solid, dependable performance, I’ve always been partial to his comedic showcase from another film released that same year. In fact, it premiered in theaters 70 years ago on this date, five days before the attack on Pearl Harbor. Ball of Fire, once described by one of its screenwriters, Billy Wilder, as a “silly picture,” nevertheless features a masterful comic turn by an actor whose limited thespic abilities often disappeared through the magic of a movie screen.
In Ball of Fire, Cooper plays Professor Bertram Potts, one of eight lexicographers living in a New York residence and working on an encyclopedia project funded by the daughter (Mary Field) of Daniel S. Totten, inventor of the electric toaster. Potts and his colleagues have been hard at work on their encyclopedia for nine years, and it looks as if construction will continue for another three — much to the dismay of Miss Totten, who will have to pay for the “overruns” out of her own pocket. An encounter with a garbage man (Allen Jenkins) demonstrates why there is still so much to do — the sanitation engineer’s creative use of slang demonstrates to Potts (the group’s grammarian) that his own article for the encyclopedia is hopelessly outdated, and that he will have to research the modern vernacular by visiting “the streets, the slums, the theatrical and allied professions.” He encounters several people — a newsboy, a college student, a pool hall bum — and asks for their help in preparing his treatise on slang.
Later at a nightclub, Potts makes the acquaintance of Katherine “Sugarpuss” O’Shea (Barbara Stanwyck), a sultry chanteuse whom he also wants to participate in his discussions, but she is markedly cool to his proposal. She later changes her mind and turns up at the doorstep of the encyclopedia men, but only because she has been advised by a pair of hoodlums, Duke Pastrami (Dan Duryea) and Asthma Anderson (Ralph Peters), to “take it on the lam”; both men are in the employ of mobster Joe Lilac (Dana Andrews), who’s being questioned by the district attorney about his complicity in a gangland murder, and who would like nothing better than to hear Sugarpuss’ side of the story. The professors’ think tank will provide a perfect hideout, even though O’Shea’s breezy insouciance has a disruptive influence on their daily routine, much to the chagrin of their stern housekeeper Miss Bragg (Kathleen Howard). Bragg’s ultimatum to Potts that Sugarpuss leave or she will results in a confrontation between “Pottsy” and Sugarpuss — and when Potts confesses a rather strong attraction to the nightclub singer she uses that revelation to her advantage, reciprocating similar feelings and demonstrating to her would-be paramour the definition of “yum-yum” by kissing him.
Potts’ infatuation goes full speed ahead to the purchase of an engagement ring and proposes to Sugarpuss — even though he’s got a rival in gangster Lilac, who entertains similar notions (mostly for convenience's sake, insuring that a wife can’t testify against her husband). When Joe learns of Potts’ intentions, he persuades Sugarpuss to play along — that way she’s guaranteed safe passage out of New York (under the watchful eye of the authorities) and can join Lilac in neighboring New Jersey, where they’ll tie the knot. A mishap with the professors’ automobile en route necessitates a stopover in a small Joisey town, where at an inn O’Shea learns (through a mix-up in bungalow door numbers) that Potts is deadly serious about his passion for her. She begins to see the bashful goof in an entirely different light, but before she can act on this, Lilac and his goons show up, spelling out the story for Potts and the other professors before collecting Sugarpuss and continuing on their way.
Back home in New York, Potts is determined to put the sordid chapter behind him until it is pointed out that in returning his engagement ring, O’Shea has slipped him the rock she received from Lilac. To add insult to injury, Miss Totten arrives with her assistant Larsen (Charles Lane) to announce that due to the unfavorable newspaper publicity generated by Potts’ misadventures she is canceling the encyclopedia project — and that's interrupted by the arrival of Pastrami and Asthma, who have been ordered by Lilac to “rub out” the group unless Sugarpuss agrees to marry Joe. Elated that Sugarpuss and Joe still aren't attached, Potts and the others are able to subdue the two hit men with brains (not brawn) and ride to O’Shea’s rescue (thanks to their garbage man pal’s truck) to save her from her nasty fate. “Pottsy” and Sugarpuss will live happy ever after, thanks to his expert application of “yum-yum” as the movie concludes.
Scripted by Wilder and Charles Brackett, Ball of Fire’s opening titles also credit Wilder and Thomas Monroe with the film’s “original story” — which is a teensy bit of a stretch, insomuch as Wilder cribbed the idea from the classic fairy tale of “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.” (Wilder got the idea while he was still living in Germany, and even when director Howard Hawks picked up on the reference Billy warned him that he wouldn’t get a shared credit.) Granted, there are eight “dwarfs” as the film begins (they’re even shown marching through a NYC park as if they should be singing “Heigh Ho”) but that’s because the character of Bertram Potts is technically “Prince Charming” — so the personages of Professors Gurkakoff (Oscar Homolka), Jerome (Henry Travers), Magenbruch (S.Z “Cuddles” Sakall), Robinson (Tully Marshall), Quintana (Leonid Kinskey), Oddly (Richard Haydn) and Peagram (Aubrey Mather) fill in for Doc, Sneezy, Dopey, etc. A publicity photo of the seven character actors was even taken in front of a poster for the Disney film and the film is advertised prominently on a marquee in a scene where Cooper’s Potts talks with a wiseacre newsboy (Tommy Ryan) outside a theater.
Producer Samuel Goldwyn commissioned Wilder and Brackett to write the vehicle for Coop because he was disappointed that the films he made with Cooper (such as The Real Glory and The Westerner) rarely did as well at the box office as those films in which the actor was lent out to other studios. So the film was tailor-made for Coop’s “Longfellow Deeds”-type persona, but finding a suitable leading lady took some additional time. Ginger Rogers was the first choice, but she wasn’t interested and Carole Lombard said “no way” as well; both Betty Field and Lucille Ball were tested for the part and while Ball appeared to have the inside track, Barbara Stanwyck ultimately won the role when Cooper suggested her, having worked with her in that same year’s Meet John Doe. Coop also was reunited with his York director Hawks, whom Goldwyn wasn't particularly fond of (Hawks wound up with a $100,000 payday for the film) but tolerated because of the director’s admiration for the script. It was familiar territory for Howie, in that he had helmed a similar film about a stuffy professor brought down to earth in 1938’s Bringing Up Baby (and he would later revisit the premise in both Fire’s 1948 remake, A Song is Born, and Monkey Business in 1952.)
Being a Goldwyn production, the producer naturally pulled out all the stops and obtained the services of many of Hollywood’s master craftsmen (and women): Gregg Toland was cinematographer, Perry Ferguson the art director, and Edith Head designed that drop-dead gorgeous gown that Stanwyck’s Sugarpuss wears in her nightclub act. One of the highlights of Ball of Fire is Babs’ rendition (though Martha Tilton dubbed her vocals) of “Drum Boogie,” backed by Gene Krupa and his Orchestra; Gene later obliges with an encore of the number accompanied by matchbox sticks and a matchbox. Even though Stanwyck’s voice is not her own, she’s able to reach back to her “Ruby Stevens” chorus gal days and do some impressive dance moves with those fabulous Stanwyck gams.
I’ve never considered myself a Barbara Stanwyck fanatic but Ball of Fire is my all-time favorite of her films; her finely modulated performance as the alternately hard-boiled and tender Sugarpuss was nominated for a best actress trophy and to be honest, I think she was robbed. (Stanwyck wasn’t as lucky in the Oscar sweepstakes as her male co-star — she was nominated on four separate occasions but had to make do with an honorary statuette in 1982.) Babs’ background as a one-time Ziegfeld gal makes her portrayal of O’Shea authentic, and her personal, genuine affability (She was one of the most well-liked movie actresses in the history of Hollywood) invests an unshakable admiration into the character, something that I don’t think would have resulted if the brassier Ginger Rogers has been cast in the part. (I like how David Thomson described Babs in this movie as “saucy, naughty and as quick as a shortstop.”) We’re just as captivated by Sugarpuss’ charms as the seven professors (and of course, “Pottsy”); the scene where she teaches the men to conga is utterly beguiling, and like her fairy tale counterpart Snow White, she brings a great deal of sunshine and a sense of fun to their existence in what one of the profs calls “the mausoleum.”
The chemistry between Stanwyck and Cooper’s characters is one of the best in any screwball comedy. What always has fascinated me about Cooper is that while his acting range may have seemed limited to a casual observer, he had a certain captivation that always came across in his screen performances. Coop was generally most comfortable in Westerns, but even though he was a little flummoxed by Wilder and Brackett’s rapid-fire, intellectual dialogue he’s most convincing as the scholar who’s spent his entire existence isolated from the world. His Bertram Potts is a sweetly naïve “big kid” much like Cooper’s Longfellow Deeds (but far less dangerous, I think) and watching Sugarpuss coax him out of his shell is a delight from start to finish. She’s his fast track to his ultimate sexual awakening (particularly when he tells her that being around her requires him to apply cold water to the back of his neck), which culminates with his understanding of what constitutes “yum-yum” and his tacit admission: “Make no mistake, I shall regret the absence of your keen mind…unfortunately, it is inseparable from an extremely disturbing body.” But once Potts is brought up to speed on the language of love, he’s every bit as potent to O’Shea (who finds herself falling out of love with the despicable Lilac); she must also depend on the cold water treatment herself when things get steamy. At that point in their relationship, she knows there’s no turning back: “I love him because he's the kind of guy who gets drunk on a glass of buttermilk, and I love the way he blushes right up over his ears. I love him because he doesn't know how to kiss…the jerk…” (By the time the movie calls it a wrap, however, her “Crabapple Annie” has that last part well in hand.)
Ball of Fire boasts a positively splendid supporting cast — particularly the vets who essay Potts’ encyclopedia colleagues, who transcend the usual stereotypes of movie intellectuals being dry as dirt by exhibiting a real playfulness (one of my favorite scenes in the film is when Potts and the “dwarves” listen to Oddly’s recollection of his marriage, which breaks out in a lovely rendition of “Genevieve”). Fire was Thrilling Days of Yesteryear fave Dan Duryea’s second feature film appearance and I like to think that if he had had a few more films under his belt, he could have played Joe Lilac (Duryea’s best bit in Fire is when he imitates Cooper’s thumb-licking-and-rubbing-it-on-the-sight tic from Sergeant York, cracking “I saw me a picture last week”) but Dana Andrews does very well in the part, supplementing the escapist comedy nature of the film with the proper menace (Andrews’ phone conversation with Cooper as Stanwyck’s “Daddy” is hysterical but it works because Dana plays it perfectly straight). I got a particular kick out of seeing a couple of other TDOY favorites in Elisha Cook, Jr. (as a waiter who tells Potts that Sugarpuss is “root, zoot and cute…and solid to boot”) and serial/B-Western stalwart Addison Richards as the D.A. determined to bring the hammer down on Lilac.
In addition to Stanwyck’s acting nomination, Ball of Fire also received nods for best scoring of a dramatic (!) picture and best sound recording…with the final nomination going to Monroe and Wilder’s “original story.” It was the movie on which Wilder decided he wanted to do more behind the camera than just provide the words; his directing ambition was encouraged fully by Hawks, who allowed Billy to study and pick up some pointers during the film’s production. The movie is an odd one in Wilder’s oeuvre because it’s devoid of the frank, pungent cynicism prevalent in many of the writer-director’s works, but as Wilder himself observed: “It was a silly picture. But so were audiences in those days.” Hey…if enjoying the entertaining exhilaration that Ball of Fire provides with each passing year makes me silly, then I guess nobody’s perfect.
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Labels: 40s, Cooper, Disney, Gable, Ginger Rogers, Hawks, J. Stewart, L. Ball, Lombard, Oscars, Stanwyck, Wilder
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Saturday, November 12, 2011
"Careful! I might put your eye out."
By le0pard13
The year 1971 was a distinct one in film…at least for those of us around during that period. The bloody tally of the Vietnam War still was scrolling by in snippets across our television news broadcasts. And those returning from it (in whatever state) already were impacting upon our population and culture at the time. For sure, all of that had an effect on anti-war protests, which carried over from the previous decade (to the vexation of one side and the spurring of the other). Despite that, we were in the midst of several other dramatic changes as well. Civil and women's rights were center stage, to say nothing of a sexual revolution. Yet, it all evolved into more critical examinations of American society and questioning who we were as a whole. As is our trait, it included our expression and reactions through violence in real life and through the popular arts. Whether it was the war we waged abroad or on the homefront, it was reflecting back on us in our own cinema. Remarkable films debuted that year. From such prominent film releases such as The French Connection and A Clockwork Orange, to the small and influential movies such as the controversial Straw Dogs, the initially TV-released Duel and, hell…even Billy Jack. Violence and upheaval were at their core.
Many more were to come this decade, especially in the crime genre. However, this year in particular stood out for one actor and his burgeoning career as a filmmaker: Clint Eastwood. Three critical films with him in the lead debuted in '71. To their benefit, the highly undervalued director Don Siegel had involvement in all of them. Two of the three had Clint as the clear hero. Regardless, none of Eastwood's characters in any those pictures were portrayed anywhere close to the unblemished saviors of yesteryear. The Siegel-directed Dirty Harry and The Beguiled offered unusual, contrasting stretches in character for the actor (and audience expectations). Still, only one movie had the rangy Mr. Eastwood in the director's chair for the very first time. Appropriately enough, it was the underrated, psychological thriller of its day: Play Misty for Me. This one marked the popular film star's first steps at the helm of a Hollywood studio-backed motion picture. As well, the audience would begin to glimpse a number of Clint's penchants in what would become a template for his filmmaking style. Prime among them, his preference for showcasing actors (other than himself) with meaty roles in the films he would come to produce, whether they were men and/or women. And it would be his film's co-star, Jessica Walter, who'd take the part handed to her and reach heights unanticipated as his deranged nemesis in the story. At length, she'd trail-blaze for those who'd come in subsequent and obsessive fare such as the barely disguised remake Fatal Attraction (1987), its teen equivalent, Swimfan (2002) and other fanatical fare. Even so, Jessica's character didn't take a back seat to any of them.
Clint Eastwood always has been a fascinating actor to me ever since watching him on TV's Rawhide series as a boy. He never appeared to he doing much on-screen (on TV or his early movies), looking towering and brooding, but ever cocksure. That is, till you observed carefully and found he was doing more than you ever thought. Tall, lanky and good-looking, he possessed the rare quality of being attractive to women, and yet having a majority of men wanting to be exactly like him (and all without a hint of resentment). Plus, he was just plain cool; all the while he was kicking your ass, that is. He built a career in film in many ways like that of other movie and Western icons, John Wayne and Gary Cooper. Still, in another manner, he was quite different from that duo and decidedly more in-tune to this era, which was very much the Sexy '70s. Besides, Gary Cooper never directed. Wayne did, but he never developed as much as he may have wanted to — perhaps, being held back beneath the shadow of his mentor, John Ford. Only Eastwood ever rose to being the world's biggest star and box office champ and enjoy an accomplished directorial career that almost rivaled the former. Allowed to handle the reins in this 1971 feature film, after a pretty successful period starting in the mid-'60s, it was here where that new vocation began to borne fruit.
Younger generations of moviegoers likely will roll their eyes or give knowing glances when reading the synopsis for this early '70s film (released on this autumn date 40 years ago): radio disc jockey Dave Garver (our man Eastwood) has one sweet gig going. He slings jazz tunes at a station in the jewel of California beachside communities, Carmel-by-the-Sea (the only town I know that has hyphens in its official name). Being on-the-air with frequency, Dave gets his fair share of 'play' with the ladies, too (sorry, couldn't resist the puns). One evening, Evelyn Draper (Jessica Walter) let's herself get picked up at a bar by Dave. Only later, after letting him believe he is seducing her, does Evelyn reveal that she's his longtime admiring fan. She being the same one who frequently calls the station to request the classic Erroll Garner ballad, "Misty." From that point forward, the carefree radioman begins to learn his casual "fling" means a hell of a lot more to the certifiably jealous and clingy inamorata. As their encounters grow in number, even as an old flame returns to Dave's life, the increasingly obsessive and violent relationship with Evelyn threatens his job prospects, those he cares about and eventually his own life. Hearing "Misty," either requested or played, will never mean the same thing again.
Though this was his first stint as a director, it wasn't done on a whim or for ego-polishing. Eastwood had been steadily prepping for this for some time. In point of fact, all the way back to the Rawhide series (picking up second-unit work when allowed, purely to build
experience). Plus, being exposed to a couple of great directors (Sergio Leone and Don Siegel) in the '60s-era films that established him, only fed that drive. His major sponsor to get him into the director's chair was none other than Siegel himself (and you can spot his influence on the actor-turned-filmmaker from this inception…along with a film cameo from Don as the bartender). It culminated with the Play Misty for Me opportunity after a string of films with Universal, using an original story by Jo Heims (one Eastwood optioned beforehand). Jo would go on to work with Dean Reisner on the final screenplay. I think you have to give Clint credit for choosing something as unexpected as this material was at the time. Given his filmography to that point, an action film would have been the safe and anticipated move for the actor-cum-director (at least from the studio's standpoint). It certainly would not have been the Hitchcockian psychological thriller he eventually made. And thank God for that. As well, he was willing to give himself a role that was clearly nothing like his Man With No Name persona. Coldly endearing Dave is not as that icon was — he's very much the flawed protagonist.DAVE: Don't you like me?
Let's be honest, the Dave Garver character is a bit of prick, literally, in Play Misty for Me. Tooling around in a two-seat convertible roadster (the 'Tang mobile of its day) says it's all about him. His wants, his desires, are all that matter. When the film opens (with a great long tracking shot by longtime collaborating cinematographer Bruce Surtees), he's at his old girlfriend's cliffside house (foreshadowing where the film will end), staring at himself. A portrait his ex Tobie (played well by a young Donna Mills) painted of him is visible through the window of that now vacant flat. He's definitely not the badass cowboy from the previous decade's stable of roles. Clint's Garver has a familiar connection with the period that was the time. Manifestly, he is the inheritor and purveyor of all that "free love" behavior and mentality the '60s offered. Perhaps his only real talent, besides his looks, is jumping beds and partners. All at the cost of Tobie, the woman he loves. Still, that's not enough to slow this one down (as his housekeeper plainly warns him half-way through the picture). The film makes clear that everything comes home to roost. Just like the rise of venereal disease rates that followed in the wake of all the "uncomplicated" Free Love Movement sex everyone with a pulse was into back then, there were repercussions. The point, even in that pre-AIDS era, was there were no free rides during this transformation of mores. As his disc jockey cohort, Al Monte (James McEachin), later notes with only the thinnest veil of symbolism:
AL: He who lives by the sword, shall die by the sword.
That such requital is delivered in spades by an outstanding performance by Ms. Walters, is what makes this film special. While the studio wanted the remarkable Lee Remick in this role, Eastwood insisted on the relatively unknown Jessica (through her small work with Sidney Lumet at the time). It proved to be another deft move by Clint. And it is the character of Evelyn Draper that really is the key to this movie. The tragic Madame Butterfly nature of the tale lies with her. A pivotal scene where Dave forcibly puts Evelyn into a taxi, after their confrontation, still packs a wallop after all these years. It's raw and intense as you catch sight of the vulnerability of her character, one plainly on the edge of sanity. Yeah, she repels you, but simultaneously you feel bad for the woman. Even if the audience wants Evelyn to die by the movie's end for the damage done, some part of you feels remorse when it comes to that. Play Misty, with its sexual underpinnings, could have been something Alfred Hitchcock chose to film (he'd release his sexual murder thriller Frenzy the following year). All the same, the women in Eastwood's film are the core component (and director Clint doesn't treat them as merely beautiful objects like Sir Alfred was prone to do).
At the beginning, Evelyn seems fragile, almost doleful. But like a thin glass, she's the one that's going to shatter and cut the one holding it. Evelyn only wants what she loves (in this case, most obsessively), and all during a period when there was little commitment to be had. Yet, between her and the object of her desire (her Dave), she's really the only one that you could actually say "cares." Dave wants nothing to do with strings (unless he's the one tying them). I believe the most compelling line Evelyn delivers in the film (and she has more than a few), also is the most simple (just three words) in entire the picture. On one hand she's revealing who she is to the unsuspecting Tobie, but on the other she's telling her rival she still doesn't realize that Dave is never really going to change his ways:
EVELYN: God, you're dumb.
It's the underlying thread of the film. In many ways mirroring the frustrations of living in a man's world, Evelyn is no longer going to be the doormat and nor be stepped on from a certain point on in Play Misty for Me. This wasn't the domestic '50s nor was it the bra-burning '60s where anyone could do what they wanted. This was something else altogether. And women of this decade weren't going let men have it both ways:
DAVE: Get off my back, Evelyn.
EVELYN: Get off your back? That's where you've been keeping me, isn't it!
In a number of ways, this film turns the table on men (another element this movie had in common with The Beguiled). Eastwood's picture plays very much like a throwback to the films of Alfred Hitchcock when he was still at his peak, specifically Psycho and Vertigo. And yes, it's nowhere near as invented or iconic as those two. However, like that pair of films, Play Misty for Me did offer some groundbreaking aspects in its story. In this case, the film's tale is one where the women drive all the action and dominate the male character in unforeseen ways.
Eastwood's use of music also should be noted. With original tracks supplied by Dee Barton (who'd collaborate again with Clint in High Plains Drifter and Thunderbolt and Lightfoot), this was very much a personal statement of the budding director — another trait that would mark his future productions. Jazz always has been central to this actor and he made sure to showcase it throughout as the story unfolded (John Larch's Sgt. McCallum "Montivani" crack offering humorous counterpoint notwithstanding). Perhaps not surprisingly, his sequence at the Monterey Jazz Fest was at a level near the best of the early music documentaries at capturing the essence of what it'd be like to be there during this transformational time. Reportedly, Clint shot 30,000 feet of film toward it. And he was very much the auteur in putting together the unexpected montage to "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face." Clint went out of way to acquire the rights to that sensual rendition of the song (performed by Roberta Flack, written by Ewan MacColl) and Garner's title tune for his movie.
Shot in three weeks time, entirely on location with not a soundstage in sight, Clint Eastwood delivered the picture with time and budget to spare (probably the studio's most admired trait of the new actor/director). All in all, the film he delivered passes the test of time and stands up to repeat viewing (even if you've never seen a rotary dial phone before, or only have begun to understand what it was like before Caller ID). In contrast to the Hitch classics mentioned (as great as they are), but like the blood that flowed more freely in this post-'60s cinematic era, Eastwood's first film is much warmer to the touch, I think. I'm not saying the 1971 movie surpasses the British suspense master's work — but it was one of the best psychological thrillers of its decade. Plus, the film had something to say about those changing times. Not to mention, like the actor himself, his initial foray in the director's chair seemed competent enough. That is, till you looked more closely and found he accomplished a hell of lot more than you ever thought.
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Labels: 70s, Cooper, Don Siegel, Eastwood, Hitchcock, John Ford, Leone, Lumet, Movie Tributes, Television, Wayne
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Tuesday, May 03, 2011
The world's been shaved by a drunken barber
By Edward Copeland
After a montage of workers in all walks of life set to tunes ranging from "Roll Out the Barrel" to "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" that wraps with newborns in a nursery, we see men removing the sign from The Bulletin newspaper, including its motto, "A free press means a free people" and replacing it with THE NEW BULLETIN. The images would seem to be sending a warning (or at least ammunition for his critics) that Frank Capra was about to lean on his worst tendencies in Meet John Doe, which opened 70 years ago today, and Capra displays his weaknesses in the film, though frequently they get averted thanks to his sharp cast, led by the wonderful Barbara Stanwyck who in 1941 had one helluva year.
The newspaper building's sign isn't the only change afoot. A new managing editor named Henry Connell (the great James Gleason) has been handed the reins and his first duty requires him to clear out "the dead weight," which basically means firing a lot of the staff, 40 people total, including columnist Ann Mitchell (Barbara Stanwyck). She pleads her case for staying on, even offering to cut her $30 a week salary to $20 a week, since her mother (Spring Byington) and two sisters depend on her. Connell isn't moved since the paper doesn't need her column of "lavender and old lace." He was brought in to boost circulation and "wants fireworks." Connell tells Ann she
owes them a final column and then she can pick up her final check. Stanwyck, always good, but great as a brassy newspaper woman scorned, goes back to her office and tosses the column she'd written when the typesetter informs her it's a little short and makes up an entirely fabricated column about a letter she received from an unemployed man, so dispirited by what they "laughingly call a civilized world." She signs "his" letter John Doe, who blames slimy politics for unemployment and threatens to commit suicide by jumping off City Hall on Christmas Eve. In Ann's own commentary portion of the column she adds that in her opinion "the wrong people are jumping of roofs." Needless to say, Connell eats it up and gives it big play in the next day's paper starting a chain reaction among the populace and political leaders.Governor Jackson (Vaughan Glaser) and his associates are convinced that John Doe is a creation of the Bulletin's new owner, D.B. Norton (Edward Arnold), to make the governor look bad. The editor of competing newspaper The Daily Chronicle (Stephen Toombes) concurs that it's an old gag and promises to expose them. The town's mayor (Gene Lockhart) seems more upset that John Doe would pick his building for his suicide
leap. Connell's panicking because he wants to keep this thing going and find John Doe, but he's got people out and they can't even find Ann. When she finally turns up, she's completely honest about her fraud. Connell is prepared to admit that they were duped until The Chronicle runs a story accusing them of making it up. Ann sells him on the whole idea of hiring a John Doe so they don't prove the other paper right, provided she gets her job back with a raise. On the other hand, she shows him a document she's made up admitting she made it all up that she bets The Chronicle would pay her plenty to make them look like fools. Connell tells Ann they've already been besieged with job offers and marriage proposals for John Doe and the mayor practically wants to adopt him. Ann suggests John Doe columns through Christmas all about man's inhumanity to man. Connell wants to know where she thinks they'll find someone to assume the John Doe role. She happens to open the office door and finds the outer office overflowing with down-on-their-luck men all claiming to be John Doe. Connell's right hand man says, "Show me an American who can keep his mouth shut and I'll eat him."Forgive me for a brief, unrelated tangent. Having seen so many films from the eras of the 1930s and 1940s with their less-than-flattering portraits of the press and then compare it to that brief moment in the 1970s around the time of All the President's Men when journalists actually became the heroes of films and were viewed admirably and to now be stuck when cable news is a disgrace and what little real journalism remains dies slowly with the newspapers run by publishers who don't know what the hell they are doing and have behaved like chickens with their heads cut off for more than a decade, why aren't we getting any movies, serious, comic or satirical that really address the situation? State of Play came closest, though it seemed as if it were from another era, while Nothing But the Truth addressed a serious issue and ruined it with one of the most absurd plot twists I've seen. Surely, after these weeks when the NBC entertainment division has run its network and cable news divisions by giving Donald Trump ample air time to spread lies and veiled racism, some screenwriter can think of a movie out there — and I write these things as a former working journalist who is ashamed and disgusted by what's become of his former profession. I've digressed, back to Meet John Doe.
Most of the homeless, bums and tramps who parade into Connell's office fail to leave much of a positive impression on Ann, Connell or any of the other Bulletin employees — that is until he walks in. It's Gary Cooper. Of course, his name isn't really John Doe, but John Willoughby, though he was known as Long John Willoughby when he pitched in bush league baseball until an injury to his arm ended his possible Major League career and set him to riding the rails with a friend he made known only as The Colonel
(Walter Brennan). Cooper received his first Oscar nomination as best actor working for Capra on Mr. Deeds Goes to Town. Cooper would win the Oscar in 1941 and Brennan would get his final nomination (3 wins out of 4 nominations in six years is something no one likely will ever match), but they weren't for Meet John Doe but Howard Hawks' Sergeant York. When Ann starts talking to Willoughby, she knows she's found her John Doe and Connell sets out to make the deal with him to be the face of daily columns and keep the suspense going until Christmas Eve as to whether he will go through with his plan to jump off City Hall. At one point during the conversation, John gets weak and faints because he hasn't eaten in awhile, so they bring some lunch up for both he and the Colonel. The delightful Colonel thinks all the plotting sounds like the work of "helots" and doesn't buy the argument the newspaper people try to sell John on that he would be improving the world. "You couldn't improve the world if a building was jumping on you," the Colonel declares. Connell explains the details of the deal to John. They will pay him $50 a week and put up in a hotel through Christmas Eve. On Dec. 26, they give him a train ticket out of town and pay to have his arm fixed. John insists that the surgery must be performed by "Bonesetter" Brown and he wants the Colonel to stay with him.They install John and the Colonel in a plush hotel suite (and make sure they have bodyguards not only to keep the public from John but to keep him from making an escape as well). When the duo enter the hotel room, both are offered a paper to read, but the Colonel wants no part of it. "I don't read no papers, and I don't listen to radios either. I know the world's been shaved by a drunken barber, and I don't have to read it," the Colonel declares. Soon, Ann has joined them with a phalanx of photographers to start documenting their new
populist hero, though he needs a lot of coaching, having to be reminded that he's disgusted with civilization. He thinks that means she wants "crabby guy" but it comes off looking to her as if he's trying to smell the world. She finally gets what she wants by telling him to think about an ump making a bad call. Though Meet John Doe had its origin in a story, it was written, as was Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, by Robert Riskin and part of it plays as if he's trying to impose the Deeds template. (This was so much the case that the original 1941 ad campaign read ALL AMERICA WANTS TO MEET THE "MR. DEEDS" OF 1941!) John Doe might not be suddenly rich like Longfellow Deeds, but he's similarly stifled by keepers and used by a newswoman who comes to fall for him. Despite this, for the early portion of the film, Meet John Doe works remarkably well when it's Stanwyck's Ann leading the way. The supporting cast also helps — and they have to late in the overlong film, which runs a full two hours — when instead of just telling a story of political corruption and yellow journalism, Capra and Riskin opt to make it a warning against fascism in America and, on top of that, try to equate John Doe with Jesus Christ.
It had been quite some time since I'd seen Meet John Doe and my memories of it had never placed it as one of my favorite Capras. I probably wouldn't have bothered with an anniversary tribute if it weren't part of Barbara Stanwyck's 1941 triumvirate. She's very good here, even better in Preston Sturges' The Lady Eve and magnificent in her crowning achievement for 1941 — as Sugarpuss O'Shea in Hawks' Ball of Fire which featured a screenplay by Billy Wilder & Charles Brackett from a story by Wilder and Thomas Monroe. Ball of Fire was the role that earned her an Oscar nomination that year and also displayed much better comic chemistry between her and Gary Cooper than you'll find in Meet John Doe. Stanwyck does give a great turn in Meet John Doe, especially in the film's early scenes where she's a schemer, plotting to keep her job and inventing the entire John Doe scam. Perhaps it's best exemplified when Ann and Connell are summoned to D.B. Norton's estate to meet with him. Connell has grown jittery and thinks they should pull
the plug on the John Doe fraud while Ann suggests to D.B. to make it even bigger by using his radio network to have John appear and speak to the public in person for the first time, making the phenomenon metastasize. Norton, played as an ethics-free tycoon as only the great Edward Arnold could, dismisses Connell so he can speak with Ann alone. "What do you want out of this?" he asks her. "Money," Ann responds bluntly. "Glad to hear someone admit it for a change," D.B. smiles, telling her that she should work directly with him from now on and if she plays
her cards right, she'll never have to worry about money again. What's even more interesting about Stanwyck's performance is that she doesn't immediately fall for Cooper's Long John Willoughby. For the longest time, Ann falls for the John Doe that doesn't exist, the one she created from thin air, so she's really engaged in a form of self love. The only times in the film when Stanwyck runs into trouble as an actress is when the script lets her down by suddenly turning Ann into mush by having her fall for Cooper and begging him not to kill himself when things turn sour. The screenplay forces her to try, through tears, to tout the idea that Cooper's John Doe is "like the first John Doe" — Jesus. That'd be a hard sell for any actress, even one of Stanwyck's caliber. Besides, as much as I worship Stanwyck, I've never thought she was at her best when playing vulnerable. She's greatest when she's fun or mean or manipulative, whether comically as in Ball of Fire or deadly as in Double Indemnity or even a later film such as the Western The Violent Men.
As I said, it had been a long time since I watched Meet John Doe before I looked at it again for this piece and, while I enjoyed the bulk of it, even when it lays its harmless but corny message on a little thick, when it takes its turn toward deifying the Cooper character and transforming Arnold's character from a tycoon who wants to gain political power into someone who practically wants to be an American Hitler, I almost canceled plans for writing this piece altogether. I decided to perservere, but this shouldn't be mistaken as the usual anniversary tribute I write for a film because I've got to be much more critical of it than I expected to be. The screenplay truly is a mess. Early on, it creates the conflict between Norton and the governor character, but then after two scenes, the governor vanishes from the
movie, never to be heard from again. Despite that hole, the film rolls along nicely for awhile when everyone wants to use John Doe for their own selfish purposes and though Cooper gives a performance even stiffer than usual, it's nice when Willoughby finds himself genuinely conflicted about what to do or who has his best interests at heart. Brennan steals most of the scenes out from under him just basically doing the usual Brennan shtick. When John does take to the radio, his speech does have its moments, such as when he suggests (though Ann wrote his speech) that even the average guy "has a streak of larceny in his
heart." Spontaneously, his message of "love your neighbor" resonates and people start John Doe Clubs which Norton capitalizes on to sponsor more of them across the country to use as the start of a third party. However, he's not planning to challenge the Democrats and the Republicans with a normal independent party but a John Doe Party, at whose convention Norton expects John to endorse D.B. as the party's candidate for president. I guess that's why the governor part of the story vanishes. However, as Norton plots with other political bosses and
labor leaders about how he would win (and why they would back this plan is beyond me) Norton complains that the government has been making too many "concessions" and America must be ruled by an "iron hand." Huh? Where in the hell did this come from? John hears it though and plans to expose D.B.'s plan, but Norton instead exposes John as a phony, figuring if he can't use the John Doe Clubs for his nefarious purposes, he'll destroy them instead. It's where we get our first flat-out Christ allusion as Connell says, "Chalk up another one to the Pontius Pilates." Of course, all the John Doe fans turn on him and Willoughby decides he will kill himself by jumping off City Hall on Christmas Eve to resurrect the John Doe Clubs. It all goes as predictably and plays as maudlin as you'd expect. When people speak of Frank Capra with derision, Meet John Doe may be why. The man did make some great films though: It Happened One Night, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and It's a Wonderful Life being the very best with some other good ones as well. Meet John Doe does not belong on the list.However, Meet John Doe contains one scene that displays the ability of a good actor to use his talent to overcome hackneyed material. Before John has learned the truth about what D.B. Norton is plotting, The Bulletin's managing editor Henry Connell (James Gleason), already drunk, sneaks John away from his bodyguards to take to a bar. He notes that John is too young to have served in the Great War (not renamed
World War I yet), but that as soon as the U.S. entered, he signed up at the age of 17. His father did as well and they both ended up in the same unit. Connell saw his father killed, right before his eyes. Connell got out of the war without a scratch, just an ulcer, which reminds him that he shouldn't be drinking booze. "I should be drinking milk, you know. This stuff is poison," he tells John as he orders another. "Yes, sir. I'm a sucker for this country. I'm a sucker for the Star Spangled Banner and I'm a sucker for this country. I like what we got here! I like it! A guy can say what he wants — and do what he wants — without having a bayonet shoved through his belly," Connell tells John. He then goes on to talk about people who would like to see what makes it great destroyed. He doesn't name Norton, but John guesses that is who he is speaking about. "Lighthouses, John. Lighthouses in a foggy world," he says. A subtle speech it ain't, but the veteran character actor Gleason pulls it off while playing (and most tellingly, not overplaying) drunk. It's a triumph of man over material. Unfortunately, there's not enough power to overcome all the material in Meet John Doe.Tweet
Labels: 40s, Capra, Cooper, Hawks, Movie Tributes, Oscars, P. Sturges, Stanwyck, W. Brennan, Wilder
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Tuesday, April 12, 2011
It's easy to make fun of somebody if you don't care how much you hurt them
By Edward Copeland
In the early years of the Academy Awards, repeat winners happened not only frequently but often soon after previous wins, sometimes even consecutively. For example, Frank Capra took home the directing prize three times, winning every other year from 1934 through 1938, starting with the great It Happened One Night and ending with You Can't Take It With You. The second Oscar between the two came for Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, which marks its 75th anniversary today, and was the only film of the three not to also win best picture. More importantly, the movie proved to be the wonderful Jean Arthur's breakthrough.
Now Capra has a reputation as the corniest of filmmakers, a reputation I believe is a bit unfair when you look at the darkness in some of his films such as It's a Wonderful Life or Mr. Smith Goes to Washington or especially at the more unusual titles in his filmography such as The Miracle Woman or The Bitter Tea of General Yen, both starring Barbara Stanwyck. Of the films that do lead to that reputation though, Mr. Deeds might be one that's near the head of that pack. Not that Mr. Deeds isn't a good film, even if it isn't up to the level of the best Capras such as It Happened One Night, Mr. Smith and Wonderful Life, but it still holds up today as a fairly solid entertainment, if it's a tad overlong.
The story begins as we see a car take an explosive plunge off a mountain road followed by a newspaper headline announcing the death of financier Matthew Semple in Italy. In New York, his attorneys,
led by John Cedar (Douglas Dumbrille), has a team of investigators including press agent Cornelius Cobb (the delightful Lionel Stander, known to generations decades later as Max on the '70s TV show Hart to Hart), scouring the world for Semple's heir. This part seems a little confusing because apparently Semple left a will that named his heir and though there are other relatives he disdained (Jameson Thomas, Mayo Methot), it would seem all they had to do was find him, even if Matthew Semple himself had never met him. Finally, they connect the dots and identify him as one Longfellow Deeds (Gary Cooper), resident of Mandrake Falls, Vt. Soon, Cedar, Cobb and the crew are en route to meet the new rich man. Cedar, head of his firm Cedar, Cedar, Cedar and Buddington, finds himself particularly anxious to get a feeling for Deeds because he hopes to woo power of attorney from him to use part of the fortune he's inherited to help pay off some of the firm's debts.
When the New Yorkers arrive in Mandrake Falls, they soon realize they aren't in Manhattan anymore. The station agent (Spencer Charters) turns out to be a very friendly chap, but people in Mandrake Falls have a tendency to be so literal that it takes awhile to get out of them the information you seek. Cedar's party get him to admit he knows Longfellow Deeds and that Deeds is very friendly and will talk to anybody but it takes about the third try, thanks to Cobb, to ask the correct question and ask if the man could take them to where Deeds resides, to which the station agent wonders why they didn't just say that in the first place. Of course, being literal, the man takes them to Deeds' home, but he also knew they wouldn't find Deeds there then because they didn't ask specifically to be taken to Deeds and are greeted only by his housekeeper (Emma Deems). They ask her if Deeds might be married, but she tells them no, he's waiting to rescue a lady in distress. Fortunately, the wait to meet Deeds
himself isn't too terribly long and Longfellow Deeds finally walks in the door (and grabs his tuba, seemingly out of habit). Cedar explains to him that Matthew Semple has left him his fortune and wonders if he knows how he's related. Deeds says that his mother's maiden name was Semple and he thinks he might have been his uncle. He then learns the amount: $20 million. That's quite a lot, he says. "It'll do in a pinch," Cobb says. Out of curiosity, they ask Deeds what he does and he informs them that he writes poems for postcards for special occasions such as Christmas, Easter, Mother's Day, etc. They tell him they need him to go back to New York with them to make all the arrangements, but Deeds already makes noises about how he doesn't need all that money and he'll probably give it away. Cobb asks the housekeeper what she thinks about her boss getting $20 million, but she's more concerned about how many people are staying for lunch. Deeds recommends they stay, just to try her orange layer cake.
Mandrake Falls gives their newly wealthy son a huge sendoff — so big that the New York delegation loses Deeds and the train already has arrived. Finally they spot him. It seems he's playing his tuba with the band for the last time. When he gets on the train, he looks rather forlorn, but Cedar tries to reassure that he has nothing to worry about in regard to the fortune. Deeds tells him it's not the money that he's fretting about — he just hopes the band can find another tuba player. While Deeds is en route to New York, the wife of the other Semple henpecks her sniveling husband to do whatever possible to get what's rightfully theirs, even if Matthew Semple hated his guts. The size of Semple's mansion leaves Deeds in awe, though Cedar and the rest keep him so occupied, he fears he won't get to see sites such as Grant's Tomb and the Statue of Liberty, which he really wants to since he is in New York. Once he is in town, the newspapers salivate at the chance to cover this new millionaire and MacWade (George Bancroft), the editor of one newspaper, gathers his best reporters
in his office to tell them they have to get to the bottom of this Longfellow Deeds and make him a sensation. Among the reporters listening to the pitch is MacWade's shining star, Pulitzer Prize winner Louise Bennett (Jean Arthur), who spends most of the scene playing with a string which I think could be a yo-yo, but couldn't tell for sure. She promises him a front page story if as a reward she receives a raise and a month of paid vacation. MacWade agrees and Louise, known as Babe to her fellow reporters, takes the assignment, having been clued in to the idea that Deeds longs to find a woman in distress. Back at the mansion, Cedar continues to try to get Deeds to hire him as do many others. Deeds seems puzzled as to why so many people offer to work for him for nothing. One lawyer named Hallor (Charles Lane) does seek something, though Cedar tries to get him thrown out. He tells Deeds he represents Matthew Semple's common-law wife and that a child is involved and that entitles her to a third of the estate. Deeds thinks that's reasonable and adds up to about $7 million — until Hallor says he's willing to settle for $1 million. That convinces Deeds that if he's willing to take that much less than he's owed, he must be a fraud and physically tosses him out. Cedar tells him that's why he needs to hire him — to protect him from people like that, but Deeds says he hasn't decided if he's hiring him yet.
Mr. Deeds Goes to Town wasn't just the breakthrough role for the delightful Jean Arthur, who hadn't made much of an impression before that, it also was a lucky break that she got the role in the first place. Originally, Capra wanted Carole Lombard to play the part but at the last minute, Lombard opted to make My Man Godfrey instead. In fact, Mr. Deeds being made when it was was an accident as well. Capra had planned for Lost Horizon to be his next film, but Ronald Colman had other commitments, so he moved Mr. Deeds up. Thank goodness for fate because what a less rich cinematic world we'd have if Arthur hadn't received that break and been able to delight us as much as she would. Her character Babe assumes the false identity of Mary Dawson and after Deeds sneaks out (having to lock his bodyguards in a room) she fakes a fainting spell in front of the mansion so Longfellow can come to the rescue. He takes her to a restaurant where writers and poets supposedly congregate, unaware she has photographers tailing them.
The poet in Deeds keeps looking for fellow writers and the waiter directs him to a table full of them, all of whom seem intent on making fun of him and Deeds knows they are doing it. In particular, one of his favorite poets, Brookfield (Eddie Kane), seems intent on trying to treat Longfellow as a rube. "I think your poems are swell Mr. Brookfield, but I'm disappointed by you," Deeds tells him, to no apparent effect. "I know I must look funny to you, but maybe if you went to Mandrake Falls, you'd look funny to us, only nobody would laugh at ya and make you feel ridiculous." He also tells him that if it weren't Miss Dawson being present, he'd bump their heads together, but she says she doesn't mind and Deeds proceeds to pummel the poets, only he misses one. Morrow (a hilarious bit by Walter Catlett) comes to him begging for a hit on the chin. "What a magnificent displacement of smugness. You've added 10 years to my life," a very drunken Morrow tells Deeds and proceeds to tell him all the things he should show him in the world, constantly
starting to tip backward and having Deeds pull him back upright by his tie. "You hop aboard my magic carpet and I'll show you sights that you've never seen before," Morrow tells him, suggesting they go on a binge and Deeds, who has never touched alcohol in his life, agrees. Needless to say, it gives Babe one helluva story for the paper, where she christens him Cinderella Man and tells of him feeding doughnuts to a horse and when asked why, Deeds saying he was seeing how many the horse would eat before asking for coffee. When he wakes up with a hangover the next morning, his butler Walter (Raymond Walburn) tells him he had quite a bender, but Deeds denies it, saying that Morrow said they were only going on a binge, they never got to a bender. He asks him to get Mary's number out of his pants, but Walter says he can't because he came home without pants. Deeds finds that unbelievable: If he was running around the streets without pants, the police would have picked him up. Walter informs him that it was the police who brought him home. Cornelius brings him the paper, telling him he can't go around punching people like he did at the restaurant. "Sometimes it's the only solution," Deeds insists.
Eventually, with Cedar getting nowhere getting his hands on Deeds' money, he decides to represent the other relatives and try to get Longfellow declared insane, especially after a down-on-his-luck farmer (John Wray) comes into the mansion with a gun and then breaks down and it gives Deeds the idea to give away his fortune to people who apply for farm land and tend to it with equipment he buys for them and, if they produce, they own it after three years. Meanwhile, Cornelius learns Babe's true identity AFTER Deeds has proposed and she's begun to feel so guilty, she's quit her job because she's fallen for him. It's really the back half where the sentimentality overwhelms the comedy, but it's still good and you do get the Faulkner sisters (Margaret McWade, Margaret Seddon) to come from Mandrake Falls to testify that Deeds always has been "pixilated," but then who among us isn't pixilated?
Cooper does have some good moments, but he's stiff as he often is in just about any film he made, though it did earn him his first Oscar nomination, but with Arthur and the great comic supporting cast, especially Stander, it doesn't interfere. Probably his most timely speech comes in his sanity hearing when he asks why should he be considered crazy if he'd rather see the money go to be people who need it. "It's like I'm out in a big boat, and I see one fellow in a rowboat who's tired of rowing and wants a free ride, and another fellow who's drowning. Who would you expect me to rescue? Mr. Cedar — who's just tired of rowing and wants a free ride? Or those men out there who are drowning? Any 10-year-old child will give you the answer to that," Deeds tells the judge. Sounds like an accurate depiction of today's corporate and wealthy-favored government to me. Capra's pacing lags at time, but he does have some nice directing touches, my favorite being when Deeds is institutionalized and Cornelius urges him to fight. Capra films the entire scene in darkness with the actor silhouetted and begins it with a nice zoom.
Mr. Deeds Goes to Town is a lesser Capra, but it remains worthwhile even if he lays its message of the value of honesty, sincerity and decency on a bit too heavily.
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Labels: 30s, Capra, Cooper, Jean Arthur, Lombard, Movie Tributes, Oscars, R. Colman, Stanwyck
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