Babes in Arms (1939) **

As a fan of the larger than life production numbers that Busby Berkeley choreographed for such films as 42nd Street (1933), Gold Diggers of 1933 (1933), and Footlight Parade (1933), I must admit that I found his Babes in Arms (1939) to be rather pedestrian. Furthermore, if the last scene, “God’s Country”, were cut, I wouldn’t believe Berkley had anything to do with it, sans the fact that he’s credited as the director in the beginning of the movie.  And, how in the world was MGM allowed to say this was based on a Rodgers & Hammerstein musical when almost all of the original Broadway songs were cut and replaced by mediocre melodies?  The only thing that saves Babes in Arms for me is Judy Garland’s beautiful voice—and even that is somewhat tainted when she has to sing with Mickey Rooney and/or Betty Jaynes. 

Tough times hit the vaudeville world when the talkies take over at the box office and old troopers like Joe Moran (Charles Winninger) and his wife Florrie (Grace Hayes) find they can’t make a living anymore.  When Joe gets the old-timers together for a revival tour he says they can’t take any excess baggage along—this means no kids, even if they are more talented than their “has-been” parents. Foreseeing that things aren’t going to go well for their out-of-touch parents and with the threat of being sent away to a trade school, Mickey (Mickey Rooney) decides that he and the other kids should put on their own show in their hometown.  And, so he writes and produces his own musical—which we never actually get to see, sans one unfortunate number, “Daddy Was a Minstrel Man” in which almost the entire cast performs in blackface.  I won’t spoil the ending, but needless to say it ends like most 1930s musicals—happily, at least for those in the film, perhaps not so much for musical lovers.

While I didn’t really like Babes in Arms, I can’t say that it was a bad film—it just wasn’t very good.  I don’t know if MGM was in a hurry to cash in on how well Judy Garland’s The Wizard of Oz (1939) did at the box office and decided to rush it through post-production or what, but there is a lack of substance to it that just irks me.  I don’t care if it earned two Academy Award nominations (Best Actor, Rooney—really?--and Best Music) and made a boat load of cash—even more than The Wizard of Oz—oh, the inhumanity!—it’s not what I think a top-notch musical should be.  It doesn’t help either that I dislike every musical number except “Good Morning” and “I Cried for You”, both of which Garland primarily performs alone.  Another pet peeve is that I have to listen to Jaynes and Douglas McPhail sing the same song twice, “Where or When”, in the span of five minutes. I could have done without the first rendition, let alone a back-to-back rehashing of the song, which sounded exactly the same as it did the first time I heard it two minutes earlier!  And, finally, suffice to say, I was not happy to see Garland sing in blackface—even if the song was paying homage to that old vaudeville standard, it still doesn’t leave a pleasant image in my mind—which is how I also feel about seeing Bing Crosby perform“Abraham” in blackface in Holiday Inn (1942). Yes,I know Garland had done this in a previous film, Everybody Sing (1938), but fortunately I’ve never seen that. 

Oddly enough, other than the two memorable songs sung by Garland, the most interesting thing about Babes in Arms are the ancillary performances of Guy Kibbee and Margaret Hamilton. Kibbee’s Judge Black’s conversation with Hamilton’s Martha Steele, who’s the head of the Welfare Board, about what is best for the vaudeville children is probably the most interesting dialogue exchange in the entire film. More of them and less of Baby Rosalie (June Preisser) would have done wonders for the movie, I’m sure.

Overall, Babes in Arms is probably the least interesting musical I have watched that appears in the 1001 Movies book. Thankfully, Judy Garland’s voice got me through it. 

Ninotchka (1939) ****

When MGM marketed director Ernst Lubitsch’s political satirical 1939 comedy, Ninotchka, they used the catchphrase, “Garbo laughs”. While Greta Garbo had most assuredly laughed in her previous films, this was her first comedy film and she played her part perfectly.  It helped that screenwriters Billy Wilder, Walter Reisch, Charles Brackett, and Melchior Lengyel’s Oscar-nominated script was tailored made to fit Garbo’s serious on and off-screen persona.  As a result, Ninotchka benefitted immensely from having the perfect script for just the right actress who was supported by an eccentric cast, and who was directed by the only man who could pull it all together. 

When Lubitsch decided to make Ninotchka he wanted to cast Garbo in the lead but was worried that she might not be able to play the part as he wanted.  As such, he had an interview with her in which after several minutes of anxious, serious small talk he asked her, almost accusingly, “Can you laugh?” Garbo, for her part, was amused by the question and told him she believed she could.  But, Lubitsch pressed on and explained that he didn’t want a small, polite laugh but that he wanted a “wide-open and completely spontaneous laugh”. Garbo said she’d have to think about it for a day.  When she returned the following day she answered Lubitsch by saying, “Your question and the idea--can you laugh is silly. And I love it.”  She then proceeded to laugh quite heartily, as did Lubitsch, and they, of course, ended up making a Oscar-nominated film that showcased probably Garbo’s most rounded performance ever.  Oh, and the conversation also turned into one of the best film marketing campaigns ever.

Most of the story takes place in 1920s Paris, where three Soviet emissaries, Iranov (Sig Ruman), Buljanov (Felix Bressart) and Kopalsky (Alexander Granach) are trying to sell the crown jewels of the Grand Duchess Swana (Ina Claire). The jewelry sale is of great importance to the Soviet people, as it is expected that the year’s crop is going to be quite poor and the money will go toward feeding the nation.  However, the emissaries are beguiled by the luxuries of the Western world and end up being sidetracked by the Duchesses’ smooth-talking lover, Count Leon d’Algout (Melvyn Douglas).  When the pending jewelry sale ends up in the French courts, the Soviet government decides to send in reinforcements in the form of a no-nonsense hard-liner, Nina Ivanovna Yakushova, “Ninotchka” (Garbo). 

Of course, it is Ninotchka’s stolid, straight-talking, all-business nature that makes the story as funny as it is.  Her tone is set from the moment she steps off the train and refuses to allow a porter to carry her bags and asks him, “Why should you carry other people’s bags?” To which the porter answers, “Well, that’s by business, Madame.” Her retort, “That’s no business. That’s social injustice.”  His reply, “That depends on the tip.” The audience laughs, but not Ninotchka.  And the story continues on like this for quite some time, with Ninotchka matter-of-factly addressing the bumbling antics of her comrades and finding herself appalled by the consumerism of the Western world: two-thousand francs for a hotel room could buy a cow for the Soviet people; ordering raw beets and carrots in a French restaurant; and, inciting ladies’ room attendants to strike for better wages.  Through it all, Garbo plays her Oscar-nominated part to the hilt, never giving away that she is in on the jokes that the audience is laughing at. Her willingness to allow her true persona to be the butt of the joke is what makes the film so great. In one of her first scenes in the movie, her character is asked, “Do you want to be alone, comrade?”, a direct jab at her infamous line from Grand Hotel (1932) which became synonymous with her on-screen and off-screen personality. 

Yet, Ninotchka would have not been quite as good as it is if Garbo’s character didn’t transform a little, and that’s where Douglas’ character comes in.  Even a hard-line Russian girl can be sidetracked by a smooth-talking man—even if she constantly one-ups him with classic lines like, “Your general appearance is not distasteful,” and “We don't have men like you in my country. That is why I believe in the future of my country.”  And, yes, he is what finally makes her laugh a “wide-open and completely spontaneous laugh” with his complete ridiculousness.

Still, it’s not the love story that draws you in, it is the personal, though hilarious, transformation of Ninotchka. Through Ninotchka’s true education to the workings of the world and the true nature of communism, Lubitsch is able to show his main character’s growth as well as to expose the idiocy of the Soviet system.  No one did satirical social and/or political comedy better than Lubitsch, and Ninotchka was the perfect vehicle for him to attack Soviet propaganda.  Perhaps 1939 wasn’t the best time to tick off the Soviets, as less than three months prior to the film’s release the Soviets had signed the Non-Aggression Pact with Hitler.  In any case, Lubitsch’s cunning but polite ridicule of the Soviet system is perhaps the best film depiction of communism of its time.  He would, of course, follow this successful political satire up with perhaps his greatest satire, To Be or Not To Be (1942), when he took on the Nazis—you see, he was an equal-opportunity ridiculer.

Overall, I adore Ninotchka.  While I love Garbo drama, I most admire this performance because it is her most-rounded role ever.  Additionally, I’m a sucker for well-done satire, and when it so deftly exposes the true nature of a political party or a historical mindset all the better.

Gunga Din (1939) **

Director George Stevens’ Gunga Din (1939) is a product of its time.  Loosely based on the Rudyard Kipling poem of the same name, this 75-year old film celebrates British colonialism in a strangely uneven way.  At times, it is a buddy comedy and at other times it is a serious action/war picture—as such, it is difficult to pigeonhole it into a particular genre.  The film itself is not bad, but its plot has not aged well and can be off-putting to some.

Set in the Hindu Kush region of India, circa 1880, the British are dealing with a local murder cult known as the Thuggee who are also freedom fighters.  When the Thuggee murder an entire outpost and disable the telegraph line, three sergeants are asked to lead a small group of soldiers to investigate and repair the telegraph.  Sergeant Cutter (Cary Grant) is a cockney soldier always on the lookout for a get rich quick scheme, usually in the form of buried treasure. Sergeant MacChesney (Victor McLaglen) is the leader of the group, who has a fondness for elephants. And, Sergeant Ballantine (Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.) is counting the days until his discharge so he can get married (to Joan Fontaine) and go into the tea business. It’s obvious the three men are great friends, but the prospect of Sergeant Ballantine leaving the group to get married causes both friction and joviality in the story. 

There are many reasons why Gunga Din has not aged well. First, an American film celebrating British colonialism in a post-colonial world is very rarely viewed fondly. Second, most, if not all, of the Indians are played by white men wearing body paint.  You add this irritating detail to the fact that Gunga Din (Sam Jaffe) sacrifices himself for the British army at the cost of the lives of his countrymen and you can’t help but cringe.  Furthermore, after allowing the Guru (Eduardo Ciannelli) to give a rather impassioned speech about how old and accomplished India is compared to that of Britain, screenwriters Ben Hecht, Charles MacArthur, Joel Sayre, and Fred Guiol then portray him as a complete madman.  Additionally, when one considers that the Indian people were, for the most part peacefully, trying to extricate themselves of British rule in 1939, led by Gandhi, a picture glorying the bravery and might of the British army seems a tad insensitive. 

The overall atmosphere of Gunga Din doesn’t abate the movie’s overall insensitivity, either. Had the film been a more focused, dramatic look at the conflict between the British and the Thuggee, it may have been more palatable.  Instead, Stevens jumps back and forth between seriousness and inanity.  While it was great to hear Grant’s natural cockney accent, his screwball antics throughout the film are grating to say the least.  And, while one can’t complain about anything that celebrates the bonds of soldiers, there is a fine line between showcasing and ridiculing such bonds. Gunga Din does not traverse this line well, and, as such, there is an uneven feel to the overall production.  Had the film been more focused, and the runtime cut by about 15 to 20 minutes, I think I would have enjoyed it, even with its insensitive message, a lot more than I did.

Gunga Din did earn one Academy Award nomination for Best Black and White Cinematography (Joseph H. August), which was probably the best thing about it.  Shooting massive battle scenes in the middle of the Sierra Nevada and Alabama Hills and then trying to pass them off as having taken place in the Khyber Pass was no small feat, but August and Stevens pulled it off.  Still, this is not enough to make this a must-see film, either.

Daybreak (Le jour se lève) 1939 **

There are two important, though strange, reasons why director Marcel Carné’s Le jour se lève (Daybreak, 1939) is still considered an important element of French filmmaking. First, and probably most importantly, it is considered by many critics to be the greatest cinematic example of French poetic realism—I do not concur and will speak to that momentarily.  Second, it was suppressed not once but twice for two very extreme reasons.  With a resume like this, is it any wonder why Le jour se lève retains a place in some critics’ film Pantheon? Alas, for me, at least, it does not shine quite so brightly.

Jean Gabin was the greatest French actor of his generation. He worked with the best French directors: Jean Renoir, Julien Duvivier, Jacques Becker, and René Clément, on some of the most important films to come out of France in the 1930s through the 1950s.  Still, he was a difficult man to work with and he had a notorious eye for the ladies—specifically one named Marlene Dietrich.  As such, when he did try to make it in Hollywood during the days of Vichy France, things went very poorly for him and he never became an international star like his fellow countrymen Maurice Chevalier or Charles Boyer. Still, he embodied the handsome, hard-working man with a strong conscience that appealed to French audiences—hence, his portrayal of François in Le jour se lève.

François is a simple foundry worker who falls in love with an innocent flower shop girl, Françoise (Jacqueline Laurent).  Sounds simple enough, doesn’t it?  Well, from the very first minute of the movie you know it’s not, because a man gets shot and proceeds to have one of the most over-the-top death scenes ever—falling down not one flight of steps, but several—and then is only pronounced dead by a blind man (Georges Douking) poking him with a stick. The police come and our hero and murderer, François, barricades himself in his room for a day so he can remember everything that led up to the moment that he pulled the trigger. Ah, but this isn’t your ordinary Hollywood flashback.  No, no one says, “It all began…” to us or an interrogating detective—just a simple dissolve and we are in the foundry with François when he first meets Françoise.  This was such a revolutionary film technique that it  was deemed too confusing for the audience and a title card had to be added at the beginning of the film to explain what was going on. 

The story itself is intriguing and allegorical at the same time.  Of course, François represents the recently defeated Popular Front and the police are viewed as pawns of Fascism, this is where the poetic realism comes into play, but at heart the film is nihilistic and depressing.  Think about it, François falls in love with an idealized woman (Laurent) who is distracted by womanizing dog trainer, Valentin (Jules Berry), who promises to take her to beautiful, European hotspots.  And while she refuses to engage in a sexual relationship with the hard-working François, she most assuredly begins such a relationship with a man who trains animals to do what he wants. Oh, and then there’s Clara (Arletty)—the woman smart enough to leave Valentin and to see what a good man François is.  Perhaps I’m biased here, but in a way, François got what he deserved in the end because Clara was obviously the best woman for him, but instead he throws her over for the idiotic, and dare I say it, boring, François. 

Okay, so yes, Le jour se lève is full of poetic realism.  François is a working class man with a fatalistic world view who destroys his one shot at happiness by killing someone (although, I would argue that he was on the wrong path in regard to which woman he should choose).  From start to finish there is a cloud of bitterness that hangs over the story that is irritatingly devastating.  Still, I cannot concur with those who believe this is the masterpiece of the genre—as Jean Renoir’s Grand Illusion (1937) is a far superior film, and while it does not have the quintessential tragic ending as does Le jour se lève, stylistically it is a better representation of poetic realism. 

Le jour se lève’s overt socialistic and fatalistic themes did not play well in Vichy France and it was banned in 1940.  Not willing to account for their own cowardice and connivance in the wake of the German invasion, Vichy leaders called the film demoralizing, and it was not shown in France again until after the war.  As if the Nazis and collaborators weren’t enough, RKO decided it wanted to make a remake of the film in 1947 and attempted to buy up all copies of the movie and destroy them.  Now, I like Henry Fonda, but RKO”s remake, The Long Night (1947), was a bastardized, horrible version of Le jour se lève. Thankfully, some people in France kept a few copies of the film out of the hands of RKO and it still lives on today. 

Overall, the story of Le jour se lève is intriguing. Still, while I enjoy both Gabin’s and Arletty’s performances (hers more so), I found Laurent and Berry unpleasant to watch.  She due to her vacuous personality and he due to his unending need to overact.  And, finally, when you begin a film with the ending there needs to be something in the main section of the movie that allows you to understand why someone would commit murder—and here, there is nothing. Instead, at the end you ask yourself, “Really?”—even if it was poetic realism.

Only Angels Have Wings (1939) **1/2

While the great screwball comedy Bringing Up Baby (1938) is my all-time favorite Howard Hawks’ film, I must admit that the director made a number of enjoyable dramatic films, too.  His versatility was what made him one of the best directors of his time.  Yes, his movies often ran over budget and very rarely wrapped on time, but he usually put out quality products.  Such was the case with Only Angels Have Wings (1939), which was hugely successful for Columbia Pictures and was the third highest grossing production of 1939—no small feat in one of the greatest filmmaking years ever.  While it didn’t swallow up a ton of Academy Award nominations like Goodbye Mr. Chips (1939), Gone with the Wind (1939), Wuthering Heights (1939), Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939), Stagecoach (1939), Love Affair (1939), and The Wizard of Oz (1939), it was comprised of a gifted cast and some phenomenal aerial cinematography.

Of course any film that had Cary Grant as its male lead was assured of a charismatic hero, thief, cad, or jester.  Grant had screen presence and he always seemed at ease with whatever role he played. Perhaps this is why someone who did so many memorable films was so often overlooked by the Academy—he only earned three nods in his storied career.  His co-star in Only Angels Have Wings had the same problem. 

While her career wasn’t quite as long as Grant’s, Jean Arthur starred in some of the best films of the 1930s and 1940s:  Mr. Deeds Goes to Town (1936), Easy Living (1937), You Can’t Take It with You (1938), Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, The Devil and Miss Jones (1941), The Talk of the Town (1942), The More the Merrier (1943), and A Foreign Affair (1948), and she ended her Hollywood career in one of the most revered westerns ever: Shane (1953). Yet, somehow Arthur only found herself nominated for one Oscar and is virtually forgotten today—except by true classic film fans. 

I wholeheartedly believe the reason Grant’s and Arthur’s acting abilities were often so overlooked—or you might say taken for granted—is because they made it look so easy. Also, they both had the ability to interweave comedy into overall dramatic films, as they did in Only Angels Have Wings, which was a heavy film.  Grant’s Geoff Carter is, to quote Dutchy (Sig Ruman), a hard man who pushes the limits of his pilots to ensure the success of his struggling Barranca Airways.  Arthur’s Bonnie Lee is a sharp-tongued and hot-tempered woman who finds herself unexpectedly involved in a masculine, adrenaline fuelled world she doesn’t understand.  Anytime someone takes to the air it might be the last thing that they do—and if it is, then the others must carry on as if nothing has happened.  With this ever-present fact hanging over their heads, Geoff and Bonnie have to maneuver through a burgeoning love affair which is jeopardized by his love of flying and her fear of his death. It would have been easy for the movie to turn into a heavy-handed melodrama, but the comedic moments between Geoff and Bonnie adds another layer to the film.  Also, who could do sly sexual banter better than Grant and Arthur—perhaps Grant and Irene Dunne, but you get my point. 

Only Angels Have Wings also benefits from good performances by Richard Barthelmess, Rita Hayworth, and Thomas Mitchell.  Barthelmess’s turn as an outcast pilot who takes the most dangerous jobs was probably his best since The Dawn Patrol (1930). Hayworth, who plays Bathelmess’s wife, Judy, turns in a performance that showed she had the chops to finally stop being cast as a lower supporting player.  Yet, it is Thomas Mitchell as Kid, the self-sacrificing almost blind pilot, that is the standout.  Not gifted with the good looks of Grant, Mitchell was a fine actor who found himself in supporting roles. Oh, but what a great supporting actor he was. While he won an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor in 1939 for Stagecoach, he could just have easily been nominated for his performance in Only Angels Have Wings. While Grant and Arthur were the spine of the movie, Mitchell was the heart of it. 

The two Oscar nominations that Only Angels Have Wings did receive were primarily related to its aerial elements.  Joseph Walker earned a Best Black and White Cinematography nod, and Roy Davidson and Edwin C. Hawn were nominated for Best Special Effects.  The two crash scenes (and one near-miss) in Only Angels Have Wings are expertly filmed and recorded.  I expect it was pretty dangerous to crash a burning plane at such a high speed, and it is quite jarring to watch—especially for anyone who doesn’t like to fly. 

Hawks had a fascination with airplanes and made a number of other memorable films about aviation: The Air Circus (1928), The Dawn Patrol (1930), Ceiling Zero (1936), and Air Force (1943). Hawks’ love of aviation began during WWI when he learned to fly in the U.S. Army Air Service and continued throughout his life.  It was this love that helped him showcase both the beauty and danger of flight.  No other director defined the genre better, and his depiction of the hero-pilot has been mimicked in countless films up to present day cinema.  It is shocking to me that someone hasn’t put a Blu-ray collection together of his aviation films.

Wuthering Heights (1939) **1/2

As novel to screen adaptions go, director William Wyler’s Wuthering Heights (1939) is far from a faithful retelling of Emily Bronte’s gothic tale of love, jealousy, and vengeance.  Never mind that the entire second half of the novel is omitted by screenwriters Charles MacArthur and Ben Hecht’s Oscar nominated screenplay, it’s the last twenty minutes of the film that will forever cause Bronte to turn in her grave. Yet, I’m not going to discuss how insanely wrong MGM presented the true meaning of Wuthering Heights to countless generations of non-readers in this review. Instead, I want to talk about two things: Greg Toland’s gorgeous black and white cinematography and the romanticization of pathological behavior.

Wuthering Heights was nominated for eight Academy Awards: Best Picture, Best Actor (Laurence Olivier), Best Supporting Actress (Geraldine Page), Best Art Direction (James Basevi), Best Director (Wyler), Best Original Score (Alfred Newman), Best Screenplay (MacArthur and Hecht), and Best Black and White Cinematography (Toland).  Of these eight nominations, only Toland went home with the gold statue, and only because Gone with the Wind (1939) was in color and thus won Best Color Cinematography.  Perhaps things would have turned out better that award season for Sam Goldwyn had he opted for Vivien Leigh to play Cathy instead of Merle Oberon. I expect his unrelenting statement that Wuthering Heights, a commercial failure until its reissue, was his favorite of all of his productions instead of such superior films as The Best Years of Our Lives (1945) and The Little Foxes (1941) was a direct result of getting trounced by Leigh and Gone with the Wind in 1939. 

Toland described Wuthering Heights as “a soft, diffused picture, a fantasy”.  Through Toland’s lighting and camerawork, Wyler was able to depict four separate thematic moods.  Every last scene in the Earnshaw house (Wuthering Heights) is presented as somber, dark and foreboding.  From the opening scene where Heathcliff (Olivier), Isabella (Fitzgerald), and Ellen (Flora Robson) are sitting around the hearth when Lockwood (Miles Mander) interrupts their constant unhappiness, this house is lensed as a house of doom.  The moors that Cathy (Oberon) and Heathcliff escape to in times of both happiness and despair are depicted in two ways.  While Toland always seemed to capture the windy look of the rugged moors, he also appeared to present them based on the mood of the story.  When the couple experiences happiness the lighting is warm and inviting, but when things are going bad, say when Cathy chases after Heathcliff in a torrential downpour, the sky is dark and menacing.  And, then there is the Linton house, which always seems to be presented as extremely bright and cheerful, but can also be filmed in a way that its brightness also seems overbearing—more on that in a minute.

Known for his penchant for filming scenes in front of mirrors, Toland captured two of the most memorable scenes in Wuthering Heights by employing mirrors. It is not a coincidence that both scenes involved Cathy, since in Bronte’s novel mirrors had the habit of mocking and tormenting Cathy.  One scene occurs after Cathy and Heathcliff have a big fight, in which she treats him like a servant after returning from her first convalescence at the Linton house. Upon returning to her room she gazes at herself, dressed in one of Isabella’s fine dresses, in a full-length mirror. As she grows enraged with herself over how she treated Heathcliff she proceeds to violently rip the dress from her body. The other memorable mirror scene finds Cathy gazing into a mirrored dressing table as she prepares for Edgar Linton’s visit (David Niven). When Heathcliff barges into her room to dissuade her from the meeting, her mood completely changes.  For Cathy, both in the film and in the novel, mirrors represent her two personalities/faces—one is wild, carefree, and in love with the world in which Heathcliff resides, the other face is wanton for fine, pretty, respectable things and maliciously hateful toward Heathcliff’s presence, as it endangers her ability to first obtain and then keep “respectable” things. 

And this brings me to Wyler’s romanticization of pathological behavior in Wuthering Heights.  I’ve heard people say that this is a film about undying love and all of the idiotic things that go along with such a statement. Quite frankly, it is not, even if that is what Goldwyn wanted with his insane demand that the ending, which Wyler refused to shoot, find the ghosts of Cathy and Heathcliff wandering the moors eternally together. In today’s world, Cathy and Heathcliff’s story would have been one you would see on the nightly news: obsession turns to murder suicide.  Let’s forget that Heathcliff’s true character is bastardized by this movie—he was a horrible, though troubled, man in the novel.  It is Cathy’s behavior that is pathological—she probably would have been diagnosed with some sort of personality disorder if such a diagnosis existed at the time.  She loves Heathcliff but despises him at the same time. She doesn’t want to settle so she marries someone she doesn’t love to achieve the security and respectability that she so desires. Yet, when Heathcliff elopes with Isabella she has a nervous breakdown which causes her health to deteriorate, which causes her premature death. Ick! 

Only the deathbed scene, at least for me, somehow salvages the true nature of this unhealthy relationship.  Perhaps some found it romantic, but for me it was filmed in such a way that it truly represented their relationship.  Usually death scenes are shot in an aura of softness and employ somber lighting, but Cathy’s room of death is filled with bright lighting and so much white that it is sharp to the eye.  Forget Heathcliff’s whimpering and declarations of undying love, this brightly lit room is spotlighting how selfishness, vanity, vengeance, and revenge have no place in the world of love.  Cry Heathcliff for the world of happiness you never had. Feel your pitiful life drain from your listless sick body Cathy as you document the true state of your relationship by saying, “If I could only hold you till we were both dead.” In the end, your depravity not only destroyed both of you but those who made the mistake of loving you.  I expect many will not agree with my interpretation of the ending, but I take solace in the knowledge that Bronte probably would look at it the same as I do. 

The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums (Zangiku Monogatari) 1939 **

 

(Please note that in the 1001 Book, this film is referred to as The Story of the Late Chrysanthemums.)

Sometimes you watch a two-and-a-half hour film and the time flies by, but then there are films like director Kenji Mizoguchi’s The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums (1939), which seem to drag on forever.  An obvious proponent of extremely long, static takes, Mizoguchi was a reflective storyteller who had a habit of making depressing movies (think Ugetsu and Sansho the Bailiff).  Recently on TCM I heard Ben Mankiewicz say that Mizoguchi was regarded as one of the three best Japanese directors ever, behind the likes of Akira Kurosawa and Yasujiro Ozu. Okay, I can accept that, but I still wish his pacing were faster and his stories a tad less stylized. 

The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums takes place in 1880s Japan and revolves around hammy kabuki actor Kikunosuke (Shotaro Hanayagi).  Protected by his famous father’s name, Kikunosuke plods along giving poor performances while everyone in Tokyo ridicules him behind his back.  The only person who has enough courage to tell him the truth about his acting is his brother’s wet nurse, Otoku (Kakuko Mori).  Every tragedy needs a good setup, and as luck would have it Kikunosuke and Otoku fall in love against Kikunosuke’s family’s wishes. Banished to first Osaka and then the provinces, Kikunosuke struggles on while developing his art at the urging of Otoku. In the process, like any good woman, Otoku completely destroys her health and happiness to ensure that Kikunosuke returns to his family as a great actor.  Without giving the ending away, let’s just things don’t end on a happy note—which is the case in just about every Mizoguchi film I have ever seen.

Self-sacrificing women saturate the world of cinema, but Otoku has to be in the top tier of the all-time greatest ever.  While her behavior irritates me beyond measure, Mori’s performance is quite good and makes the movie bearable.  Older Asian cinema is permeated with highly stylized acting which can be off-putting to many modern viewers. However, the one good thing about this style is that actors can’t hide behind bravado and over-active hand gestures.  Mori plays Otoku as a serene creature who wastes no energy on melodramatic hysterics.  When things don’t go well for her (which is 90% of the time), she patiently accepts what fate has dealt her.

My biggest complaint with The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums is Mizoguchi’s unflinching dedication to the extreme long take.  Yes, I know he is attempting to create an atmosphere of introspective reflection, but at some point it just steps over the bounds of acceptability.  I think if he had cut most of these scenes in half I would have enjoyed the film much more.  Mizoguchi’s contemporary, Ozu, was much more adept at the use of the extreme long take. 

Overall, The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums is a study in patience and suffering—both in the movie and watching it.  I didn’t hate it, but I most assuredly didn’t love it, either.

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939) ***

Who runs Washington? How does one become a congressperson, a senator, or the president? These questions were asked in 1939—and are still being asked today. Americans would like to think that idealists like Jefferson Smith (James Stewart) go to Washington to serve the best interests of those they represent.  Yet, in reality, few idealists ever get to Washington, and if they do get there they are quickly disillusioned by the political process.  Most rational Americans today know that the political process has been corrupted, but I’m not quite so sure that people were so aware of what happened in Washington back in 1939—the year this film, like so many other classics, hit the silver screen.

Nominated for eleven Academy Awards (Best Picture, Best Director [Frank Capra], Best Actor [James Stewart], Best Supporting Actor [Harry Carey and Claude Rains], Best Score, Best Sound Recording, Best Film Editing, Best Interior Direction, Best Screenplay, and Best Original Story [winner Lewis R. Foster]), the film was almost put on the shelf after the outbreak of WWII in Europe.  It would seem that some thought the film presented the shining beacon of democracy as a corrupt cesspool operated by political thugs.  And, really, those people were partly right, but there’s more to the story than that.  Sure, director Frank Capra shows the dirt under the political rug, but he also brightly polishes the true meaning of patriotism and republicanism. 

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington is the simple story of a common man thrown into a complicated situation.  Jefferson Smith is called upon to represent his state (never identified) as a junior senator when his predecessor, Sam Foley, dies.  Needing to fill the position with someone who will be easy to control, Governor "Happy" Hopper (Guy Kibbee) chooses Mr. Smith because he is regarded as a hero and loved for his work with the Boy Rangers (think Boy Scouts)—plus, he has no political experience whatsoever.  As such, he represents, in the words of the governor, “the perfect man, never in politics in his life, wouldn't know what it was all about in two years, let alone two months. And the important thing it means votes. A hero of 50,000 boys, and a hundred thousand parents.” 

Why is it so important that the governor find a “yes” man?  Because he and every political office holder in the state are beholden to political boss Jim Taylor (Eddie Arnold). Taylor has bought up land surrounding a canyon along Willet Creek and wants his political stooges to push through a bill that will provide government funding for a dam—which would allow him to sell the land he’s bought up for a huge profit. Quite simply, it’s the blue ribbon of political pork. Taylor controls everyone, even Senator Joe Paine (Claude Rains), a man some think might be the next president. Indeed, Senator Paine is admired by many, especially by Mr. Smith, whose father was Paine’s best friend. Ah, the dangers of hero-worship.

Capra is quite crafty in how he juxtaposes the backroom dealings of a corrupt political machine with Mr. Smith’s honest reverence for freedom and democracy.  While Taylor, Hopper and Paine are always working the system in closed rooms (they choose who’s allowed in), Mr. Smith revels in the openness of the monuments of Washington (where everyone is welcome).  Even the Senate chamber (expertly recreated by Lionel Banks) is used to show the many faces of the political process. While Smith sits at his desk, once occupied by Daniel Webster, he can see common, everyday people looking on in the gallery. Yet, in this same chamber, you can see senators working the system and attempting to stymie the wheels of truth and justice.

There is an educational bent to the film as well. Mr. Smith’s secretary, Clarissa Saunders (the top-billed Jean Arthur), is supposed to make sure he shows up for roll call and that he votes how the machine wants.  In the beginning, she thinks he’s a big dope and refers to him as Daniel Boone and Don Quixote.  You see, she is the cynical Washington insider who knows how things work, and when some country bumpkin starts spouting off about the virtues of democracy she thinks he’s beyond naïve. She’s also not pleased that he wants to write a bill to start a national boy’s camp.  And, this is where the educational bent comes in.  Trying to dissuade him from his idea she explains the very long and tedious process of what it takes to get a bill passed.  Just her explanation alone is a civic lesson in itself—and perhaps an eye-opener for many audience members.  You must remember, they didn’t have School House Rock and “I’m Just a Bill” in 1939!

Of course, the fact that he wants to build this camp along Willet Creek also creates another problem for Saunders—as she knows about Taylor and Paine’s porked-up plan.  What to do?  Like many secretaries of the 1930s, Saunders is smarter than the boss and so she holds his hand as he first presents the bill and then gives him a crash course in political trench warfare after Paine and the machine discredit and crucify him.  And, this brings us to the famous 23-hour filibuster, where Mr. Smith refuses to yield the floor by reading from the Constitution and various other documents in the hopes that someone, specifically Paine, will clear his good name. Jimmy Stewart always played his righteous characters with just enough instability that they didn’t seem sanctimonious and/or preachy.  You see the complete destruction of his character in these scenes.  At the beginning of the filibuster he seems hopeful and self-assured—surely he will be able to convince the chamber that he is innocent.  But slowly, his strong voice and straight as a rod back start to falter.  His posture droops, his voice cracks, his clothes wrinkle, his hair musses.  What did democracy look like in 1787? Perhaps like Jefferson Smith when he began his filibuster—confident and composed. What does democracy look like in 1939? Like Mr. Smith at the end of his filibuster—defeated and disheveled.  Ah, have heart, there’s more to the story than that, but you need to watch it for yourself to find out. 

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington is a political morality tale about living up to the principles of republicanism—government of the people, by the people, for the people.  Who knew a monument could play a supporting role in a film? Everyone, even Lincoln himself, plays their part well. Eddie Arnold is the epitome of the vile political boss who will stop at nothing (not even running children off the road) to get what he wants. Claude Rains takes the part of cynical politician to a whole new level—you either want to slap or hug him.  Jean Arthur is her usual wise-cracking self, playing a Washington-weary woman just waiting for the right man to come along so she can show her heart of gold.  And, James Stewart does naïve as only he can—desperation and despondency never looked so believable. 

Final assessment: we could use more Jefferson Smiths in America today. Oh, and the film is quite good, too.

Gone with the Wind (1939) ****

Why, Ms. Scarlett (Vivien Leigh), I do declare that you are one of the greatest female characters, both in film and prose, in American history.  You might be calculating but oddly still stupid at times, but I still like you and your 18 inch waist (pre Bonnie, rest her dear soul). Perhaps I often found myself hoping that Ms. Melly (Olivia de Havilland) would slap you or that a Yankee soldier would defile you—both to teach you a lesson—but I still hoped beyond hope that you would triumph in the end.  Alas, your god and creator, Margaret Mitchell, got it right in the end—let the reader/viewer decide how  your tomorrow turned out.  Of course, had Mitchell known that her money-grubbing descendants would allow Alexandra Ripley to write a trashy sequel (I won’t name the title, but the title is the most creative thing about it…and that’s all you need to know, Ms. Scarlett), perhaps she would have relented about writing the end of your story.  So, what makes you and your film merit a four-star rating, Ms. Scarlett? 

Star one: your theme music.  Dramatic and memorable—just like you Ms. Scarlett. Whenever I hear it I immediately think of the lush green gardens of Tara (and the burning of Atlanta, too—damn those Yankess, Miss Scarlett, damn them!),  Ah, and just like you were robbed by those damn Yankees, composer Max Steiner was robbed by the Academy when he lost the Oscar to some silly guy named The Wizard of Oz—now you know that’s not a decent, Southern gentleman’s name, Ms. Scarlett. Of course, it only makes sense that you would have one of the most memorable film scores ever, Ms. Scarlett, as you are the most memorable female film character in history.  Every badass needs a badass theme song, Ms. Scarlett, and rest assured, when your overpriced barouche is cruising the streets of Charleston (or Savannah, Atlanta, etc.) people know what badass is coming. 

Star two: your clothes.  With a figure like yours, Ms. Scarlett, you would look good in anything.  While I don’t know how wise it is to wear a green and white dress to a BBQ, I still think you make it work—and that green ribbon that attaches your hat to the rest of you could be used as a napkin if need be. What I’m saying is, you know how to make any dress work.  Take for example the white ruffle dress—some people would look like a roll of toilet paper gone wrong, but somehow it looks flouncy on you.  Another example is the red garnet gown that you look ultra-fierce in.  Some people just couldn’t work those feathers and the gauze-veil thingy, but you rock it. And, who but you could make a dress out of green velvet drapes seem stylish (sort of)?  Granted, it was because of those damn Yankees that you had to rip those curtains down and wear the tassels as an accessory belt, but we can’t blame the dress for the circumstances into which it was born. 

Star three: your crew. Rhett Butler (Clark Gable) may have left you in the end, but while he was with you he was the man in charge.  Your scenes together alone could have burned down Atlanta—damn Yankees.  I have to admit, I just couldn’t understand why you were always after that loser Ashley Wilkes (Leslie Howard) when you had a man like Rhett around. Was it that he rejected you, Ms. Scarlett?  You were just too much woman for that weak man!  He needed a calm woman like your cousin Ms. Melly, so he could continue the cycle of inbreeding. Melly, now there was a woman who knew how to endure, Ms. Scarlett.  Just think of all the insufferable things Aunt Pittypat (Laura Hope Crews) said over the years to that poor girl!  And you thought listening to Prissy (Butterfly McQueen) and Mammy (Hattie McDaniel) all the time was almost too much to bare.

Star four: your attitude.  There’s one thing that makes a person memorable, and that’s their attitude.  Sometimes things don’t go the way you want, but that doesn’t mean you give up. And, Lord knows, Ms. Scarlett you never give up.  Ashley married Melanie, so you married Charles (he was better looking anyway, plus he died and left you some worthless Confederate money—damn Yankees!). When you didn’t have the money to pay the taxes on Tara you and your drape dress found Frank Kennedy.  When the damn Yankees came calling you shot one dead. To me, this is a can-do attitude.  Plus, you always know you are the most interesting woman in the room.  Of course, you do have a a touch of willfullness and a rather nasty temper, but Irish blood runs hot!  Now, if I had to make one constructive suggestion to you it would be this: get over your procrastination issue. Tomorrow might be another day, but sometimes that day can turn out to be really crummy. Still, I like the can-do attitude about getting your man back. 

And, that, Ms. Scarlett is why you and your film are so memorable.

The Wizard of Oz (1939) ****

So, how does one of the greatest films of all-time come to be classified as a “Guilty Pleasure” by me? Well, it goes something like this…

Imagine if you will a group of adults sitting in a darkened room watching a 60-inch plasma screen TV with the sound of the film on mute and the Pink Floyd album The Dark Side of the Moon blaring from the surround sound.  Perhaps some adult beverages and other illicit items have been consumed and you are feeling pretty good…and then something happens when Dorothy (Judy Garland) starts singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and you don’t hear her voice.  We won’t call it a flashback or, goodness to Betsy, a “bad trip.” No, we’ll call it a Proust moment…a Remembrance of Things Past, if you will.

My first recollection of watching The Wizard of Oz (1939) finds me about age five—curiously enough, about the size of a Munchkin. At the time I was an only child who spent a lot of time talking to Weeble Wobbles and my prized Franco Harris football card.  How mind-bending was it when the black-and-white screen turned to color as Dorothy emerged from the farmhouse into the merry old land of Oz? Aren’t those little people cute…can I, too, represent the Lollipop Guild…I would thank you very sweetly if I might.  Oh, and that beautiful Glinda (Billie Burke)—she does remind me of my beloved Aunt Jean, with her sweet disposition and strawberry blonde hair.  It was a night of amazement—flying monkeys and a horse of a different color—I was hooked. I would spend the next twenty years watching the annual CBS broadcast with my family—every year, no matter what. 

Of course, my perception of the film and its characters changed over that twenty year period. For example, when my mother remarried and I gained not only a step-father but a spiteful step-grandmother, Almira Gulch and the Wicked Witch (Margaret Hamilton) looked just a little bit like her, and my loathing of those characters somehow intensified. At around the age of twelve I stopped being afraid when Dorothy and the gang nervously went into the hall of the great and powerful Oz (Frank Morgan), as well as when they ventured into the haunted forest with those creepy trees—I couldn’t let my two younger brothers think their big sister lacked courage. Then, there were the boyfriends in my mid-teens who wanted to do anything but spend a night watching an old movie with my entire family—they did it, of course, most of them had brains you see. Yes, things changed, but I could still count on that yearly broadcast to bring my family together.

And, then something unbelievably rude happened: CBS stopped airing it in 1998 and TNT/TBS bought the television rights. Yes, we had Cable and could continue to watch if we wanted, but something fundamentally wrong had occurred. CBS showed the film once a year—TBS/TNT showed it several times, year round.  The EVENT was no longer an event…it was just any other film on TV, plus they took way too many commercial breaks. Alas, we stopped watching the film together as a family in our home…and as the film tells us, there is no place like home. 

So, there I would be, sitting on my couch channel surfing and all of the sudden I’d find myself on TNT and hear the Wicked Witch say, “You cursed brat! Look what you've done! I'm melting! melting! Oh, what a world! What a world! Who would have thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness?” Really? It’s almost over! Curse you CBS!  Is nothing sacred?  I blocked TNT and TBS from my favorite channels on my remote. 

My yearning for the film and its true meaning brought me to the point of despair. The situation had become so desperate that I contemplated doing something unfathomable: watching the film in a theatre. Yes, when Warner Brothers re-released the film to theatres I wanted—no, I needed—to go.  Oddly enough, I couldn’t find any adults to go with me.  And, then it happened: It really was no miracle. What happened was just this...My eye began to twitch. My skin, to itch. And suddenly I started to unhitch. Just then the Ditz—that’s right, I asked a Tween to go with me.  Now, you must understand, I have no children for a reason: I don’t like them. Perhaps that sounds strange coming from a person who admires a film that opens with a title that reads:

…this story has given faithful service to the Young in Heart; and Time has been powerless to put its kindly philosophy out of fashion. To those of you who have been faithful to it in return...and to the Young in Heart...we dedicate this picture.

Still, I despise children most sincerely. As such, you can only imagine to what depths my despair had descended to ask a child to go see my childhood favorite film.  So, we went. And, to my great surprise, we had a good time. The film truly transcends time and age.  That doesn’t mean I encountered the same feelings I got when I watched it with my family—that is something that can never be recaptured—but it was still a memorable, pleasant experience. It was a cathartic moment.

Now, I no longer block TNT and TBS from my remote, and if I happen upon Oz when the Witch is asking the Scarecrow if he wants to play with fire, I watch it.  Mind you, I find myself looking around the room to see if my brothers chant along when the guards at the witch’s castle say, “"O-Ee-Yah! Eoh-Ah!" And, it is here that I feel a pang of guilt. Have I betrayed a familial ritual by watching the film alone or with other imbibing adults in the dark? Perhaps…but time marches on and broadcast television changes its schedule.  We will always have those twenty years of things remembered about the wonderful world of Oz—and I will always endure my own private guilty pleasure whenever I watch it.