Casablanca (1942)

 

Now, Voyager (1942) ****

 

The Palm Beach Story (1942)

 

Cat People (1942) **

 

Avid fans of famed horror movie producer Val Lewton will tell you that Cat People (1942) was where it all began for Lewton. Yes, he’d worked as a novelist and “journalist” in the early 1930s, but after achieving success with an early novel, No Bed of Her Own (which was later turned into No Man of Her Own, starring Clark Gable and Carole Lombard), his next three novels flopped and Lewton found himself writing screen treatments for David O. Selznick at MGM.  In 1942 RKO hired Lewton to run its horror division, where he had to make films for under $150,000 and which had to run under 75 minutes. RKO was on the brink of financial ruin when Lewton delivered Cat People in less than one month and under budget by nearly $8,500.  Over the course of a two-year period Cat People raked in almost $4 million for the struggling studio. 

Lewton, for his part, would go on to produce 11 horror films for RKO between 1942-1946, many of which would earn cult status. Some of these films, The Seventh Victim (1943) and I Walked with a Zombie (1943), also appear on the 1001 list.  What all three films that appear on the list have in common is that they are heavy on style and light on substance.  There’s no doubt that the stories are wacky—voodoo and zombies and an ancient Serbian satanic cult of cat women, just to name two plot devices—but what they all did best was to create an atmosphere of dread of the unknown.  Modern horror film audiences would be shocked to know that Lewton’s films rarely exhibited violence or showed blood but that they still elicited tension.

I suppose you could refer to Cat People (1942) as a psychological horror movie since obviously Irena (Simone Simon) has intimacy issues and has to engage in Freudian psycho-babble with Dr. Judd (Tom Conway).  Still, it’s hard to get past the absurdity of Oliver (Kent Smith) marrying a woman who he obviously lusts after but is never permitted to kiss for fear that she might morph into a cat woman and kill him. You’d think after living in close proximity to his sultry wife that Olivier would be the one you’d have to worry about committing crimes but instead it’s Irena who is, quite literally, on the prowl.  As usual with Lewton’s films, I am not certain whether the ridiculousness of the story contributed to the less than stellar acting. 

The best thing about Cat People is Nicholas Musuraca’s cinematography. Working under the direction of Jacques Tourneur, Musuraca’s shadow-infused images are what most people remember about the movie.  Two scenes in particular are standouts: the extended stalking sequence down a deserted and dark alleyway and the frightening swimming pool showdown between Irena and Alice (Jane Randolph). 

Overall, Cat People is a mildly entertaining horror film.  The story is crazy and the acting is bad, but at least it is visually intriguing. 

 

Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942) **1/2

Director Michael Curtiz’s biopic of legendary Broadway producer, writer, and star, George M. Cohan, is mildly entertaining.  James Cagney deservedly won his only Academy Award for his portrayal of Cohan, but once you get past his singing and dancing there isn’t much more to the movie. 

For one, Robert Bucker and Edmund Joseph’s script was a sanitized retelling of how Cohan worked his way up the Great White Way and became “The man who owned Broadway”.  Cohan, although in poor health at the time of production, was a consultant on Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942), and, as such, wanted certain elements of his personal life either glossed over or completely omitted altogether.  Knowing this unpleasant fact takes a lot of the shine off the movie for me.  I am of the opinion that if you’re going to make a biopic it should at least be relatively accurate, since unfortunately so many people learn their “history” from films and television shows. 

While I don’t have a problem with the fact that Cagney won the Best Actor Oscar for Yankee Doodle Dandy, I can’t help but wonder if he didn’t benefit from the United States having recently entered World War II. What I mean by this, for those of you who haven’t seen this, is that while the film is obviously a musical and a biography, it is also a propaganda piece as well.  When you start your movie off with a visit to FDR’s office to receive the Congressional Medal of Honor, primarily for writing such  patriotic songs as “Over There” and “A Grand Old Flag”, it’s obvious that some flag waving is being done.

The musical numbers themselves are rather impressive, but unfortunately blackface does rear its ugly head ever so briefly.  Still, the staging and performance of the likes of Yankee Doodle Dandy (Boy) and Harrigan are so well done that I can almost overlook that Cagney wears blackface for a few minutes.  What I can’t overlook, though, is that once the singing and dancing stop the film seems to stagnate. A good musical, in my opinion, should seamlessly flow from the overall story into the musical numbers.  Unfortunately, for me, at least, Yankee Doodle Dandy doesn’t do this and seems clunky whenever the music stops.

Overall, Yankee Doodle Dandy is strong on songs and soft on storytelling. 

Mrs. Miniver (1942) ****

On most days I wouldn’t trade my parents for anyone, but if the stars aligned absolutely perfectly and I could pick my own I would choose Atticus Finch (Gregory Peck) from To Kill a Mockingbird (1962) and Kay Miniver (Greer Garson) from Mrs. Miniver (1942). For me, they are the epitome of good parenting.  Thankfully, they both have now found their way into the 1001 Book—he was an original and she was just added in the Tenth Anniversary edition.  To say that I adore director William Wyler’s Mrs. Miniver would be an understatement. I don’t care that it’s sentimental and propagandistic, or that I can’t in all good conscience rave about its cinematography or art direction (although they were good in their own right).  Besides the fact that Mrs. Miniver was one of  the most important war films made during WWII, it is also one of the best pieces of ensemble acting to come out of the studio system—starting with Garson’s spell-binding performance in the title role and ending with Henry Travers’ engrossing turn as Mr. Ballard.  Some may disagree, but in my opinion Mrs. Miniver is truly one film that deserves to be seen before one’s death.

Based on Jan Struther’s 1939 book of essays, which described a middle-class British woman’s concerns over Britain possibly going to war, Mrs. Miniver was William Wyler’s unapologetic answer to American isolationism. The Academy Award winning screenplay was written by Arthur Wimperis, George Froeschel, James Hilton, and Claudine West over a period of more than one year. It was the product of constant rewrites which were dictated by America’s ever changing views on the war. Wyler, a German Jew, vehemently thought that Nazism was a scourge upon humanity and believed that the United States should join Britain in repelling the German menace.  Unfortunately, many Americans and their elected representatives believed that the country should stay out of a war that did not concern them.  As such, Wyler knew that no conventional war movie, with soldiers, tanks, and guns, would aid in changing the minds of ordinary Americans, and so he made a motion picture about a small British village ravaged by total war (more specifically the Blitz). 

People understood that bombs fell on battlefields and soldiers died in war, but seeing everyday, ordinary country Brits, women and children and the elderly, being tormented, and in some cases killed, by German aerial bombs was a whole other matter--this was how Wyler planned to present Mrs. Miniver to American audiences. Although the film premiered six months after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and the U.S. entered the war, it still had a powerful message for all audiences, which was delivered by the village vicar (Henry Wilcoxon) in the somber but rousing final scene: “This is the people's war! It is our war! We are the fighters! Fight it then! Fight it with all that is in us, and may God defend the right.” Yes, this speech was pure propaganda, but in the words of British Prime Minister Winston Churchill, it was “propaganda worth a hundred battleships." For his part, President Franklin D. Roosevelt ordered that the vicar’s entire speech be printed on leaflets and dropped over Europe and he had the Voice of America broadcast it on several different occasions.

The reason Mrs. Miniver was so inspiring to Americans and Britons alike is that the Miniver family and their village were ordinary people attempting to survive in extraordinary circumstances. The story begins by demonstrating that the Minivers are everyday middle class people who want nice things for themselves and their children. Like most women, Kay (Garson) buys frivolous things that she doesn’t need just because she wants them and then attempts to hide the purchases from her husband, Clem (Walter Pidgeon), who also purchases things he doesn’t need. They have two young children at home (Christopher Severn and Clare Sandars) and a son, Vin (Richard Ney), who occasionally comes down from Oxford to enlighten them about how much he is learning about the world.  They have a cook (Brenda Forbes), a housekeeper (Marie De Becker), and a social club to go to on weekends. Quite simply, they are your typical middle class British family. Duty and responsibility mean something to people like this, and so when war does come they do as they are expected: they abide by blackout regulations; they build and stock a bomb shelter; Clem joins the Home Guard and risks his life to aid the evacuation at Dunkirk; and, Vin voluntarily enlists in the RAF.  Moreover, they do all of these things without complaint. Nothing is insufferable—not bombs falling on their home; not a shot down German soldier demanding food; and, not the death of a loved one. As long as they remain strong, resilient, indefatigable people who are willing to fight for their way of life there is nothing that can destroy them—as long as there is a will there is a way. And, of course, this turned out to be true, since it was the British stiff upper lip which resolved itself not to give in when German bombs reigned down on the nation for more than eight months.

It’s difficult to imagine anyone else other than Greer Garson playing Mrs. Miniver, but MGM first asked Norma Shearer and then Ann Harding to play the role.  Both women declined because they didn’t want to play a mother who had a grown son. Garson, who was younger than both of those women, also had concerns but Louis Mayer convinced her to take the part and the rest is, as they say, history.  Her soft but steely turn as one of cinema’s most courageous and determined mothers and wives not only earned her her only Academy Award, it also made her the biggest female star at MGM. Her stoic countenance, regal beauty, and effortless ability to convey her character’s thoughts with one look were perfect for the character of Kay Miniver.  For me, her performance is flawless, which as a Bette Davis fan is somewhat disheartening because I so love Ms. Davis as Charlotte Vale in Now, Voyager (1942), but there is no doubt in my mind that Garson rightfully earned the 1942 Best Actress Oscar statute over Davis. 

Mrs. Miniver, of course, would not have been nearly as effective as it was without its stellar cast. Obviously Garson’s Oscar-winning performance is the star of the show, but Teresa Wright, Dame May Whitty, and Henry Travers are also standouts in the production.  Wright, who deservedly won a Best Supporting Actress Oscar, portrays Mrs. Miniver’s daughter-in-law Carol not as a hysterical war bride but as a realistic young woman who wants to enjoy her happiness, no matter how brief it may be.  As for Whitty, her Lady Beldon required her to humorously represent the old guard while also demonstrating indignation at what the world had devolved into  due to war.  And, then there is Henry Travers, the renowned character actor.  Perhaps the most touching scene in the movie is when he first shows Mrs. Miniver the rose that he wants to name after her.  In this, he must display pride, nervousness, and affection for both his rose and Mrs. Miniver.  It’s such a quiet and nuanced scene and the perfect way to first introduce Mrs. Miniver’s many wonderful qualities to the audience. 

Although I know it’s pure propaganda and overly sentimental at times, for me Mrs. Miniver is one of the best wartime movies ever made.  I am exceptionally happy that the editors of the 1001 Book finally inducted it into its table of contents—now, if only they would remove some of the absolutely horrible films that they insist remain on the list.

The Not So Magnificent Ambersons (1942) **1/2

 

(For a detailed examination of the now infamous saga of the making of this film please visit Jim Lane's Cinedrome—it is a long read but highly educational and entertaining.)

If you enjoyed the Pulitzer Prize winning novel The Magnificent Ambersons by Booth Tarkington you will be disappointed with the 1942 film version.  There, I got that out of the way right off the bat.  Dense and at times verbose, the novel is a nostalgic look at the end of the Nineteenth Century.  We read about a world on the cusp of urban sprawl and the advent of something called the horseless carriage (today we refer to it as the automobile).  One family, the Ambersons/Minafers, represents the antiquated Nineteenth Century viewpoint; while another family, the Morgans, symbolize the forward-looking progressiveness of the Twentieth Century. I can’t really fault Orson Welles’ adapted screenplay for falling short—the book is over 700 pages, so it was a monumental task—but I can’t deny that there is a big disconnect between the film and the novel.  Who knows, perhaps it was the absolute ludicrous happy ending that was tacked on at the film’s conclusion that makes me uncomfortable.  I suspect this is one of the many reasons so many people revere Gone with the Wind (1939)—it stays true to the book’s ending.  Nevertheless, while I’m not a huge fan of The Magnificent Ambersons narrative, I do believe the overall production has many things to admire.

The set designs, particularly the ones at the Amberson mansion, are spectacular. Rightly nominated for an Academy Award for Best Art Direction, the mansion set was constructed like a real house, where walls could be manipulated in such a way so that a camera could appear to seamlessly pass through them in one continuous take. The now famous ballroom sequence showcases the artistic brilliance of both the set designers’ and Welles’ virtuosity.  Employing his love of deep focus and high angles, Welles (along with his Oscar nominated cinematographer Stanley Cortez) did something unheard of in 1942—he attempted to capture one continuous scene for several minutes without a cut/edit.  Later filmmakers, such as Luchino Visconti and Alexander Sokurov would pay homage to Welles with their respective films The Leopard (1963) and Russian Ark (2002). In addition to the ballroom scene, there are countless ingenious shots captured on the mansion’s multi-tiered staircases and long hallways.  While Welles could never make up completely for the the film’s narrative deficiencies, his visual artistry is still a marvel to watch.

One of the many reasons The Magnificent Ambersons fails to completely deliver a rewarding cinematic experience is that there aren’t any likable characters (sans, perhaps, Lucy).  In the book, you root for Isabel (Dolores Costello) and Eugene (Joseph Cotton) and feel somewhat sorry for Lucy (Anne Baxter) and Fanny (Agnes Moorehead).  In the movie you find yourself searching for chemistry between Isabel and Eugene and you absolutely detest Fanny and George—of course, this is the one thing that Welles got right: George Minafer (Tim Holt) was an unlikable character in both the novel and in the film.  At least in the book he gets his true comeuppance, whereas in the film he is given a most undeserved happy ending.  Still, the strange maliciousness that Welles’ instills in Moorehead’s Fanny is hard to reconcile with how the character is portrayed in the novel, which is more pathetic than anything.  Somehow Moorehead received an Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actress, but I can’t say why, except that she makes the viewer thoroughly loathe her character. Overall, most of the actors look like they are sleepwalking through the film.

Perhaps I’m being a bit harsh when it comes to the acting. What actor could be viewed as at the top of their game when more than an hour of the original film was edited out and additional scenes were inserted and tacked on to pull everything together?  It also doesn’t help that the actors found themselves shot in what can only be described as uneven lighting.  It is obvious what shots Welles and Cortez are responsible for and what scenes were reshoots helmed by stand-in director Robert Wise.  There is a subtle way to use light and shadow and then there is an overbearing (but still flat) way of using these devices.  There are several scenes where you just ask yourself why is the picture shot in such dark tones—are they trying to cover something up? 

Overall, The Magnificent Ambersons is a study in conflicting styles.  Its would-be greatness is dramatically diminished by haphazard editing—you just can’t cut 131 minutes down to 88 minutes and expect it to work.  Still, there are glimmers of cinematic brilliance in the production design, and these alone save the film from complete infamy.

To Be or Not To Be (1942) ****

Director Ernst Lubitsch made many great films in his distinguished career, but if I had to pick just one to call my favorite it would be To Be or Not to Be (followed very closely by Ninotchka [1939]) from 1942.  Released on March 6, 1942, almost 3 months to the day that the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, the movie was not well-received by critics or moviegoers. People didn’t think it was funny to make light of the Nazis when they were on the brink of world domination.  To that, I say, “Ah, nuts!”  What better time was there to make the vilest group of ideologues look completely ridiculous?  If you can laugh at them, then you most certainly can beat them!

Born to Jewish parents in Berlin, Germany, Lubitsch was well aware of the dangers of Nazism. While he came to Hollywood long before the Nazis took power in 1933, Lubitsch had friends and family back home who weren’t so lucky.  Still, some American film critics were either oblivious to the Nazis’ complete hatred of Jews or just plain idiotic when they cried foul about a Berlin-born director making a film about the Nazi invasion of Poland. Did they really think he thought people should laugh at that tragic event?  Lubitsch found the critiques to be asinine and tried to explain that he had satirized the “Nazis and their ridiculous ideology” not what happened to the Polish people. 

The one thing that critics did like about the film was leading lady Carole Lombard.  Tragically, Lombard was killed in a plane crash two months prior to the film’s release.  Today, her portrayal of Maria Tura in To Be or Not to Be is considered the finest of her career.  Yet, she almost didn’t play the part, as Miriam Hopkins was Lubitsch’s first choice. Having worked with Lubitsch on three of her best films, Hopkins was experiencing a downturn in her career when her old friend decided she was ready for a comeback. Unfortunately, at least for Hopkins but most certainly not for me or Lombard, Hopkins and lead actor Jack Benny didn’t get along from the start of production. 

The story, penned by writers Melchior Lengyel and Edwin Justus Mayer, is about a Warsaw acting troupe who find themselves accidentally embroiled in the Polish resistance against the Nazis following the 1939 invasion.  Josef Tura (Benny) and his wife Maria are renowned Warsaw actors.  He is a self-absorbed ham who happens to love playing Hamlet; while she is an incorrigible flirt who upstages her husband without even being on stage by having her male admirers come to her dressing room when Josef begins Hamlet’s famous soliloquy, “To be or not to be…” One of those admirers, Lt. Slobinski (a very young Robert Stack), is a Polish pilot who brings the entire acting troupe into his mission to intercept a double agent before vital information can be given to the Nazis.  What transpires is an outrageously funny shell game between trained killers and trained actors.

I love black comedies, and this is one of the best.  There are so many layers of ironic humor that it might take multiple viewing before you catch everything Lubitsch and his screenwriters were trying to get across. For example, while the audience finds it funny when Josef has his soliloquy—his big moment to shine—constantly interrupted by Maria’s suitors, there is another element to this as well.  While we never get to hear the whole thing, the beginning goes something like this:

To be, or not to be--that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles

And by opposing end them

These words truly resonate when you apply them to the Nazi peril.  In a way, it’s almost a war cry, if you think about it.  The world was most definitely facing a sea of troubles with the Nazis!

The other shining ironic moment is when Josef, Greenberg (Felix Bressart), Bronski (Tom Dugan) and the rest of the male actors pretend to be Nazis in order to infiltrate a theater event attended by Hitler. Once safely inside, they create a disturbance which allows Bronski to impersonate Hitler himself without the Nazis knowing.  For someone so revered by his underlings, and so unmistakable to the German psyche, this seems brazenly irreverent to me.  What better statement could you make about demagoguery than this?  Is there really a difference between the Führer and a Betrüger (imposter)?  According to Lubitsch and this film, not really.

Packed with sophisticated dialogue and impeccably placed double entendres, To Be or Not to Be is a comedy for the ages.  I can also appreciate the risk that Lubitsch and Alexander Korda took in releasing this film when they did.  Perhaps the American public and film critics weren’t ready for it, but it was just the type of film that the world needed to see in the Spring of 1942.  No one is invincible, and anyone who thinks that they are deserves to be heartily laughed at.