Cinema Hype

I had to wonder a little this weekend about the Best Picture nominee list in 1938. There must have been an intense historical epic in the running, right? A gut-wrenching war story? A too-long biopic? So how did a sweet little dramedy like You Can’t Take it With You end up with the golden statuette? Can you imagine if Juno had beaten out No Country for Old Men this last March? The 1938 ceremony must have been something like that.

You Can’t Take it With You is almost comical in its Capra-ness. This is right in the middle of his prime, after It Happened One Night and Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, and before Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Arsenic and Old Lace, and It’s a Wonderful Life, and it combines some of his favorite things: the common man, David and Goliath, the desperation of true love, the joy of community. It even takes place in a house that looks suspiciously like the Baileys’ in It’s a Wonderful Life, and stars Jimmy Stewart.

This is a movie that, in a sense, hasn’t aged all that well. Audiences—and especially Oscar voters—like to think they’ve grown over the years, and You Can’t Take it With You is a fantastically simple story. Whether or not films have grown more emotionally complex since 1938, Capra’s world feels out of pace and out of place, like sincerity has no place in our moviegoing world. On the other hand, well, it’s delightful. Spoiler alert: the good guys win and the bad guys become good guys, and Jimmy Stewart is adorable, and there’s amateur ballet and a harmonica duet and a healthy dose of (literal) fireworks. Capra takes this funny, noisy, lovable family out of their own living room and into the audience’s, din and all. And seeing them so close up, it’s hard not to smile a little at their scrapes and their can-do attitude and the way everything works out. We get their snappy dialogue and the carefulness of their characterization along with the general hilarity of being part of the family—it turns out that behind the fun, somebody knew what they were doing all along, such that the Sycamore-Vanderhof household is not only more fun than the suits they’re up against, but than their competitors in other movies as well. And that is an accomplishment: something to smile about in the Best Picture slot. Slick, Capra. Real slick.

Next on Project 501: Gone with the Wind (1939)

For more on the origins of Project 501, click here. For all Project 501 posts, click here.

You Can’t Take It With You, Moss Hart, Frank Capra, Jimmy Stewart, James Stewart, It’s a Wonderful Life, Oscar Best Picture winners, Best Picture, 1938, classic movies

I tried not to put off watching The Great Ziegfeld, the Best Picture for 1936. After all, I’d just gotten back my momentum after quitting and starting again hiatus, and I do love a musical with large, expensive song-and-dance numbers. But then Pauline Kael had to go and say mean things about it—”It goes on for a whopping three hours, but through some insane editing decision Fanny Brice is cut off in the middle of singing ‘My Man’…a lavish, tedious musical biography,” she said—and it languished by the DVD player for a few weeks before I finally summoned the strength to watch it.

Kael gets the salient points right: lavish, musical biography, three hours, Fanny Brice cut off mid-song. As for the “tedious” comment…maybe, but to be fair, nothing here is either more or less compelling than any other overlong biopic. If anything, The Great Ziegfeld (the story of Broadway producer Florenz Ziegfeld, of The Ziegfeld Follies fame) is probably more the granddaddy of movies like Ali and The Aviator than anything else. Nothing really happens, per se, but then that’s sort of the problem with a lot of biopics: people with interesting lives don’t necessarily adhere to the kind of beginning-middle-end sequencing that we’re so used to. Aren’t all biopics at least a little boring?

Then there’s the catch-22 of the musical numbers. The Great Ziegfeld is three hours and six minutes long, and punctuated by examples of Ziegfeld’s famously extravagant musical numbers. By fast-forwarding, the impatient viewer can shorten the running time by twenty minutes, easy (by “musical numbers” we’re not talking “They’re Doing Choreography”; more like enormous, round parade floats rotating onstage). But fast-forwarding here is a little like munching on raisin bread and eating around the raisins. If you’re going to watch three hours of this guy’s life, shouldn’t the musical numbers sweeten the deal? I suppose it depends on the crowd and the crowd’s affinity for ladies singing under parasols. I’ll leave it up to you.

As for Kael and the Fanny Brice complaint, I’ve got to agree, and extend it to the supporting cast. William Powell doesn’t do much to distinguish himself here as Ziegfeld, but he’s surrounded by apparent geniuses doing what they do best. First, there’s Ray Bolger, who played the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz three years later, practically dancing holes in the stage; then there’s Luise Rainer, who won the award for Best Actress (and won again the next year), as Ziegfeld’s star-struck first wife. And finally there’s Brice, who’s like watching Gilda Radner’s grandmother, and who’s like a jolt of comic energy in the middle of all the languid chorus girls and their parasols. Fantastic.

With 82 years of hindsight since the 1936 Academy Awards, it’s fairly obvious that The Great Ziegfeld had to win Best Picture. It was MGM’s most expensive movie to date—production cost $2 million—and the investment paid off in terms of spectacle and later in terms of box office success. Maybe it wasn’t the best picture of the year (surely also-ran My Man Godfrey beats it for plot and dialogue?), but it sure was the biggest.

The Great Ziegfeld, Florenz Ziegfeld, 1936, Academy Awards, Project 501, William Powell, Luise Rainer, Ray Bolger, Fanny Brice

A little background on Project 501: last year, I started watching and writing about all of the Academy Award Best Picture winners in chronological order and writing about them in this blog. After a prolonged break, I’ve resumed, making good time through the 1930s, and I’m well-intentioned towards (read: rewarding myself with) the 1940s. Anyone’s welcome to watch along—company on the road to theoretical good filmmaking is always appreciated.

Anyway.

In 1935, Mutiny on the Bounty must have been a blockbuster: an adventure on the high seas, packed with rough water, an even rougher villain (in theory), and Clark Gable steering the ship. The footage of the big ships rocking and rolling in the stormy seas is impressive, and it can only have cost a fortune. One might toss the word “epic” around.

For better or for worse, none of this can change the giggle factor. Historical correctness aside, Mutiny on the Bounty comes across as a dramedy at best, which might be insulting to the filmmakers, but it does make the movie go down smoother: the promise of upcoming hilarity makes the prospect of two hours of keel-hauling and swabbing the deck more palatable. Half of the actors, including Gable, flounce around in their Royal Navy uniforms sounding like they’re fresh out of Des Moines. Gable (who must have been self-conscious of his hippy figure, otherwise why did he always wear such enormous pants?) plays his usual charming good-guy self, except when he tries to play Master and Commander and gets all shouty and breathy. And don’t even get me started on the Tahiti love-interest sequences—cringe-worthy, and maybe the most entertaining parts of the movie. Who doesn’t love that soft-focus filter?

If there’s a take-away from Mutiny on the Bounty (besides “don’t enslave your crew”), it’s probably the transformation in villains over the last seventy years. Today, Bligh would be a mustache-stroker, and probably chewing on the scenery; as it is, he’s kind of a dope. A mean dope, certainly, but Charles Laughton’s big eyes and lips and his knobby nose make him look more bewildered than dangerous. His performance is fine, but by today’s standards it’s remarkably understated. Might the movie have aged better with a more ramped-up villain? Maybe, though overacting isn’t really what this cast needs.

Next up: The Great Ziegfeld and The Life of Emile Zola. Oh, you’re so jealous. Don’t lie.

Project 501, Oscar winners, Mutiny on the Bounty, Clark Gable, Charles Laughton, sailing, mutiny

When making an exciting but long-overdue comeback, is it best to sneak in the side door or to march up the front steps, flaunting one’s own late but eminent worth? We at CH are all for the latter—being occasionally late ourselves, not that we’d ever admit it—and so we say: Project 501 is back! It’s been a long vacation, but the chronological Oscar train is running once again, and so we’re starting up with the 1934 Best Picture winner, It Happened One Night. Like, now.

Feeling as I do about the current state of romantic comedies, my curmudgeonly little heart watched It Happened One Night and wondered why they don’t make ‘em like that anymore. In fact, I’ve decided that they do make ‘em like that anymore—or, in any case, they try. In fact, I’m testing the theory that all modern romantic comedies are the inheritance, or maybe imitators, of this one movie.

There are plenty of things in It Happened One Night that aren’t so common to the modern romantic comedy. Long, chatty scenes, for one thing. Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable spend a lot of time together, talking the whole time, and we’re there to see it all. No quick cuts here; just talk, talk, talk. These two are what the average therapist might call “verbal processors.” Indeed. There are also twin beds (how Pushing Daisies!), showing some leg to speed up the hitchhiking process, and—spoiler ahead—a total lack of kissing at the end, which generally doesn’t fly today.

But there are also lots of things that we see over and over again in romantic comedies generally, and maybe it’s a case of doing those things better rather than a case of doing them first—i.e. I’m not claiming these were new story elements, even in 1934—but it’s a little uncanny seeing a million other well-known and well-worn tropes played out in this one story. There’s the falling-asleep-on-the-other-person’s-shoulder bit, the pretend-marriage-to-distract-skeezy-stranger thing, and most importantly, the race to prevent a tragic misunderstanding and therefore save the relationship (Notting Hill, anyone?). Gable and Colbert are perfectly adorable—who knew pre-Rhett Butler misogyny Gable was so cute?—and they play all of these iconic scenes in such a way that imitation is inevitable. This may be the token romantic comedy, the Juno of its day, but it’s aged well and made its mark. Nicely done.

Next up: Mutiny on the Bounty! More Clark Gable!

It Happened One Night, Clark Gable, Claudette Colbert, Notting Hill, Juno, Oscar winner, Best Picture, 1934, Project 501

Now, don’t get me wrong: I love a good mystery. Bring on the whodunits. I’m all over a good tale of murder and mayhem.

But do you know the problem with The Thin Man? I like the heroes, Nick and Nora Charles, so much that I tend to forget the plot of the movie. Julia Wolf? Something about stolen shares for Dorothy Wynant’s wedding? I believe there was an absent-minded professor in there somewhere? …Right. Now, can we go back and hang out with the Charleses again? Oh, and bring Asta. He’s awfully cute, not to mention a fine crime-fighter and a classic crossword-puzzle clue.

I’m not saying the Charleses are much in the way of role models, though naming a line of pajamas after them isn’t such a bad idea. Nick and Nora are drunk most of the time, and solving mysteries is really more of a hobby for them than a serious engagement. But who are we to judge? After all, a murderer caught in fun (at a lovely dinner party, no less) is still a murderer caught, and we can’t fault them for that. And they do seem to very much enjoy being married to one another, which isn’t such a bad thing. In any case, they win at witty banter.

If only I could remember who did it and why. But never mind; Nick and Nora probably wouldn’t, either.

The Thin Man, Nick and Nora Charles, Nick and Nora, William Powell, Myrna Loy, Dashiell Hammett

1. Gene Kelly has been holding out on me! I’m a huge sucker for tap-dance movies, but apparently good old Gene isn’t so bad with them ballet skills, either.

2. Holy Prestigious Pedigree, Batman! Choreographed by Kelly, music and libretto by George and Ira Gershwin, directed by Vincente Minnelli. Now, if they’d only been able to find someone famous to take care of this stuff…

3. In Little Women, the sisters play a game where one girl starts a story and another has to end it. Does anybody get the feeling the same thing happened with An American in Paris? “Once upon a time, there was a standard musical with dialogue and songs and a plot.” “And then everything wrapped up with a 25-minute dance number. The end.”

4. Milo (”as in Venus de”) is my heroine. She’s the new Baroness Schrader!

5. Whatever happened to the hybrid tap/ballet musical? Come on, Neve Campbell. Pick up the pace. This is your chance!

Well, I’m back from my jaunt around England, having learned such words as “tallyho,” “cheers” (for more than toasts), and “rocket” (a type of lettuce, apparently). Also, “Wimbledon” and “beware of terrorists.”

I had a great trip, what with the whirlwind that is London and the absolute non-whirlwind that is the Lakes District (see Miss Potter for reference). I even snagged an evening here:

The British Film Institute’s theater is a big, artsy complex that bears a depressing resemblance to my middle school, but shows all kinds of films, from new releases to the truly arcane. I saw a 1959 John Cassavetes movie, Shadows, but I had a whole array of old Japanese and former Cannes winners to choose from (more thoughts on Shadows to come). Not a bad way to spend an evening.

And no, I didn’t spend my whole vacation at the movie theater, I promise.

indie filmmaking, independent films, British Film Institute, John Cassavetes

I’ve been watching Pride and Prejudice this week. It’s part of my Keira Knightley film festival, but I’ve gotten stuck. You see, I have Domino sitting next to the DVD player, ready to go. But have I moved on? I have not.

And I need to confess something: when the movie came out–a mere two years ago!–I was a Pride and Prejudice snob. I had, along with many others, attached myself to the Mother of All Pride and Prejudice Adaptations, the six-hour BBC miniseries that launched a thousand Colin Firth wet-shirt fantasies. After all, how could they re-adapt the great Pride and Prejudice? After less than a decade? Who would have the gall to follow that stunning, encyclopedic act?

But what I’ve found is that, for better or for worse, I have a hard time saying no to Elizabeth Bennet, her embarrassing family, and her emotional duel/love affair with Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. The 2005 version isn’t the most complete, and it’s not the most serious, but it hits all the high points (with some glorious cinematography, I might add), and somehow that seems to be all I need. And so, for all of the P&P fans and P&P fans-to-be, I present a comprehensive history of Pride and Prejudice on film.

Pride and Prejudice (1938): The original Austen mini-series, adapted even before the big-screen crowd got a hold of it. Starring a woman called Curigwen, who was surely destined for great fame until her parents stepped in and chose a name.

Pride and Prejudice (1940): Before there was Firth, there was Olivier, who can only have been fabulous opposite Greer Garson. Probably the only time Jane Austen and Aldous Huxley share writing credit on anything.

Pride and Prejudice (1952): Of absolutely no note except that Mr. Darcy is played by the utterly fantastic Peter Cushing! I had no idea! Imagine: Grand Moff Tarken, being an ardent admirer! The mind, it boggles! So many exclamation points! But worth every one of them!

Pride and Prejudice (1958) and (1967): Probably fine adaptations, but lacking in weird, famous screenwriters or any kind of famous cast. The age of the mini-series before HBO, apparently.

Pride and Prejudice (1980): The predecessor to the current BBC version. There’s not a single recognizable name (or photographic IMDB entry) in the cast, but I know at least one person who loves this version. Worth a look, ostensibly.

Pride and Prejudice (1995): I think we all know how I feel about this one. Need I go on?

And then there are the P&P knock-offs: the references, the similar-tos, and the updated versions.

Bridget Jones’s Diary: Wherein The Firth reprises his role and gets into the best nerd-brawl ever to grace the big screen, and Mr. Wickham is a tangerine-tinted buffoon. Highly recommended.

Pride and Prejudice (2003): How did I miss this the first time around? (Not to be snotty, or anything, but: Good sense, perhaps?) Pride and Prejudice in present-day America. Hmmm.

Bride and Prejudice: The Bennets go Bollywood! This one hasn’t made its way to CHHQ yet, but it’s apparently pretty good. And Sayid from LOST (Naveen Andrews) plays Mr. Bingley, so how bad can it be? Also, random appearances by Ashanti–the mark of a fine film, I always say–and Alexis Bledel as Georgiana Darcy. Oh! And Gurinder Chadha directed, and she’s all-around excellent. So good things all around.

That’s all. If you need me, I’ll be on the couch, waiting for the big rejection scene. PAIN!

When it all comes to an end, when I’ve finished Project 501 and have to find some other quixotically obsessive pop-culture quest (Academy Award winners, in chronological order, by Best Supporting Actress!), I believe I know what my final words will be: “Thank goodness for the library.” What would we do without that repository of ancient VHS tapes, the last bastion of the Netflix-free world? I know I wouldn’t have finished the Project. Not even close. I would have been stuck: stuck in 1933, on a movie that doesn’t exist on DVD and probably doesn’t spur many video-tape sales, either.

It’s a sad thing. But anyway.

Cavalcade is a fine film. It’s sensitive, in an epic sort of way. Diana Wynyard is lovely and sympathetic as the requisite long-suffering maternal figure. There are lives and loves lost, wars fought, hardships overcome. The screenplay, based on a Noel Coward play, moves along without being glib. One scene–which I won’t describe on the off chance that somebody is actually going to rent the Oakland Public Library’s one VHS copy–has one of the finest plot-point reveals I’ve seen on film. There is much to enjoy about Cavalcade.

There are just two minor setbacks: first, “epic” does not necessarily equal “memorable.” Cavalcade is about real events, and it was probably a truly moving film in its day. Unfortunately, so many other 20th-century films have done “epic” so much better that it’s not so surprising that Cavalcade would get lost in the shuffle. It’s kind of too bad, but it’s also not quite striking enough of a film to have made its mark.

Second, it’s one thing to make a film about Change and the Decline of Society in the 20th century. It’s something entirely different to make that film in 1933. The temptation is to tap this movie on the shoulder and say, very politely, “Um, you missed a few things.” And of course nobody could know about World War II or the other myriad things that went on in the other 67 years before the millennium, but you’ve got to admit that, mathematically, 1933 was unlikely to be the high point of the century, excitement-wise. Basically, it’s dated. Sweet, but dated.

Next up: It Happened One Night (1934), Mutiny on the Bounty (1935)

Cavalcade, Academy Awards, Best Picture, Project 501, Noel Coward

Not even Netflix
cares enough for Cavalcade
to hit DVD.

Project 501 has hit a bit of a technical snag this week. It’s nothing big–nothing the public library can’t fix–but the 1933 Best Picture winner, Cavalcade, doesn’t exist on DVD. This has us a bit concerned. What, exactly, does a film–the best film of 1933, apparently–have to do to be denied DVD-hood? It’s squeezed between two potential winners, Grand Hotel and It Happened One Night, both of which have achieved disc status. But Cavalcade? It’s too obscure, or too boring, or something to be converted for the 21st-century audience. It’s a little worrisome.

We’ll keep you posted.

Watching Oscar winners is an epic proposition in both senses of the term–the watching of eighty major films is time-consuming, certainly, but I’m talking about the kind of film that tends to win Best Picture. The Academy voters definitely skew towards the Achievement film: they like the big, the expensive, the elaborate, and the heavily-costumed. Surprisingly, then, Grand Hotel, the Best Picture winner in 1932, must have had a large casting budget and not much else: the film stars Greta Garbo, Joan Crawford, and both Lionel and John Barrymore, but takes place in an enclosed location (the aforementioned Grand Hotel) with more or less nothing in terms of effects or architectural shots. (Does this make it the Studio 60 of Oscar winners?) The absence of bells and whistles makes Grand Hotel stand out in the Best Picture roll call, but it doesn’t lessen the quality of the movie–by virtue of quality writing and a creme-de-la-creme cast, the film is definitely worth watching.

William A. Drake’s adaptation of the German novel Menschen im Hotel has that mid-century American feeling that so few modern films have: light and efficient, even in the face of heavy character development and impending tragedy. The film tells a sort of ring-shaped story about the beautiful people staying at Berlin’s swankiest hotel in the 1930s, where, we’re told, “nothing ever happens.” There’s a terminally ill man discovering life in the shadow of death, a temperamental ballerina, a beautiful and street-smart stenographer, her bullish boss, and the axle turning the wheel, a cash-strapped baron–nobody really seems to leave, and we get the sense that these characters are as interchangeable as the new Ford motor parts, but nothing here is boring. Everybody is connected, everybody has needs–some of which remain tragically unmet–and everybody stands to lose something important. In short, there’s not much action, but there’s plenty going on.

And then there’s the cast. Greta Garbo and Joan Crawford were the same age–both born in 1905. So how is it that Garbo comes across as the patron saint of the 20s melodrama, while Crawford feels like the most modern of modern girls? Perhaps it’s the roles they play–Garbo is a depressed, smitten ballerina, and Crawford a sarcastic, pragmatic working girl (not in that sense; she’s the stenographer). Either way, Crawford practically pops off the screen, while Garbo just threatens to faint at any moment. The comparison is striking, and an interesting insight into women of the 1930s–we’ve got old-world vs. new century living in the same hotel. There’s also John Barrymore as the aging, impoverished baron-turned-cat-burglar, and his performance is not to be missed (though, it should be noted, none of the cast were nominated for performance Oscars for this film). He’s believable in both parts of his role–the debonair man-about-town and his desperate, ashamed private self (and also bears a striking resemblance to his famous granddaughter, who is very modern in her own right).

The upshot: A small but thoughtful and very watchable film. Definitely worth a rent.

Next up: Cavalcade (1933); It Happened One Night (1934)

Project 501, Oscar winners, Grand Hotel, Greta Garbo, John Barrymore, Joan Crawford, classic film

I am convinced that there is an entire generation in the world today that doesn’t understand the theoretical hotness of Robert Redford. Same with Jane Fonda. It’s not our fault–we were born in the 80s, or later. To us, Redford is a Prius-driving, suntanned ex-cowboy who makes the occasional movie. Fonda is the aerobics queen. What do you want from us?

What this generation needs, I say, is a good viewing of Barefoot in the Park, Neil Simon’s 1968 New York romantic comedy. Before Redford started wearing those silly glasses and Fonda broke out the leotard, they were young. Attractive. Modern. Adorable, really. They were people we would certainly have wanted to hang out with.

That’s part of the basis of Barefoot in the Park: Paul and Corie Bratter (Redford and Fonda) get married, spend six days on their honeymoon, and then settle into a weird Greenwich Village apartment and start on the business of combining their lives. Fonda is all free-spirited, dragging her conservative (but very good-looking) new husband along with her in an endearing but slightly insensitive way. There are wacky neighbors and a hole in the skylight, and it’s all kind of charming, because we know those crazy kids will work it out. It’s like Dharma and Greg in 1968, and it’s thoroughly, thoroughly watchable.

The thing about Barefoot in the Park is that Simon’s screenplay makes everything look so easy. It’s a simple story told without flourish by a small cast of characters–it’s not a movie about fanfare, elaborate setting, or riding off into the sunset. There are just characters, and the characters rub up against each other (literally and emotionally) in a small space, and there you have it. There is nothing epic here, just small problems, the same things everybody goes through. How can a movie be so easy?

And yet that same simplicity is also what makes the movie satisfying. Without any other embellishments to distract, the audience is left with the Bratters and their situation. There’s nothing to do but stare at them as they love and fight and learn and regress and ultimately grow, and Simon’s script doesn’t try to cheat. He does the work, drags his characters with him, and lets us hope that it all works out in the end. It’s a kind of writerly honesty that only makes us admire him all the more.

That, and the casting of the cutest couple the 60s had ever seen.

classic movies, robert redford, jane fonda, barefoot in the park, neil simon, stage plays, romantic comedies