The Wolf Man (1941) **

Of all the Universal Pictures’ monsters, The Wolf Man (1941) is probably the least frightening.  However, I must admit that I haven’t seen all four sequels, so maybe he becomes progressively more scary as time goes on.  Still, director George Waggner’s film is more violent than other Universal horror pictures like Dracula (1931), Frankenstein (1931), and Bride of Frankenstein (1935)—I must confess that I have not had the pleasure of watching The Mummy (1932), so I cannot say which is more violent. So, how can The Wolf Man be more violent but less scary than its monster-film cousins?  Unfortunately, The Wolf Man suffers from bad acting and a trite pseudo-psychoanalytic script, which, from me, at least, garnered more laughs than goosebumps.

After his older brother is killed in a hunting accident, Larry Talbot (Lon Chaney, Jr.) returns home to Wales to take his place next to his father, Sir John Talbot (Claude Rains). Never mind that Larry speaks with an American accent and has the gait and mannerisms of a farm hand and in no way appears to have been raised as the son of high-born lord of the manor.  All we need to know is that he likes to spy on women with a giant telescope and then use telescope garnered intel to creep them out enough that they agree to go on nightly walks with him.  While that may be an oversimplification of the plot, it’s probably the easiest and most interesting way to explain how two girls end up walking into the woods with him to have their fortunes read at a gypsy camp.  Unfortunately, Jenny (Fay Helm) goes first and has her palm read by none other than Bela Lugosi (well, his character, aptly named, Bela).  After about five seconds Bela sees a pentagram in Jenny’s palm, which is THE telltale sign to a werewolf that they have found their next victim. That’s right! Bela is a werewolf! But not for long, because after the wolf rips out Jenny’s throat, Larry uses his newly purchased silver wolf-head cane to beat Bela, the werewolf, to death, but not before he’s bitten in the process. Thus, Larry is now destined to become a werewolf.

The most compelling thing about The Wolf Man is the poem that Curt Siodmak penned to explain how a man might morph into a werewolf:

Even a man who is pure in heart

and says his prayers by night

may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms

and the autumn moon is bright.

Several characters in the film utter these words, but for some reason when they are faced with the real possibility that there actually might be a werewolf on the loose they all throw their hands up in disbelief. It sort of reminds me of ParaNorman (2012), where an entire town markets itself on its witchcraft past, but refuses to believe in witches or ghosts.  Anyway, the poem itself is Freudian in nature and Universal visits the world of the id, ego, and superego and the duality of self that Paramount introduced with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1931). Unfortunately, Larry just doesn’t seem complex enough to have an id, let alone an ego or superego—even if Warren William’s Dr. Lloyd tries his hardest to make us believe that there is something more to Larry other than boringness.

The only person in town who knows Larry is a werewolf is the other gypsy fortune teller, Maleva (Maria Ouspenskaya). If one person was correctly cast, it was Ouspenskaya, whose old-world somberness would make Disney World the unhappiest place on earth if she were ever to visit.  Forget that she happens to drive her wagon through the hazy woods at the most opportune times, usually after the wolf has killed or has been killed, she seems like the type of person who would know about werewolves. So, it’s somewhat believable when she says things like: “The way you walked was thorny though no fault of your own, but as the rain enters the soil, the river enters the sea, so tears run to a predestined end.”  A lot more of her and a lot less of William’s idiotic Dr. Lloyd and Ralph Bellamy’s inept Colonel Montford would have made me much happier.

Another thing that was a bit bothersome was the transformation from human to werewolf, which should have been the big payoff for a movie like this.  Yet, the first time that Larry starts to change into a werewolf all we get to see is his bare feet go from lily white to Yak-haired through a lap dissolve (which is pretty noticeable).  Perhaps I have been spoiled by the modern special effects age where human to animal (or alien, insect, etc.) transformations are a lot more spectacular because what I witnessed in The Wolf Man was pretty darn lackluster. 

Overall, The Wolf Man was a run of the mill monster flick.  The acting, even from the likes of Rains, was phoned in and the plot left something to be desired.  Chaney, Jr., for his part should have demanded to play the werewolf and allowed someone else to play Larry—as an actor he was much better at portraying monsters than men.   

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Dance, Girl, Dance (1940) **

I expect the reason director Dorothy Arzner’s Dance, Girl, Dance (1940) made it into the 1001 Book is it is considered by many film critics as an early example of feminist cinema.  That said, I must say that it was a bit lackluster for my taste.  Yes, it was mildly entertaining to see a 20-year old Maureen O’Hara be upstaged by the Queen “B” actress of Hollywood, Lucile Ball, but that’s pretty much the most entertaining thing about it. 

Judy O’Brien (O’Hara) is supposed to be a classically trained ballerina—by a former Bolshoi ballerina (Maria Ouspenskaya) nonetheless.  Of course, this premise is ridiculous as O’Hara was far from a ballerina, although she had taken dance lessons at school and had danced in The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1939).  Reflecting on the film, O’Hara admitted that she struggled mightily to get the ballet sequences down. Admittedly, the best dancer in the picture was Ball, who’d been both a Ziegfeld and Goldwyn girl.  Yet, O’Hara was cast as the classy but innocent Judy and Ball got the part of the floozy Burlesque queen, Bubbles (aka Tiger Lily White).  The characters suited both women—even if the ballet didn’t suit O’Hara.

The crux of the film hinges on one thing: sex. Bubbles has sex appeal and knows how to use it to get ahead, while Judy’s pristine innocence blocks her path to success and love at every turn.  Bubbles is the sort of woman that millionaires like Jimmy Harris (Louis Hayward) use to get over their wives (Virginia Field). She’s also the type that men will pay money to come see dance (be it the hula or a comedic striptease). Poor Judy, all she’s good for is to get boos from the pervs who want to see Bubbles shake her ass instead of Judy’s would-be ballet routine and to make men realize they still love their wives.  It’s a comedy (sort of), so I know it’s supposed to be amusing that Bubbles always seems to thwart Judy’s dreams, but there’s an added element of amusement knowing that O’Hara would go on to be a highly regarded film actress and Ball would find herself the queen of television. 

Once you get over the fact that a respected ballet producer (Ralph Bellamy) would track Judy down at a burlesque hall to give her a shot at stardom without having ever seen her dance, you can enjoy Ball’s comedic abilities and every now and again catch a glimpse of O’Hara’s noted fieriness. Ball wears the character of Bubbles as if she were born to play the part.  Sassy, spunky, and funny are the adjectives that best describe Bubbles.  She knows how to use what the good lord gave her to make her way in a man’s world.  Her rendition of “Mother, What Do I Do Now?” is worth the price of admission—especially if you’ve seen Marilyn Monroe’s famous blowing dress scene in The Seven Year Itch (1955)—who knew Lucy could teach Marilyn a trick or two about sex appeal?  Probably the best line of the film is when a stage hand tells Bubbles to give the audience all that she’s got and she quips, “They couldn’t handle it.”

Of course, O’Hara’s impassioned dressing down of the burlesque audience and her somewhat impudent behavior in night court after walloping Ball show glimmers of what made O’Hara such a likable actress.  Anyone familiar with that little spark that burns in her eyes when she is about to go off (just about the entirety of The Quiet Man) will recognize it when it finally shows itself right before the Irish comes out:

“Go on, laugh, get your money's worth. No-one's going to hurt you. I know you want me to tear my clothes off so you can look your fifty cents' worth. Fifty cents for the privilege of staring at a girl the way your wives won't let you. What do you suppose we think of you up here with your silly smirks your mothers would be ashamed of? We know it'd the thing of the moment for the dress suits to come and laugh at us too. We'd laugh right back at the lot of you, only we're paid to let you sit there and roll your eyes and make your screamingly clever remarks. What's it for? So you can go home when the show's over, strut before your wives and sweethearts and play at being the stronger sex for a minute? I'm sure they see through you. I'm sure they see through you just like we do!”

Yep, that’s the Maureen O’Hara I know…not a fake ballerina who would allow herself to be upstaged by Lucille Ball. 

Overall, Dance, Girl, Dance is a rather forgettable picture. However, this was probably the best film performance of Ball’s career.  I’m sure there’s loads of fodder for feminist theorists to discuss about Dance, Girl, Dance, but, for me, at least, it’s a minor element which I‘m not that interested in. 

 

 

 

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The Asphalt Jungle (1950) **1/2

(This is my contribution to the CMBA's Fabulous Films of the 1950s Blogathon, which runs May 21-May 26. Check out all the great blog posts!)

Tight—that is the best word to describe director John Huston’s, The Asphalt Jungle (1950).  The plot, cinematography and the acting are all tightly wound together to create one of the most compelling film noir heist movies ever made.  Quite simply, it is the granddaddy of all heist movies, such classics as Rififi (1955) and The Killing (1956) and modern-day “classics” like Oceans Eleven (2001) and Inside Man (2006) all derive from The Asphalt Jungle. What is most compelling, however, about the movie is how it looks at the subterranean world of crime and how different from your typical noir it actually is. 

Adapted from W.R. Burnett’s novel of the same name, Ben Maddow and John Huston’s Oscar-nominated screenplay is tied together by a jewel heist.  The lives of several men are determined by the success or failure of stealing and fencing diamonds and gold worth more than a million dollars (which was a lot of money back in 1950).  The mastermind of the caper is Doc Riedenschneider (Sam Jaffe, in an Oscar-nominated performance), a recently released big timer with a full-proof plan to rob a jewelry store.  He enlists a local bookie, Cobby (Marc Lawrence), to help him snag $50,000 to put a crew together.  This leads him to Emmerich (Louis Calhern), a respected local lawyer with supposedly big pockets, who is also probably the most corrupt man in town.  The audience is then educated as to what is necessary, other than money, to pull off a grand heist—a box man, the guy who breaks into the safe (Anthony Caruso), a driver (James Whitmore), and a hooligan who handles a gun and any security guards or cops (Sterling Hayden).  Once this part of the education is over, we are then treated to a painstakingly detailed view of the entire heist. Unfortunately, things don’t go as planned and a few people get shot and there is a major double-cross that throws a damper on an otherwise spectacularly planned and orchestrated crime.

The underbelly of crime always proves compelling, and in The Asphalt Jungle it is on full display. However, the seediness is not only comprised of only career criminals but also respected lawyers and police officers as well.  For example, Cobby runs a local book that is protected by Lieutenant Ditrich (Barry Kelley), who gets kickbacks for looking the other way.  And, then there’s Emmerich, a highly respected man who both finances and represents crooks, while living in a fine house and carrying on with a woman young enough to be his daughter, or niece (played by Marilyn Monroe), while his bedridden wife (Dorothy Tree) just wants to play cards.

The story does a smart job of planting small hints about the criminals’ weaknesses and also explaining what makes them commit the crimes they do.  Doc won’t touch alcohol and has a fondness for young girls (one of which will haunt him in the end).  Dix (Hayden) only wants to make enough money to buy back his family’s horse farm but can never save enough from his robberies because he bets on the horses.  And, Louie (Caruso) has a wife and child to support.  They all just want one big score so they can get out of the life. These sympathetic, human characters don’t fit the stereotypical noir criminal, who are often violent and unethical.  For the most part, all of the criminals seem to follow a code of ethics, which flies in the face of Noir 101.

And, completely opposite to other noirs, there are no femme fatales anywhere to be seen in The Asphalt Jungle, which might sound strange when one considers that the perfect femme fatale-esque actress was in the film, Marilyn Monroe.  None of the male characters are obsessed with any wicked women. In fact, all of the women in the picture are highly sympathetic—even Monroe, who comes across as the most innocent mistress ever known to cinema. 

However, like any noir, The Asphalt Jungle is a shadow-filled black and white picture full of dark, atmospheric shots. Still, Huston’s framing of the film is much more open and uncluttered compared to other noirs.  He and Oscar-nominated cinematographer Harold Rosson employed high contrast lighting from start to finish, with an extended opening scene that follows Dix walking through a deserted asphalt jungle after his most recent robbery.  Perhaps my favorite scene in the film, other than the 11-minute jewelry heist, is when Doc first paces up and down the tight hallway of Cobby’s book parlor waiting to be introduced. One blinding overhead light illuminates the otherwise dark, grimy hallway as Doc walks toward the static camera—almost walking straight into it—and then he turns his back toward the opening door and the emerging image of Cobby. It’s a small scene, but so full of brilliant lighting and lens work. 

While Hayden may have gotten top billing, Jaffe was clearly the star of the show.  Of course, it helps that Jaffe could act galaxies around Hayden, but his character was the most interesting of the lot.  It takes skill to portray a tightly-wound but always composed character. Additionally, Calhern’s turn as Emmerich is also engaging.  Yes, it’s difficult to feel sympathy for a double-crosser and a philanderer, but when he sits down to write a letter to his wife when he’s about to be arrested and then rips it up after writing it, you almost feel sorry for him. 

Overall, The Asphalt Jungle was an important development in cinema.  It pioneered the heist film and laid the foundation for generations of heist films to come.  Additionally, it broke the barriers of film noir, and ushered in characterization and a more open and uncluttered framing into the world of noir. 

For more great Fabulous Films of the 1950s blog posts click this link: http://clamba.blogspot.com/.

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The Philadelphia Story (1940) ****

The Philadelphia Story (1940) is a remarkable film for several reasons.  First, the small but stellar cast was comprised of three Hollywood stalwarts—Cary Grant, James Stewart, and Katharine Hepburn.  Second, Donald Ogden Stewart’s expertly adapted Oscar-winning screenplay was engagingly witty and humanized Hepburn. Which brings me to the most remarkable thing about the movie—it probably saved Hepburn’s film career.  For all of those reasons, and many more, The Philadelphia Story is a classic Hollywood gem.

For any actor or actress, even Hepburn, being labeled “Box Office Poison” could be damaging.  After several of her films bombed at the box office, Hepburn had to face the fact that moviegoers just weren’t that into her.  To some she seemed hard, aloof, stilted, and affected.  Maybe it was her upper-class Northeastern upbringing or her Bryn Mawr education, but she just wasn’t that likable to many American movie ticket buyers.  Still, Hepburn could always fall back to the one audience that seemed to adore her—Broadway.  So when Philip Barry wrote the stage play of The Philadelphia Story specifically for Hepburn, she was more than happy to finance and star in it. Even before the play was a huge success on Broadway, Howard Hughes bought the film rights for his then-girlfriend, Hepburn, because he believed it was just the vehicle to restart her film career.  He was right, of course, and the rest is Hollywood history.

While the story is somehow labeled a screwball comedy, for me The Philadelphia Story is more of a sophisticated comedy.  The premise, of course, is a bit screwy, but it certainly is not in the screwball realm of The Awful Truth (1937), Bringing Up Baby (1938), or probably the greatest screwball comedy of all time, Easy Living (1937). Hepburn plays Tracy Lord, a socialite on the verge of marrying a complete bore, George Kittredge (John Howard), when her ex-husband, Dexter (Grant), shows up with two reporters in tow to cover the nuptials.  To avoid a family scandal involving her father (John Halliday) and a chorus girl, Tracy agrees to allow the reporters, Mike (Stewart) and Liz (Ruth Hussey), to take pictures and write an article for Spy magazine. Of course, this isn’t the only reason Dexter has crashed his ex’s wedding—the flame of love still burns bright for his rigid, unforgiving ex-wife.  And, this is what the story hinges on—Tracy’s inability to accept anyone’s human weakness, even her own.  In between exchanging sharps quips with Dexter, her father, and her beyond hilarious mother (Mary Nash) and sister (Virginia Weidler) and soulfully philosophizing with Mike, Tracy somehow grows up before the audience’s eyes and becomes, dare I say it, human.

Interestingly enough, while Grant and Hepburn had undeniable chemistry, as previously shown in Sylvia Scarlett (1935), Holiday (1938) and Bringing Up Baby (1938), most of the film focuses on a budding romantic relationship between Tracy and Mike.  Hepburn had wanted Spencer Tracy to play the part of Mike (this was two years prior to her having ever met Tracy) but he was unavailable, which probably was a blessing, because when you think about it who could have better humanized Hepburn than Mr. Likable himself, Jimmy Stewart?  He, along with director George Cukor, did such a good job of bringing out Hepburn’s vulnerable side that Stewart won his only Oscar (besides his honorary one).  Strangely enough, Stewart and Hepburn never did another film together, and this was also her last pairing with Grant as well. Oh well, both Grant and Stewart moved onto the world of Hitchcock and Hepburn, well, she finally got to work with Spencer Tracy, so I guess things worked out for everyone in the end.

Overall, The Philadelphia Story is a highly enjoyable film.  The story is witty and the cast is engaging.  It also serves as a historical footprint in the film career of Hepburn, because without it things may have turned out very differently for the woman who would go on to be recognized as one of the greatest film actresses ever. 

 

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