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.

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Notorious (1946) ****

Without a doubt, Notorious (1946) is my all-time favorite Alfred Hitchcock movie. At its core, it’s a romantic spy thriller, but there is so much more to it than Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman sneaking three second kisses one after the other while engaging in espionage against the Nazis.  Yes, it’s filled with suspense and sexual tension, but the film, at least for me, is also a surprisingly sharp analysis of human frailty and morality. As if the story weren’t enough, Notorious also has the best cinematography of any of Hitchcock’s black and white films (and some might argue, his entire oeuvre).  

Ben Hecht’s intricately orchestrated Oscar nominated screenplay tells the story of an American espionage operation in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil , where escaped Nazis are planning their next move following the Third Reich’s defeat.  The Strategic Services Unit (SSU, which eventually morphed into, along with other clandestine groups formed after the dissolution of the OSS, into the CIA) recruits Alicia Huberman (Bergman), the daughter of a convicted Nazi spy (Fred Nurney), to infiltrate the Nazis in Rio. Alicia is a high-class notorious good-time girl—simply said, she’s a drunk and a tramp who comes from money. Yet, while awaiting her orders, Alicia falls in love with her SSU handler, Devlin (Grant), a man who does not have a very high opinion of her. Their budding relationship is compromised when she is asked to gain the confidence of her former friend (and perhaps lover) Alex Sebastian (Claude Rains), a leading figure in the Nazi group living in Rio, by whatever means necessary. This, of course, means that Alicia has to use her notorious behavior to seduce Alex. When Devlin raises no objections to this plan, Alicia believes Devlin does not love her and so she sets off on her mission. She obviously does an expert job of this, because before long she is married to Alex and living in a house where Nazis regularly meet and a lot of doors are locked. One door in particular is locked by a key that only Alex has access to: the wine cellar door. Devlin and his superior, Captain Prescott (Louis Calhern), are sure this is where the Nazis are hiding something. An elaborate plan, requiring a huge party be thrown at the Sebastian house, is hatched which calls for Alicia to steal the key from Alex and then pass it onto Devlin, an invited guest. When this betrayal is discovered by Alex, he and his mother (Leopoldine Konstantin) enact a poisonous plan of revenge on Alicia.

The most important theme in Notorious is the idea of trust, which makes sense because it’s about tradecraft (spying).  Still, the way the theme is developed and carried out throughout the story is quite clever. First, Alicia and Devlin’s first meeting is based on deception, as he pretends to be a party crasher at her home. Her notorious behavior as a first class tramp makes Devlin mistrust any changes that she attempts to make in her character. Has she stopped boozing it up and making conquests?  Does she love Devlin, or is he a passing fancy?  As such, he withholds his love and trust from her, even when she begs him to do otherwise, and raises no objections when she is asked to prostitute herself to get the goods on the Nazis.  In turn, Alicia feels betrayed by the man that she loves and sets about proving to Devlin that she’s an accomplished whore.  Her manipulation of Alex’s trust in her, which he gives ever so easily and freely, only exacerbates Devlin’s mistrust in her.  Hopefully, the irony is not lost on anyone that the most trusting person in Notorious is Alex, who is an unwitting pawn in Alicia and Devlin’s twisted game of Truth or Dare. This is why Alex Sebastian is Hitchcock’s most sympathetic villain.  When he learns the truth about Alicia his world is shattered, and you can’t really blame him for wanting to kill her after what she’s done to him. Still, his stupidity, as noted by his mother, was enormous. 

The love story between Alicia and Devlin is extremely complicated and comes off as an indictment on society’s rules on morality. There’s a reason why Alicia drinks and sleeps around—it’s how she learned to cope with her father being a Nazi spy.  There is a very small scene in the film where after Alicia has learned of her father’s suicide that she says, “When he told me a few years ago what he was, everything went to pot. I didn't care what happened to me. Now I remember how nice he once was, how nice we both were. It's a very curious feeling, a feeling as if something had happened to me, not to him. You see I don't have to hate him anymore or myself.”  It is not a coincidence that Alicia attempts to mend her “wicked” ways after his death and that she allows herself to fall in love with a decent man like Devlin.  The problem is that Devlin can’t forget her past, as evidenced by this exchange:

Alicia: The time has come when you must tell me you have a wife and two adorable children and this madness between us can't go on any longer.

Devlin: Bet you've heard that line often enough.

Alicia: Right below the belt every time. That isn't fair, Dev.

Of course, the worst part is that Alicia is recruited as a spy because of her notorious reputation.  The Government has no qualms about prostituting this woman for their political aims precisely because she is a known tramp, but, for some reason, those pimping her out seem to think that it’s okay to defame her in their private conversations with one another.  Worse yet, Devlin throws her past character flaws in her face every chance he gets.  Don’t he and his colleagues bear some responsibility for her behavior?  It is precisely Alicia’s emotional frailty that drives her to seduce and manipulate Alex.  She wouldn’t have taken the assignment in the first place if, as she says to Devlin, “If you only once had said that you loved me.”  In what world does Devlin have any right to be pissed off the entire time that Alicia is risking her life to spy on the Nazis? Surely someone willing to risk imminent danger deserves a little more respect than constant reminders that she’s a whore. And, really, hadn’t Devlin used his own charms on Alicia to get her to go to Rio?  Didn’t he engage in an affair with her and then have the audacity to ask her to seduce Alex?  He could have told his superiors that they were in love and that she was out of the spy business, but he didn’t.  How was his behavior any better than hers? Yet, because she is a fallen woman she is the one who is open to ridicule and judgment. Plus, Devlin’s refusal to believe that Alicia is capable of change is ultimately almost what gets her killed (and, who really knows what happened after that car pulled away from the Sebastian mansion at the end?), as he believes she’s back to boozing when she comes to a meeting gaunt, unsteady, and clearly unwell.

Cinematically, the most striking thing about Notorious is the camerawork. This was Ted Tetzlaff’s last picture as a director of photography, and while he was never as highly regarded as Gregg Toland, Jack Cardiff, Robert Krasker, John Alton, Stanley Cortez, or probably Hitchcock’s favorite cameraman, Robert Burks, he probably shot the best black and white film Hitchcock ever made.  While there are several scenes we could discuss, three in particular stand out for me.

The first scenario is what I like to refer to as the hangover scene. The scene opens with a close-up of a glass of Alka Seltzer, with Alicia in the background, lying on a bed. The camera then zooms out and switches to what Alicia sees. Hung over and seeing things cockeyed, she sees a man, at a titled angle, standing in the shadow of the doorway. As he comes closer, and she is lying on her back in obvious pain, the camera flips upside down and we see a fuzzy, backlit Devlin.  Without a doubt, this is probably the most creatively shot hangover scene ever.

I also find the tea cup scene (yes, they were drinking coffee, but it’s looks like a tea cup), or what I call “Tea is served”, near the end of Notorious to be exceptionally well done.  By this point in the story the tea cup has become it’s own Hitchcockian motif, and the audience is aware that Alex and his mother are well on their way to killing Alicia with poison. Again, drink of some sort seems to be Alicia’s undoing. Just as the fizzing Alka Seltzer is the starting focal point in the hangover scene, the tea cup is shot in the forefront of this scene, which opens with one of the Nazis commenting about how poorly Alicia, dressed in black, looks, and then the focus of the scene shifts from the conversation to a tea set sitting in front of Mrs. Sebastian and then to a particular cup that she brings to Alicia. After a slight shift back to the conversing people, the cup is shot from an ominously low angle with Alicia in the background. When there is a mix up with the cups and Alicia realizes what’s going on, a single, innocent shot of a tea cup moves directly to a bewildered Alicia to a sweeping close-up of first her mother-in-law and then Alex. As she gathers herself up to leave the room, her two poisoners dissolve into shadow figures and seem to be guarding her from the door. Once out in the foyer, her deteriorating health, not to mention her now-altered emotional state, is echoed through the use of distorted images. She then passes out on the checkered tile, which looks a lot like a chess board. Is it just me, or do tea cups and chess boards make you think of Alice in Wonderland?  Is this an overlooked theme by film critics… Or was Alicia a sacrificed pawn in the Government’s chess game with the Nazis?

Perhaps the most famous sequence in Notorious is the infamous wine cellar key swap. Once Alicia swipes the key from Alex it becomes the focal point of the next few minutes of the film. First, Alicia’s closed hands (one containing the key) must elude Alex’s kisses. Next, Tetzlaff uses a crane to do a sweeping shot from the top of the massive staircase to the bottom of the steps where Alex and Alicia are greeting guests and to Alicia’s nervously fidgeting left hand which is gripping the key, anxiously awaiting Devlin’s arrival. When he does finally arrive, the camera focuses in on Alicia’s hand as Devlin kisses it and she passes him the key. All of these elements are seamlessly completed but done in such a way that it heightens the viewer’s anxiety. 

I could go on and on about why I’m such a fan of Notorious.  Every character was expertly cast, with no one giving a false performance.  The story was well paced and quite believable (especially when you consider how many Nazis did end up hiding in Brazil and planning a resurgence of the Reich) and, like almost every Hitchcock picture, meticulously constructed into an edge of your seat thriller, and, in this case, right down to the very last minute on screen.  All of these elements, as well as the ones discussed above, are why I am such an admirer of Notorious. Oh, and the MacGuffin is a wine cellar full of wine bottles filled with uranium…thought I’d add that for all the hardcore Hitch fans out there.

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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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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.

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Adaptation. (2002) ****

I don’t understand why director Spike Jonze doesn’t make more feature length films. Shorts, videos, and documentaries are all he has really produced since making the brilliant Adaptation. (2002) and almost brilliant Being John Malkovich (1999).  Why won’t Charlie Kaufman and his fictional twin brother Donald write truly original screenplays for Jonze anymore?  It boggles the mind…

Anyway, I guess it’s obvious that I adore both Jonze and Kaufman, as well as their brainchild, Adaptation. Nicolas Cage plays twin brothers Charlie and Donald Kaufman—that’s right this is a semi-autobiographical film about Kaufman’s struggle to adapt Susan Orlean’s (Meryl Streep) non-fiction book, The Orchid Thief. The premise is that after writing the screenplay for Being John Malkovich, Kaufman is given the assignment of adapting Orlean’s book, but due to his insecurities and writer’s block Kaufman struggles with the project. It doesn’t help that his twin brother Donald is around to annoy him, either.  And, really, how do you write a script about orchids? 

The only truly autobiographical element of Adaptation. is Kaufman’s writer’s block while adapting The Orchid Thief.  The twin brother, a romance between Laroche (Chris Cooper) and Orlean, and one of the strangest drug addictions I have ever seen, are all fictional.  As I write this, I wonder if I am making the film seem confusing or convoluted in some way, and, perhaps I am, but it isn’t.  Without a doubt, it is one of best written movies I have ever seen—and the performances are also stellar. Which, of course, extends my disbelief as to why Jonze and Kaufman don’t make more films together.

Overall, Adaptation. was nominated for four Academy Awards. And, just like Being John Malkovich got short shrift by the Academy regarding a Best Picture nod, so did Adaptation. Freaking Chicago (2002) won Best Picture that year!  My God, all four of the other films nominated (Gangs of New York, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, The Hours, and The Pianist) were better than Chicago—oh, I’m getting off track here--suffice to say, if your three principal leads get nominated, as well as your screenwriter and his fictional brother, surely you might get a Best Picture look—especially when you were a far superior film to the actual winner! This rant is now over…

Cage, Streep, and Cooper all earned acting nominations.  Cooper won a Best Supporting Actor Oscar for his quirky portrayal of a delusional, but highly intelligent orchid thief who is haunted by the events of his past.  His interactions with Streep’s New York intellectual/journalist, Susan Orlean, are priceless.  They make an extremely odd couple, but their mutual loneliness and sadness draw them to one another.  I particularly found watching Streep get hooked on snorting ghost orchid up her nose to feel happy oddly fascinating.  I’ve seen Streep do some pretty screwed up things in movies—giving kids away to Nazis and Dustin Hoffman and dancing around and singing while wearing overalls—but snorting green flower residue and deciding to kill someone to keep this a secret just aren’t character traits that one would envision being in her wheelhouse.

And, as it is always difficult to play twins—just ask Bette Davis—I believe Nicolas Cage deserves a lot of credit, too.  Sure, at first it’s disconcerting to see him talking to himself—I mean his twin—but once you adjust it is easy to determine when he is playing either Charlie or Donald.  It helps that each brother had love interests played by two very gifted actresses--Cara Seymour and Maggie Gyllenhaal.

Oh, and I almost forgot to mention one of the smartest and unique things about Adaptation.—part of the movie takes place on the set of Being John Malkovich.  There are cameos by John Cusack, Catherine Keener, and, of course, John Malkovich.  While most of Adaptation. is fictional, this small element adds a touch of authenticity to the Charlie Kaufman character. 

Overall, I love Adaptation. It is probably in my top 10 of the best films of the last twenty years. Graced by a highly imaginative script and standout performances from every last cast member, Adaptation. is one of those films that I never get tired of watching. Ah, if only Jonze and Kaufman would make more movies like it—preferably together. 

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Bringing Up Baby (1938) ****

It is difficult for me to understand how director Howard Hawks’ Bringing Up Baby (1938) ended up being a monumental flop—it’s absolutely hilarious. Yet, it was panned by reviewers; snubbed by Oscar; and, neglected by moviegoers. Things were so bad that Katharine Hepburn had to buy out her RKO contract and Hawks was dropped by RKO—which cost him the right to direct Gunga Din (1939), which went to George Stevens. However, in the end Bringing Up Baby had the last laugh, as it is now considered one of the best American comedies ever made. What I adore about Bringing Up Baby is its breakneck pace and its clever dialogue—plus you can’t go wrong with a Grant-Hepburn pairing supported by the likes of May Robson, Charlie Ruggles, Fritz Feld, and Walter Catlett.

Dr. David Huxley (Cary Grant) is on the brink of completing the four-year process of reconstructing a brontosaurus when a missing intercostal clavicle is found.  In addition, David is about to secure a $1 million donation to the museum from Elizabeth Random (Robson) and he is getting married to Ms. Swallow (Virginia Walker).  Life is good for David—that is until his golf ball is stolen by a flighty, oblivious young woman named Susan Vance (Katharine Hepburn). Kleptomania is Susan’s disease: she not only steals David’s golf ball but his car as well—with him standing on the running board. When you think about it, Susan is a small-time crook in the making. Let’s see, she steals a golf ball, two cars, a purse, David’s clothes, and a leopard in less than two days.  It only makes sense that she would also want to steal Ms. Swallow’s fiancee, too, right?

Even with David wearing his glasses, Susan soon falls in love with him—although when she break his glasses she also likes to mention just how good-looking he is without them (perhaps this is where they got the Clark Kent/Superman, idea?). And, who wouldn’t—he is played by Cary Grant!  Susan and David do make a handsome couple, but David wants none of Susan’s craziness.  Throwing rocks at lawyers, stealing countless things, and having a pet leopard named Baby would seem like deal-breakers to most people, right? Well, it’s a 1938 Hollywood comedy—guess how it ends?

Howard Hawks should be lauded for his ability to pull the whole production together (although it did run overschedule and over budget) whilst working diligently to curb Hepburn’s nerves about her comedic abilities.  Everything about Hepburn screamed drama, and to be plunged into a harebrained screwball comedy was unnerving for her—especially after a series of flops. Initially she started the production overacting in an attempt to be funny, but Hawks cured her of this by bringing in Walter Catlett to coach her.  Catlett acted out Hepburn’s scenes with Grant and showed her that just being herself and allowing Grant to play his character as it was intended was enough. Hepburn was so indebted to Catlett that she asked he be given the role of Constable Slocum—which he was rewarded with. 

The script by Dudley Nichols and Hagar Wilde is full of double entendres and witty dialogue.  The censors knew there was something very wrong about Bringing Up Baby, but they just couldn’t put their finger on it. It could have been that David was searching for a lost bone or explaining that he thought a certain bone went in the tail but was rebuffed by Mrs. Swallow when she said, “You tried it in the tail yesterday, and it didn't fit.” And then there’s the “gay” thing. Grant has the unique honor of introducing the term “gay” into popular culture when he was dressed in a frilly woman’s negligee and explained his appearance to Mrs. Random by saying, ““Because I just went gay all of a sudden!”

Of course, the best lines are reserved for David and Susan’s stint in Constable Slocum’s jail.  When Hepburn begins her mobster moll act and does her best impression of Barbara Stanwyck in Ladies They Talk About (1933) it is hysterically funny—especially when you consider Hepburn never played such a role in her entire career. And then there’s the nod to The Awful Truth (1937):

Susan: You mean to say you don't remember 'Jerry the Nipper' ?

David: Constable she's making all this up out of motion pictures she's seen!

[Irene Dunne refers to Cary Grant as 'Jerry the Nipper' in The Awful Truth]

Susan: Oh, I suppose I saw you with that red-headed skirt in a motion picture ?

And, then there’s Baby and George (another transplant from The Awful Truth and of course The Thin Man series). In what other film can you see a leopard and a Wire Fox Terrier playing with one another?  For the most part, Hepburn was unafraid of the leopard—she wore enough perfume to choke even a $5 dollar hooker to keep that leopard at bay.  It was Grant who was petrified of the cat and who had to have a stand-in for most of his scenes with the leopard.  Which only adds to the humor of watching Susan literally dragging the mean leopard to the police station.

Overall, I am a huge fan of Bringing Up Baby. Hepburn and Grant have wonderful chemistry and make you like their two divergent characters.  The film moves along quickly and has tons of great lines, which, when put all together, makes for a brisk screwball comedy.

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The Awful Truth (1937) ****

 

Cary Grant and Irene Dunne were a match made in screwball heaven. Her impeccable comedic timing and his gift for physical comedy made them an irresistible pair. While The Lady Eve (1941) is my all-time favorite screwball comedy, The Awful Truth (1937) comes in as a close second. Perhaps there aren’t any spectacular cinematographic shots or jaw-dropping dramatic performances, but to pull off a comedy filled with such sophisticated wit and engaging execution is something to be admired.

Nominated for six Academy Awards, The Awful Truth is about a New York couple who find themselves in divorce court after a slight misunderstanding: did the car really break down and cause Lucy Warriner (Irene Dunne) to have to stay out all night with her handsome music teacher Armand (Alexander D’Arcy), and why was Jerry Warriner in California when he said he was in Florida? High-strung and hot-tempered are bad traits in one person, let alone two who are married to one another, and so they are granted a divorce with a 90-day waiting period. The only thing that keeps them connected is their adorably smart dog Mr. Smith (Asta/Skippy), for whom they share joint custody. When Lucy becomes involved with slow-witted Oklahoma oil man Dan Leeson (Ralph Bellamy) Jerry becomes jealous and tries to point out why the man is all wrong for Lucy (which he is). And, when Jerry starts spending time with beautiful rich socialite Barbara Vance (Molly Lamont) Lucy literally puts on a show of jealousy for the ages. Does the couple get back together? I think you probably can guess the answer, but how they reunite is a bedroom tale left unspoken—let’s just say they figure out that they were cuckoo for ever doubting their love.

Okay, so what is so great about The Awful Truth? First and foremost, Dunne sparkles as Lucy. Playing a somewhat kooky, flighty woman was nothing new for Dunne, who’d been nominated for a Best Actress Oscar the year before in Theodora Goes Wild (1936), but she elevated her game slightly for the role of Lucy (although she lost yet again to Luise Rainer for Best Actress—really, two years in a row…was Rainer sleeping with everyone in Hollywood?). With masterful facial expressions and expertly delivered lines, Dunne makes Lucy the perfect screwball heroine. Her ability to play both a capricious woman driven beyond the point of exasperation by her husband’s jealousy and a caricature of a low-class cabaret singer bent on destroying Jerry’s romance with Barbara is a delightful study in character contrast.

Grant’s combination of sophistication and buffoonery plays exceedingly well. One minute he is the picture of debonair suaveness and the next he is Jitsu fighting with a butler or falling off a chair in the middle of an intimate parlor concert. Grant said that Dunne was his favorite actress to work with, and it shows here, as he and Dunne have perfect chemistry. Every scene flows evenly and neither actor gets the best of the other.

Who doesn’t love a cute dog? And, when you combine cute with smart, you get the perfect canine, and that is what Mr. Smith is. His interactions with both Dunne and Grant are hilarious. Of particular note is the “Two Hat” scene where Lucy tries to hide Armand’s hat from Jerry and Mr. Smith keeps finding it. When he climbs up on a mirrored table to gain access to the hat it is priceless.

The supporting characters are also one of the reasons The Awful Truth is so successful. Bellamy earned a Best Supporting Actor Oscar nomination for his portrayal of a gullible, slow-witted cowboy. From his horrible rendition of “Home on the Range” to his mama boy discussions with his domineering mother (Esther Dale), Bellamy is a delight. Cecil Cunningham is also wickedly entertaining as Lucy’s Aunt Patsy, who is stone-faced and straight talking. While her lines are few and far between, they are always delivered with just the right tone and gusto.

Finally, I must also say something about Dunne’s wardrobe, which was designed by Robert Kalloch. Dunne always wore clothes well, but some of the outfits/hats she wore in The Awful Truth took a certain type of woman to wear. From the gigantic white mink coat she enters the film in to a pajama lounging outfit made for the ages, Dunne wears Lucy’s crazy clothes stylishly and confidently. Really, she had to know how ridiculously bizarre some of the hats placed on her head looked, but I expect she realized the clothes fit her character’s slightly-off personality well.

Overall, I adore The Awful Truth. It is a stylish, devilishly funny film filled with memorable scenes and lines. Dunne and Grant’s onscreen chemistry pulls the viewer in and makes everyone root for the couple’s reunion—which is done in a perfectly cuckoo way.

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Hugo (2011) ****

Every once in awhile cinema has a stellar year: 1939, 1940, 1941, 1950, 1957, 1962, 1967, 1976, and 1994 spring to mind. I now feel confident that we can add 2011 to that esteemed list, primarily because of such films as The Artist, The Descendants, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, The Help, Midnight in Paris, A Separation, In Darkness, and today’s entry: Hugo. Granted, some are better than others, but taken as a whole they serve to make 2011 one of the best years for film in almost two decades. It is my opinion that director Martin Scorsese’s Hugo is the standout production from this illustrious year.

Based on Brian Selznick’s 2007 novel, The Invention of Hugo Cabret, Hugo is about an orphaned Parisian boy (Asa Butterfield) who keeps the Paris Gare Montparnasse Railway Station’s clocks moving.  Apprenticed to his drunk, absentee uncle (Ray Winstone), Hugo is an extremely lonely boy whose only friend appears to be a broken automaton (think Metropolis) that he and his father (Jude Law) were attempting to fix before Mr. Cabret was killed in a fire. To attain parts to the automaton, Hugo steals them from the railway station’s toymaker, Georges Méliès (Ben Kingsley), who begrudgingly befriends the boy after witnessing his mechanical acumen. Hugo also become friends with Méliès goddaughter and ward, Isabelle (Chloë Grace Moretz), who happens to possess the key (quite literally) to fixing the automaton.  Once fixed, the automaton draws the now iconic symbol of the spaceship in the eye of the moon from A Trip to the Moon (1902).  The children set off to discover what the drawing means, and this adventure leads them to discover that the toymaker was once one of cinema’s greatest filmmakers. There’s much more to the story, but I won’t spoil it for those of you who haven’t seen it yet.

Scorsese, along with acclaimed cinematographer Robert Richardson (who won an Oscar for this film), shot Hugo is 3-D. My words can not do justice to the sheer beauty of what they put up on the screen.  Without a doubt this is Scorsese’s visual masterpiece, it is a shame that he didn’t win a Best Director Oscar, but obviously the Academy was in love with The Artist in 2011. From the shots of the interworking of the clocks to the spectacular railway shots, everything seems so much crisper and fluid than what I’ve seen in other 3-D films.  Hugo deservedly won five Academy Awards for its visual and audio mastery: cinematography, art direction, visual effects, sound editing, and sound mixing. The only technical award that it didn’t win was for film editing, which went to The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (I haven’t seen this yet, so I can’t make a judgment on which deserved the Oscar more).

But this movie isn’t just visually stunning, it also has an engaging and endearing story.  Watching all of the plot elements come together at the end was perhaps a bit oversentimental, but still highly enjoyable.  For a film filled with so many emotionally (and in one case, physically) broken people Hugo never becomes overburdened by melancholy. I was especially pleased with the care Scorsese and Oscar-nominated screenwriter John Logan took in developing Méliès’s backstory. Yes, they took a few historical licenses in this depiction, but for the most part they were fairly accurate. Few directors have as much reverence for the history of film as Scorsese. By inserting clips of the most important films prior to 1931 (when this story takes place) Scorsese showcases the grandeur of early cinema.  On a side note, I must thank The 1001 Book for my ability to recognize just about every film referenced in Hugo.

In addition to outstanding visuals and a moving story, Hugo is also loaded with a number of standout performances. Both Butterfield and Moretz show great range for such young actors.  Butterfield, in particular, has what is known as screen presence (of course, that could have been an added advantage to being shot in 3-D).  Not surprisingly, Kingsley is mesmerizing as Méliès.  If you’ve seen any old photos of the famed director then you know the make-up department did a fantastic job transforming Kingsley into Méliès.  The most surprising performance came from Sacha Baron Cohen as Inspector Gustave.  Who knew that the man who created such idiotic caricatures as Borat, Ali G, Bruno, and General Aladeen, could play a complete buffoon with so much restraint? I have to admit I was completely shocked by how nice of a job he did with this role.

I could go on and on about how much I liked Hugo, but I expect you are tired of reading (if you’ve made it this far), so I’ll end by saying that it is one of the best films I’ve seen in the last ten years.  It is truly a monumental piece of cinematic vision.

 

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