The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (Les Parapluies De Cherbourg) 1964 ****

Before her role in director Jacques Demy’s 1964 classic musical, Les Parapluies De Cherbourg, Catherine Deneuve was best known for giving birth to Roger Vadim’s illegitimate son. In a way, this was good preparation for her portrayal of an unmarried, 17-year-old who finds herself pregnant by a boyfriend serving in the Algerian War. Just twenty-years old when this film made her an international star, Deneuve’s melancholic performance was greatly enhanced by an unforgettable Michel Legrand musical score. Nominated for five Academy Awards, including Best Foreign Language Film, Best Screenplay, and Best Musical Score, this film won the Golden Palm and the OCIC.

Les Parapluies De Cherbourg is my all-time favorite film. I was in graduate school, studying French history, when a colleague asked what I thought of the French New Wave. This discussion naturally included the French’s love of jazz and films with unhappy endings. This, of course, was a perfect time for my colleague to mention that there was a film that encompassed both of these elements: Les Parapluies De Cherbourg. A lover of musicals since childhood, I jumped at the chance to watch this film once a copy could be procured. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.

I suspect I was just as shocked as the audience at the 1964 Cannes Film Festival when I realized that the ENTIRE film is sung (in French, of course)—there is no “traditional” dialogue. Instead, it is a modern day (popular) opera, set primarily to a jazz score. This tends to create a problem for American audiences who overwhelmingly dislike reading subtitles at “normal” speed, let alone at song-lyric speed. About fifteen minutes into watching I turned the subtitles off. My French was passable at the time, so I could mostly keep up with what was being sung.

Legendary French songwriter Michel Legrand, with the aid of Demy and others, wrote a musical soundtrack/script that is at times playful, romantic, and haunting. The most famous song is the title song, “Les Parapluies De Cherbourg” (more commonly known in English as “I Will Wait for You”). The instrumental version, which closes the film in heart-wrenching fashion (you will never forget it once you experience it), is brilliant all by itself. Then, when you set effortless lyrics to the score, it is a phenomenal love song. The closing pass of the song (finished off with a rousing violin-drenched crescendo) is:

Ils se sont séparés sur le quai d'un gare

Ils se sont éloignés dans un dernier regard

Oh je t'aim' ne me quitte pas

Loosely translated, from French to English:

They separated on the platform of a station

They moved away in one last look

Oh I love you does not leave me

The best recorded version of this song is by the Greek diva-extraordinaire Nana Mouskouri. Often imitated but never surpassed by countless covers (by such artists as Tony Bennett and Carlo Berardinucci), it is a timeless song that even after 45+ years doesn’t sound dated. In addition to this gem there are other seamless songs that carry the film along to its eventual devastating conclusion.

Another startling element of the film is the way Demy uses color to carry the story. Cherbourg is an often rainy and dreary port city in Normandy, so the bright blues, oranges, pinks, reds, and yellows that Demy uses in the clothing and overall set design is far from a realistic portrait of the title city. Yet, the virtual Technicolor world that he creates, with bright swatches of color, serves as a co-conspirator in the film. For example, in the beginning of the film everything jumps with color, which corresponds to the happy state of young lovers Genevieve (Deneuve) and Guy (Nino Castelnuovo). In a way the bright pastels serve as blinders—the young, impetuous lovers are surrounded by bright, clear color, but they can’t truly see what lies ahead. However, by the end of the film, when the now irrevocably parted lovers meet by chance one snowy night, there is a notable absence of color. Agnes Varda, Demy’s wife (and a director in her own right) has said that Demy’s use of color was aimed at portraying the violence and the cruelty of the story.

For those who like to see happy endings, there is no crueler ending than what you are given in this film. I have often contemplated why the ending is so emotionally jarring. I think it has a lot to do with the youthful exuberance shown by Genevieve and Guy, who are so much in love at the start of the film. It is a pure and innocent love, which in any other film would have come off as sickeningly saccharin. Then, your heart absolutely breaks at the famous train scene where Guy goes off to Algeria with a teary-eyed Genevieve on the train platform. But that’s okay, because the movie is only half over and you know they are going to get married and have a child named Francoise as soon as he returns—right? After all, she did sing she would wait for him! Oh, but she finds out she’s pregnant and Guy doesn’t write and the next thing you know she’s marrying that wealthy jewel smuggler (Marc Michel) from Lola (another Demy musical, from 1961) who you felt so bad for when his romantic hopes were crushed by that slut Anouk Aimee! Yet, still somewhere in your mind is the thought that Guy will come home and save Genevieve from a loveless marriage and all will be right in Cherbourg. But, alas, that’s not what happens.

Instead, you learn the bittersweet lessons that love does not always conquer all and that not everyone (especially you the viewer) gets a happy ending. Instead, people settle. Genevieve settles for wealth and security; Guy settles for companionship and loyalty. The one small detail that the viewer can take solace in is the unforgettable final scene, where by revealing the names of their respective children, both named Francoise, the couple are somehow still connected—even if they are living different lives they need only say the name of their child and some semblance of what once was pure love remains: “Oh I love you does not leave me.”

This movie made Deneuve a star. Her Genevieve was innocence personified. Called upon to display every emotion, from love to despair, she transforms a naïve, love-struck teenager into a resigned, world-weary woman who accepts that life isn’t always fair. Of course, Roman Polanski and Luis Bunuel couldn’t wait to tarnish that innocence, but that’s a story for another day.

 

This article was nominated for a 2011 CIMBA in the category of Best Film Review (Musical or Comedy). The CIMBA is the CMBA's award for excellence in classic movie blogging.

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Queen Christina (1933) ***

It is difficult to understand how this 1933 racy (this means erotic by 1930s standards) romantic drama ended up being a box-office failure. Here you have one of the most beautiful women in the world, Greta Garbo, playing an amorous 17th century Swedish queen who risks her crown for love. In addition, you have John Gilbert playing her tragic lover—the same John Gilbert she jilted at the altar in 1926. Anyone who read the film magazines back then surely knew Laurence Olivier was supposed to star opposite Garbo, and that it was only after her insistence that Gilbert was given the role. With so much backstory, who could resist this film? Evidently Americans who were too depressed about the Great Depression to watch a tragic romance.

Rouben Mamoulian directed this very loose with the facts historical drama. Screenwriters S.N. Behrman and H.M. Harwood obliviously didn’t read a Swedish history primer, because there are a number of glaring historical inaccuracies (ah, but it was for dramatic effect, so what the heck). The real Christina did not abdicate because of love (or the death of a lover), but because she wanted to practice Catholicism instead of state sanctioned Lutheranism. However, they did get it right when they hinted at Christina’s lesbian leanings in regards to Ebba (Elizabeth Young), her lady-in-waiting—see the mouth-to-mouth kiss they share in this film (obviously the censor was a man).

Christina ascends to the throne at a very young age after the death of her father, King Gustavus. Her regent, Lord Chancellor Oxenstierna (Lewis Stone), wants to marry her off to her cousin, Prince Charles (Reginald Owen). Prince Charles is a national war hero and highly revered by the Swedish people. But Christina could care less about Prince Charles and his endless desire to wage war (actually she has a problem with the warmongering). In the palace she has any number of consorts, namely Count Magnus (Ian Keith) and Countess Ebba. Hence, she knows she will not die an old maid, but as she proclaims a “bachelor”. Still, she is a bit hurt when Ebba tells her fiancee that the queen is too domineering. With too much court intrigue and a bit of a bruised ego, Christina finds herself yearning for a change of scenery. And, this brings her to her first meeting with the Spanish envoy, Don Antonio (Gilbert).

Traveling incognito with her trusted bodyguard, Aage (C. Aubrey Smith), she happens upon the Spanish envoy, whose carriage is stuck in the snow. After coming to Don Antonio’s assistance she suggests he spend the night at the nearest inn. This is where things get spicy. Don Antonio mistakenly thinks she’s a boy (she’s dressed like one and has a pageboy haircut), so he thinks nothing of sharing the only available room at the inn with her. Ah, but why is he strangely attracted to this young man? He soon learns when she undresses in front of a roaring fire. To say he was pleased would be an understatement. They spend the next several days locked in this room enjoying amorous endeavors under fur bedcovers. Where were the censors—in a breadline? Somehow in all of this, she forgets to mention she is the Queen of Sweden.

Instead, the queen thinks they should be properly introduced when he comes to court. Ah, the shocked look Gilbert displays in this scene is priceless. Though he feels slightly used and ridiculed, he eventually forgives her and they consort with one another at court. But there are problems looming: Don Antonio is a Catholic; Count Magnus is jealous; and, the Swedish people want her to marry Prince Charles. The people are so upset that they storm the palace and have to be subdued by the queen herself. Court Magnus is so jealous that he kidnaps Don Antonio and forces Christina to sign a passport for her lover’s return to Spain. This act leads her to abdicate the throne for love and to set her off on a journey to the frontier to meet Don Antonio. Too bad Don Antonio has been mortally wounded in a duel with Magnus—at least he waits to die in her arms. That’s something, right? She did give up a crown and kingdom for him after all, the least he could do is wait to bleed to death in front of her. Thus, this brings us to the climatic final shot (by cinematographer William Daniels) of Christina on a boat taking her slain lover home to Spain. A glowing, close-up of Garbo’s marvelous face looking out into nothingness. Yeah, I’d say this film could be considered a real downer for Depression-era Americans.

What I like about this film is how wickedly risqué it is. The dialogue is double entendre laced. The love scenes are daring and erotic (for the 1930s), and you have directly hinted at references to homosexuality. It is hard to believe this film was released in 1933. While Camille and Ninotchka are Garbo’s best films, this is her most daring. It is also the film that comes closest to resembling who Garbo was off-screen.

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Freaks (1932) **

The title of this classic 1932 film is not what one might call politically correct. There are few films in all of cinema that can be classified in the horror realism genre (one might think of The Blair Witch Project or the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre, but they are severely flawed wannabes). Yet, director Tod Browning’s Freaks is one of those few films that blends realism with horror. The freaks in the film’s title are actual 1930s carnival and circus freaks, with all of their deformities on full display. It is said that Browning had the largest casting call of professional freaks ever, and it shows. When watching this film one can’t help but be disturbed by some of the afflictions of these “freaks.” Quite frankly, this is an odd, disturbing film. The film was so shocking that it was actually banned in a number of places. It was later rediscovered on the art house circuit and today is a common staple of TCM’s October schedule.

Browning, of course, is most known for directing Bela Lugosi in the original Dracula (1931). Yet, many film critics consider Freaks to be his masterpiece (not that there was much to choose from) because of his unflinching presentation of another strange reality unfamiliar to the common moviegoer. I tend to agree with the critics on this one. In regards to the horror genre, I find Freaks much creepier and frightening than Dracula. Now, if you want to see a truly frightening take on the vampire myth watch Nosferatu: A Symphony of Terror (1922).

The film opens with a carnival barker explaining the events that led to the beautiful “Peacock of the Air”, trapeze artist Cleopatra’s (Olga Baclanova) horrible current state. At this moment, one might prepare oneself for watching a trapeze act gone terribly bad—one would be wrong. Instead, one is treated to one of the strangest downfalls in all of cinema history. It would seem that Hans (Harry Earles), a wealthy carnival dwarf (don’t ask why he works in a carnival if he’s rich, just go with it) is smitten with Cleopatra. Her beauty and “normalness” makes Hans forget all about his dwarf fiancé Frieda (Daisy Earles). Seeing an easy way to rid themselves of the carnival life and all of the freaks they despise, Cleopatra and her strongman lover Hercules (cliché, anyone?) hatch an unsavory plot. By feigning love and admiration for Hans, Cleopatra convinces the dwarf that they should marry. This leads to one of the strangest wedding feasts ever.

The assembled guests at the wedding table consists of all freaks, sans Cleopatra and Hercules. This is a sight to behold. After consuming way too much alcohol, one of the freaks informs Cleopatra that she is now one of them. Oh, no you didn’t! This, of course, enrages Cleopatra and she launches into full bitch mode by calling her guests “dirty” and “slimy”. As if that wasn’t enough, she belittles and demeans her new husband by carrying him around on her shoulders like a child or, even worse, a pet chimp. This does not bode well for the wedding night. Which, of course, leads to the reason why Cleopatra married him in the first place: so she and Hercules could kill Hans with poison and then run off with his money.

The scene where she informs Hans that she could never love a freak like him and that their marriage is a sham is difficult to watch. The look on Han’s face is just so pitiful. I suppose Harry Earles had a lot of past insults to draw from when it came to playing this scene. Shocked and humiliated, Hans collapses—of course, the poison didn’t help either. Counting their chickens before they’ve hatched (if you’ve seen this film, you know this is a sad attempt at a pun), Hercules and Cleopatra freely discuss how many doses of poison it will take to kill Hans. When another freak overhears them, he goes for a doctor. Of course, the dose was so small that the doctor thinks it was an accident and he pronounces that Hans will make a full recovery with the aid of his medicine. Well, now you know that instead of giving Hans his medicine she’s going to substitute poison! In the end, the freaks band together and issue their own sadistic form of retribution. Hence, the grisly spectacle that the carnival barker is describing to the crowd: a legless squawking chicken-woman. What an ending… Oh, wait, yes, upon orders from MGM they had to tack on a happy ending with Hans and Frieda. Personally, the film should have ended with that shocking image of Cleopatra.

While this is not the greatest film you will ever see, it is an interesting watch. The pure shock value of some of the scenes is enough to warrant spending a mere 64 minutes watching Tod Browning’s best film.

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Duck Soup (1933) **

People have many reasons why they either like or dislike the Marx Brothers. I would not classify myself as one of their biggest fans. Yet, of all their films, this 1933 classic is most probably my favorite. Perhaps it has something to do with my being a historian—the film is a political satire of fascism. Thinking the film was a personal attack on his leadership, Mussolini banned it in Italy. But if you push the historical aside for a moment, there is one other reason why this might be my favorite Marx Bros. picture: it was the last one in which Zeppo appeared. No, he wasn’t the funniest of the four—that would be Chico, in my opinion. Yet, he had one thing the other three did not possess: he was good looking. Call me shallow, but every picture needs a little man-candy and Zeppo provided it. Somehow their pictures just weren’t the same after he went straight into retirement (there’s a pun in there, you figure it out).

This was the last film the brothers made for Paramount. It was a a box-office disaster and Paramount decided not to re-sign them. And, so off they went to MGM, where they made their two most successful films: A Night at the Opera and A Day at the Races. I suppose Paramount didn’t know what it had until it was gone…or so the cliché goes.

Ernst Lubitsch was originally slated to direct, but in the end the task fell to Leo McCarey. Good thing, too. Yes, Lubitsch was one of the greatest directors ever (see Ninotchka and To Be or Not to Be…no, I mean really see them), but had he directed there would have never been the famous mirror pantomime, which was McCarey’s idea (not an original one, since it was from an old vaudeville act and a Chaplin film, but still…). And, of course, McCarey also came up with (or recycled if you like) the title. He’d used it in an earlier Laurel & Hardy short. Today most people don’t know what duck soup is—both the film and the expression. I have more sympathy for those who aren’t familiar with old American idioms (see Ziva on N.C.I.S…really, see her on CBS Tuesdays) than I do with people who have no idea who the Marx Bros. are. For the Ziva’s out there, it’s an unaffectionate term for a sucker---just to clarify, not the type you put in your mouth, either.

The screenplay, written by Bert Kalmar and Harry Ruby, incorporates three good musical numbers that fit seamlessly into the plot: “The Country’s Goin’ to War”, “When the Clock on the Wall Strikes Ten” (sung by Zeppo), and “Just Wait ‘Til I Get Through With It”. The story is simple enough: the fictional Balkan kingdom of Freedonia is bankrupt and on the verge of revolution when Mrs. Teasdale (the always wonderful Margaret Dumont) offers to support the country with a $20 million loan. The catch? The country must be placed under new leadership—namely Rufus T. Firefly (Groucho Marx). When the ruler of neighboring Sylvania (who I imagine is played by Jeanette MacDonald even though we never see her) sends Ambassador Trentino (Louis Calhern) to the coronation he sets his sights on Mrs. Teasdale, hoping to gain control of Freedonia for himself. His initial weapon of choice is a sultry dancer, Vera Marcal (Raquel Torres), whom he wants to use to distract Firefly from matters of state…and Mrs. Teasdale.

Firefly’s political cabinet consists of his personal secretary du jour, Lt. Bob Rolland (Zeppo Marx); his silent chauffeur, Pinkie (Harpo Marx)—don’t worry, he wears a horn—; and, his Cabinet of War, Chicolini (Chico Marx). The problem is Chicolini and Pinkie are spies for Trentino—however, they are mostly a problem for Trentino as they are total incompetents. Trentino should have had Rolland as his spy, since he is the one who does the most damage to Freedonia by suggesting to Firefly that he insult Trentino to get him to retaliate and be thrown out of the country. After an exchange of insults between the two men ends with Trentino calling Firefly an “upstart” and Trentino being glove-slapped by the president, war is declared between the two countries. This sets up the best sequence of the film: the classic mirror pantomime scene.

Dispatched by Trentino to steal Freedonia’s war plans, Chicolini and Pinkie (disguised as Firefly) break into Mrs. Teasdale’s mansion and all hell breaks loose. When Pinkie tries to break into the safe “Stars and Stripes Forever” blasts through the house and brings Firefly in search of the culprit. Trying to escape detection by Firefly, Pinkie runs into a wall mirror and smashes it to pieces. What follows is a silent cat-and-mouse game between Firefly and Pinkie, as Pinkie attempts to mimic everything Firefly does at the precise same moment that he’s doing it. Highlights of this scene include the Charleston and white Panama hat—which Firefly returns to Pinkie when he drops his. The scene doesn’t end until Chicolini wanders into the “mirror” and Firefly captures him. Chicolini is promptly tried for treason, and amazingly enough, Firefly takes on the role of defense attorney.

There is only one thing that rivals the mirror pantomime scene, and that is when the four brothers perform (the only time all four appear in the same musical number) “The Country’s Going to War”. The song is a mixture of musical styles (negro spiritual, patriotic, and whatever genre you would put “Comin’ Round the Mountain” in). It is a hilarious parody of the absurdity of war. The war that follows it is also hilarious, but not as classic as the song that leads into it.

When the film came out in 1933 a lot of people were offended by the way the Marx brothers satirized government and its leaders. The Depression was engaged in a full-court press. And, two very different men had just become leaders of their respective nations: FDR and Hitler. To be American and mock democratic political leadership in the face of the rise of authoritarian governments in Germany and Italy seemed too disrespectful to some. I think if the economy hadn’t been in ruins and there weren’t crazy Fascists running around, the film’s reception might have been warmer. Alas, to use yet another cliché, Duck Soup was a victim of circumstance. Thirty years later, when yet another tumultuous event was transpiring (Vietnam), another, more appreciative, audience emerged on college campuses and in art houses. Today, Duck Soup is regarded by many as the greatest Marx Bros. film ever…and, alas, the last one with Zeppo.

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She Done Him Wrong (1933) **1/2

“Why don’t you come up sometime and see me?” When this now-famous line fell from Mae West’s heavily lined lips in this 1933 film, she and Hollywood (specifically Paramount) had no idea what and whom they were inviting into their world. Laced with double entendres galore, and supported (both figuratively and literally) with overt sexuality (not to mention white slavery), this was the film that just went too far in the eyes of Catholics and the Hays Production Code. Widely ignored for the first years of its existence, the Production Code would start to be strictly enforced starting in 1934. This is why many film historians like to look at the films of 1933 to see just how far Hollywood pushed the envelope before the strict enforcement of the Code a year later (which lasted until 1968 with the MPAA ratings). This film in particular is the reason why this is the only film starring Mae West to be nominated for an Academy Award—at least it was for Best Picture.

A recreation of Mae West’s extremely popular (but scandalous) Broadway play, Diamond Lil, this was the film that catapulted West to Hollywood stardom and made her a household name. Credited with a screenwriting credit (along with John Bright and Harvey Thaw), West plays Lady Diamond Lou, a woman with a penchant for bling and handsome men—even if they are wearing Salvation Army uniforms. Director Lowell Sherman got one helluva leading dame in West—no one was better at dropping saucy one-liners and singing songs dripping with innuendo (“A Guy What Takes His Time”, “I Wonder Where My Easy Riders Gone”, and “Frankie and Johnny”).

The film takes place in the New York City Bowery in the 1890s—primarily in a rowdy saloon run by Gus Jordan (Noah Beery, Sr.). Lady Lou is the saloon’s top entertainer and Gus’s mistress. She gets her nickname Diamond Lou from all of the jewels he (and many others) bestows upon her. How can a saloon owner afford to bedeck his paramour in such glittering jewels? He’s a sleazy criminal, who runs a counterfeit ring and a white slavery racket. We are led to believe that Diamond Lou has no idea about these other industries.

Next door to the saloon is a city mission headed by Captain Cummings (Cary Grant). Strangely enough Captain Cummings isn’t really a missionary but an undercover FBI agent trying to get the goods on Gus. He uses his cover as a way to get inside the saloon—he’s there to help the sinners repent—especially Lou. Of course, Gus doesn’t like this because he doesn’t want the good captain to scare off any customers. In addition, Lou and Captain Cummings have a strange flirtation that Gus finds irritating.

The story gets set in motion after a young girl named Sally (Rochelle Hudson) tries to commit suicide, but is stopped and sent up to Diamond Lou’s room for a good talking to. Things had went wrong between Sally and a man, and thinking no man would want her anymore, she tried to off herself. When Lou tells Rita (Rafaela Ottiano), a criminal associate of Gus, about the situation Rita says she can help the girl. Of course, Lou has no idea this means Sally is going to be sold into white slavery in the Barbary Coast.

Meanwhile, we learn that Lou has more pressing issues than wronged young girls: her insanely jealous boyfriend who is in the clink. Chick Clark (Owen Moore) had to take a trip to Sing-Sing after being caught trying to steal diamonds for Lou. He likes to make sweet promises to Lou, like he’ll kill her if she cheats on him while he’s in jail. These promises become a little less sweet when he escapes from jail. In addition to this little problem, Lou’s next door eye-candy is about to be evicted for not paying rent. Her solution? One diamond bracelet for a building. And, finally, if she doesn’t already have enough on her plate, she learns from Dan Flynn (David Landau), another one of her admirers, that the law is about to come down on Gus and that the she might be implicated as well. Enough problems, yet?

Some things do work out in Lou’s favor, though. When Captain Cummings inquires about the whereabouts of Sally, he is pleased to learn that she has no idea what depravity Gus and Rita are involved in. This endears Lou to him even more, as it is obvious that he has feelings for the sultry singer. Too bad more bad things are on the way, though…

First, Lou is surprised to find Chick hiding out in her bedroom. Crazed with jealousy, not to mention fearful of the cops searching for him down in the saloon, Chick threatens to kill Lou if she doesn’t accompany him in his escape. She promises to meet him after her show.

Second, after receiving another diamond from yet another admirer, Rita’s boyfriend Serge (Gilbert Roland), Lou finds herself in a whole lot of trouble when Rita comes in. When the two women struggle, Lou accidentally stabs Rita to death and has to have her bodyguard get rid of the body.

When Lou doesn’t show up to go away with Chick, he returns to the saloon and kills Dan Flynn. This event leads to Gus, Serge, and Chick being arrested by Cummings. Lou is not pleased to learn that her missionary man is a G-Man. Oh, well, he has to “arrest” her, too. While riding to her awaiting “prison”, Lou has to give all of her diamonds to Cummings. In exchange, she gets a new diamond ring from her new jailer…Mr. Cummings. Her prison’s name: Matrimony. Interesting ending--not plausible, but still interesting.

No one will ever accuse Mae West of being a great actress. Yet, she is strangely entertaining as every mother’s worst nightmare for her son. Voluptuous and brassy, she delivers some great lines in this picture. For example, when a woman remarks to her son that Lou is a fine woman, Lou says, “one of the finest women who ever walked the streets.” Another favorite, said to Sally after her attempted suicide, “When women go wrong, men go right after them.” Because of the way she looked and sounded, West was never really given enough credit for just how clever she was. Yet, you cannot write lines like these (and countless others) and not be a bright person. I think this is what made West so dangerous to the morality police: she was just too sexually charged and intellectually bright for her time.

Without a doubt, West and the classic one-liners are the best things about this movie. Cary Grant does a passable job as Captain Cummings, but I would not call this a standout performance. This may have had something to do with the sheer force of West’s personality overpowering his screen presence. Still, it is always nice to see just how handsome he was in his late 20s.

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Me and My Gal (1932) **

If you haven’t ever seen or heard of Me and My Gal (1932) don’t be surprised. Until recently it was rarely shown on TV (now you can catch it occasionally on FMC) and it has not made it to DVD yet. As a result, it is one of those films that has been somewhat lost in the shuffle of the countless films of the Studio Era. It’s a small film, with a small plot.

Made prior to the repeal of Prohibition in 1933, this film openly glorifies the joyful effects of alcohol consumption. There is a running gag about an always-drunk fisherman (Will Stanton) who is forever getting into comical scrapes. In one particular scene he gets in a fight with another drunk over the type of fish he has stolen. Yet, instead of using his fists he uses the fish as his weapon. Another scene finds a uproariously good time at a wedding, where guests drink beer out of a bootleg barrel and throw wirelesses out the window. The final shot of the film finds the father (J. Farrell MacDonald) of the film’s heroine (Joan Bennett) walking straight into the camera lens and asking, “Who’d like a drink, huh?” Pushing the envelope was nothing new for director Raoul Walsh, but it is still remarkable that he got away with some of the stuff he did in this film.

Working from a wisecracking script by Philip Klein, Barry Conners, and Arthur Kober, Walsh created a film that is difficult to define in terms of genre. It could be a comedy, crime drama, or an oddball romance—you pick!

Spencer Tracy stars as harbor cop Danny Dolan. Danny isn’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, but he has a lot of the luck of the Irish. After rescuing a dog from a man who was going to drowned it because he couldn’t afford to feed it (a nod to the hard times of the Depression), Danny goes to the local chowder house to buy some bones and meets sarcastic cashier Helen Riley (Joan Bennett). They trade mutual barbs and it quickly becomes obvious they like one another. Later, when a drunk fisherman (Stanton) falls into the harbor Danny saves him and gets a promotion to detective for it. This promotion leads him to the sidewalk outside Helen’s house, where a radio has been thrown out the window at a loud wedding reception (where lots of alcohol is consumed with great relish). Upon entering the apartment Danny finds that Helen’s sister Kate (Marion Burns) has just been married and he overlooks the drinking, which endears him to Helen. This is a fortuitous meeting in two ways: 1) Helen will go out with him now; 2) Kate is the ex-girlfriend of wanted mobster Duke Castenega. In the end, Danny will rescue Kate from the clutches of Duke and get yet another promotion and a large reward. With this large reward he will marry Helen and go to the Caribbean for his honeymoon.

The bantering relationship between Danny and Helen is fun to watch. Danny is a hard-boiled cop, who is always thinking of his next witticism. Helen is a strong-minded dame, who gives as good as she gets when it comes to Danny. There is one particular scene that stands out to me because of how cleverly it was done. While lying together on her sofa (her father had conveniently went to visit his other daughter) the subject of some film comes up. In it, the characters do voiceovers to show the audience what they are really thinking. Walsh launches off this remark to do the same with his own characters. And, so as they are saying what they think the other one wants to hear, the audience gets to hear their real thoughts via voiceover. For example, when Danny makes a comment about Helen’s father being a fun, old guy she agrees, but she thinks aloud to the audience that if her father found them on the couch like they were that Danny would have to visit a doctor.

The acting is relaxed and the story is just strong enough to keep your attention. There is no amazing camerawork to speak of—as a matter of fact, there are a few parts that seem a bit jumpy. Yet, while it’s not the greatest film you’ll ever see, it is nonetheless an enjoyable 90 minutes. Plus, you get to see a very young Spencer Tracy and Joan Bennett show why they would go on to have very long careers.

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Sergeant York (1941) **

World War II had been going on for over two years when Sergeant York was released in the United States on September 27, 1941. The Germans had defeated my beloved French quite handily in the spring of 1940 and they had tried to obliterate the British throughout the fall of 1940. As this film entered American theatres the Russians were preparing themselves for a German push toward Moscow. And, in the Pacific, the Japanese had had enough of the US trade embargo that limited their access to petroleum and mineral ores—they decided to fully prepare for a war in the Pacific and began war games which would eventually lead to the event that transpired on December 7, 1941: Pearl Harbor. The United States, of course, was still a “neutral” country when this film came out, but it was becoming quite obvious that it was only a matter of time before they too would enter the fray.

Producer/director Howard Hawks had the perfect vehicle to submit to a traditionally isolationistic nation. Just like the hero of this film, Alvin York (Gary Cooper), the United States was usually peace-loving. Yet, when the Germans went crazy in 1917 and sent the Zimmermann Telegram to Mexico and reengaged in unrestricted submarine warfare, America had to defend itself and its principles against tyranny. Thus, the nation entered WWI and the real-life Sgt. Alvin York had to become a Dough Boy and go “Over There”. Everyone knew in 1941 that we would be going “Over There” very soon, so why not make a picture that reminded Americans that sometimes you have to fight to ensure peace?

Nominated for eleven Academy Awards, including Best Picture, this film follows the exploits of a backwoods Tennessee farmer to the trench-filled Western Front. Alvin York is an ambitious young man who only wants to raise enough money to buy bottomland from Mr. Tomkins (Erville Alderson) and then marry Gracie Williams (Joan Leslie). Given 60 days to come up with the necessary funds, York works himself like a dog. Yet, as time starts to run out he has to come up with some way to make fast money, and so he enters a turkey shoot hoping to win a prize steer. In a remarkable show of marksmanship, York wins the contest and raises the necessary money to buy his land. The problem is Mr. Tomkins has already sold the land. Feeling betrayed, York gets drunk and seeks revenge against those who stole “his” land. Riding out into a wild thunderstorm, York finds himself and his gun under assault by lightning bolts. One in particular hits his gun and knocks York off his horse. When he picks himself up off the ground he hears singing coming from the local church. When he stumbles into the church, Pastor Pile (Walter Brennan) and the congregation welcome York to his new Christian life. Believing Divine Intervention has stepped in the way of his committing murder, York become a Christian pacifist.

After turning over a new leaf, York finds his fortunes changing: he works out a sharecropping deal to buy the land he lost and Gracie agrees to marry him. But then the war in Europe steps in the way and York finds himself in a difficult situation. How can a Christian go to war when the Good Book is against killing? Even though York declares himself a conscientious objector, the Army still reluctantly wants him. Once the Army sees what York can do with a rifle they no longer have any reluctance at all. Yet, after having a discussion with York about what the Bible says about war, the camp commander, Major Buxton (Stanley Ridges), gives him a 2-week pass to reconsider his position. If he still wants out of the Army after his leave is up, the Major will allow it. On leave, York has another moment of Divine Intervention when the wind blows his Bible open to Matthew 22:21: ““Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s”. Seeing this as a sign, York returns to the Army ready to serve his country.

In the trenches of France (specifically the Meuse-Argonne Offensive of 1918), York finds himself surrounded by death and killing. Menacing machinegun fire just rips to shreds anything that peaks out of the trench or tries to cross the dreaded “No Man’s Land”. When York’s unit tries to flank a German machinegun nest, both the commanding officer and first sergeant are injured so severely that York must take command of the few men who are still alive in his unit. Virtually single-handedly York picks off the gunners by crawling around the machinegun nest. In the end, the few remaining German soldiers surrender to York. Behind enemy lines,York and his men work their way back to the American position by taking unsuspecting German soldiers prisoners. Eventually German soldiers positioned on a ridge notice what is happening and start to fire on York and his men (and their prisoners nonetheless!). Again, York outsmarts his German adversaries (using a turkey call of all things) and they surrender to him. When York and his handful of men return to the American position, they have captured over 130 German soldiers.

His daring exploits are rewarded with the Medal of Honor and the Croix de Gurre. He is also sent back to the States to show Americans what a real hero looks like. When he returns to Tennessee he finds that the state has turned his undeveloped bottomland into a farm as a reward for his heroism.

Gary Cooper’s portrayal in this film earned him his first Academy Award. Playing a stereotypical country bumpkin with a very strong conscious, Cooper is at times a bit too earnest for my liking. However, very few men could play the reluctant hero as well as him. His scenes with Walter Brennan (who was nominated for Best Supporting Actor) where they discuss the Bible as it relates to the modern world are the most enjoyable to watch. It is interesting to note that the real Sergeant York handpicked Cooper for this role and served as an adviser on the film. When you read excerpts of his diary (which he kept while in the Army), it is not difficult to see why Cooper played him so humbly.

The battlefield scenes were expertly filmed and edited by Sal Polito and William Holmes respectively. Holmes won an Academy Award for his deft editing and Polito was nominated for his photography. When I was a middle school teacher I would show this film as an example of what warfare was like in WWI. The constant bombardment and never-ending trenches, with mangled barbed wire strewn everywhere, are something to behold. You combine these elements with a terrific Max Steiner score (another Oscar nominee), and you have, at times, a visually stunning film to watch.

This film could not have come out at a better time. It was a reminder of what war really looked like and how ordinary men could be compelled to do extraordinary things.

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