AN ICON RETURNS

I’ve watched a lot of TV in my life, and of the countless number of people I’ve seen on the Small Screen, everyone ultimately falls into one of three categories: Wannabe, Celebrity, or Icon.

Wannabes would be a dime a dozen if a dime could get you a dozen of anything these days.  Wannabes pollute the airwaves by making incessant, pointless noise, never stopping to take a breath for fear their 15 minutes of fame will come to a grinding halt with one moment of silence.  These are mostly denizens of “Reality TV” who are not just here-today-gone-tomorrow, but rather here-today-gone-later-today.  I won’t name names because it might only encourage them.

Celebrities have immediate name and face recognition; think Jon Stewart or Bill O’Reilly.  Celebrities appear on the covers of good magazines; think Tina Fey or Simon Cowell.  Some are bigger than others.  Some are better than others.  Some you love and some you hate, but regardless of which it is, even if it’s a little bit of both, you can’t deny the wattage they bring when they appear on screen.  Still, Celebrities, for all of their fame and fortune and power and glory, aren’t on the top shelf – at least some not yet.

As for Icons, they need no introduction, and their importance to the industry of TV is not measured, but rather automatically accepted as fact by the mere mention of their names.  And those who have, or will, follow them, will simultaneously stand on their shoulders and in their shadows forever.  Johnny Carson.  Oprah Winfrey.  Dick Clark.  Lucille Ball.  The list of names I’ve given isn’t all-inclusive, but you get the point.

Add to that list Robert Osborne.

Since 1994, Robert has been more than just the on-air host of Turner Classic Movies, he has been The Face, The Voice, The Heart, and The Soul of TCM, speaking nightly not just to the camera, but to us … the movie geeks, film buffs, and all-around students of his nightly professorial lessons on film.  Thanks to Robert, tuning into TCM is more than just sitting down to watch a movie; it is attending a master class in cinema history.

To put it into movie terms, take the wisdom of Star Wars’ Obi-Wan Kenobi, the genuineness of It’s A Wonderful Life’s George Bailey, and whoever Cary Grant’s tailor was, and you have Robert Osborne.  Icon.

Robert’s absence these past months has left a void in the lives of those of us who have hung on every word of his opens and closes for years now.  I think I speak for all of us when I say, “Welcome back, Robert.  We’ve missed you, but your return has been worth the wait.”

The Red Shoes

1948

Starring Anton Walbrook, Marius Goring, and Moira Shearer

Directed by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger

133 minutes

Tune into TV stations VH1 or E! at any given time, and you’re likely to find a show about the career of a famous celebrity.  The show usually starts with that star’s humble beginnings, followed by his/her struggles to achieve fame, the bad breaks, the lucky breaks, the big chance, the success and its spoils, and the trip back to Earth that takes 1/100^th of the time it took to get to the celebrity stratosphere in the first place.  Long before these types of shows became as routine in appearance as the local news, Hollywood created numerous films about the making and breaking of celebrities, both fictional and factual.

From the world of make-believe came films ranging from 42^nd Street (1933) and A Star is Born (1954) to That Thing You Do! (1996) and Rock Star (2001).  Real-life stories include The Glenn Miller Story (1953), The Buddy Holly Story (1978), La Bamba (1987), and Great Balls of Fire! (1989).  But while these and others follow the familiar three-act formula of struggle, triumph, and tragedy, The Red Shoes (1948), from directors Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, tells a similar tale, but one injected with an impressive dose of psychological insight, an obscure love triangle, and a fifteen minute ballet.  Plus, the film uses a fairy tale not only as a source for adaptation, but as its key plot-point as well.

Boris Lermontov (Walbrook) is the director of the world-class and world-famous ballet troupe, Ballet Lermontov.  To the public, he is sophisticated and unapproachable, which comes with being a genius, but to his dancers and his musicians, he is rude and demanding, which also comes with being a genius.  However he is viewed, all will agree that he has a keen eye and ear for talent, and will only employ the best.  Among the hundreds in attendance at his latest production are aspiring composer Julian Craster (Goring) and aspiring dancer Victoria Page (Shearer), but they are strangers at the time.  Julian and Victoria meet the elusive Lermontov individually, but each meeting takes place under circumstances that are less than comfortable.

After the show, Lermontov is persuaded to attend a party at Victoria’s aunt’s house.  When he learns that the motive behind his invitation was to watch Victoria dance, he arrogantly refuses to watch her, yet he remains at the party and heads for the bar.  It is there that he meets an attractive young woman, and he complains to her about people always wanting to audition for him and what a nuisance it is.  When she introduces herself as Victoria Page, Lermontov removes the foot from his mouth and offers her an audition.  He hires her to dance in a supporting capacity. 

Julian’s entrée into Lermontov’s company is a little more serious.  During that night’s show, Julian recognized that some of the music played was original music he had written, and that had been stolen by his former teacher.  The next morning, Julian confronts Lermontov, who, in exchange for forgetting the whole plagiarism issue, offers a job to Julian as an orchestra coach.  Starving for the chance, Julian accepts Lermontov’s terms.

The dancer and the composer pay their dues in their minor roles, but they are always under Lermontov’s watchful eye.  Then Lermontov introduces Julian to a story that will change the trio’s lives: “The Red Shoes.”  He explains the story with this dialogue:

"The Ballet of The Red Shoes" is from a fairy tale by Hans [Christian] Andersen.  ‘Tis the story of a girl who’s devoured by an ambition to attend a dance in a pair of red shoes.  She gets the shoes, goes to the dance – at first, all goes well and she’s very happy.  At the end of the evening, she gets tired and wants to go home.  But the red shoes are not tired.  In fact, the red shoes are never tired.  They dance her out into the streets.  They dance her over the mountains and valleys, through fields and forests, through night and day.  Time rushes by.  Love rushes by.  Life rushes by.  But the red shoes dance on.

Lermontov’s plan is for Julian to write the music for his new production, and for Victoria to dance the lead.  The ballet is a smash success, catapulting Julian and Victoria to superstar status.  As more ballets lead to greater successes, Julian and Victoria find themselves drawn to each other, much to Lermontov’s chagrin.  Ultimately, Victoria must choose between her love for Julian and her love of dance.

First, a confession.  I do not care for ballet.  Mostly it has to do with my lack of knowledge about, and exposure to, the subject (children’s dance recitals not withstanding).  I don’t bash the art; I’m simply at maximum ambivalence.  With this in mind, the first time I sat down to watch The Red Shoes, I did so with some trepidation, wondering how I would enjoy a movie about ballet that runs over two hours long.  I must admit that I was wonderfully surprised, and thinking back, I don’t know why I should have been, given that this film is directed by the immensely talented duo of Powell and Pressburger, collectively known as “The Archers.” 

The fact that the story takes place in the world of ballet is almost meaningless, other than its connection to the Hans Christian Andersen story, and the “ballet within a movie.”  One could remove the ballet aspect and substitute it with many other things: sports, art, music, etc.  This is because the film is not about ballet; it’s about love and sacrifice and obsession.

Victoria Page is obsessed with dancing.  When asked by Lermontov why she wants to dance, her reply to him, without thought or hesitation, is, “Why do you want to live?”  It’s this pure love of her chosen craft that first attracts Lermontov to her.  She’s not in it for money, fame, or travel, and when she meets with the success that she always knew she would, she does not become complacent or snobbish (like her predecessor).  She maintains the same intense level of enthusiasm and desire that got her there.  The same can be said about Julian Craster and his music.  He didn’t exploit the plagiarism issue to blackmail Lermontov into giving him a job; he was being protective of the thing he loves most – his music – the way a parent would be obsessively protective of a child.  He, too, refuses to lower his desire and his drive as he finds continued success.

Victoria and Julian connect to create the film’s love interest, which is essential in creating the conflict that comes into play later, but The Archers are smart enough to make sure that the relationship evolves at the right pace.  Victoria and Julian are like corporate coworkers who work on the same project, but from different departments.  Their paths cross because of their common goal, but their direct interaction is almost non-existent.  Then, “The Red Shoes” comes along, and when it does, they are more at odds than in love, each insisting that the other make changes for the overall ballet to work well. 

Lesser filmmakers would have had the two connecting on the first day of their respective assignments, thus making the love story the film’s focal point, but The Archers recognize that the characters’ love is a byproduct of the characters’ work, so the work must come first.  Victoria and Julian’s relationship is almost one of default, given the time they have to meet other people (hardly any), their common work interests, and their equality as superstars.  (Why do you think celebrities marry each other so often in real live?)

Lermontov’s obsession is initially with himself.  He does not look at his dancers as dancers or his musicians as musicians, but instead he looks at them all as his creations.  And because to himself he is God, his word is final, and any allowances he makes he sees as great favors bestowed upon the subservient.  But his obsession shifts when he watches Victoria dance at her old theater (a performance, by the way, that Lermontov “allowed”), prior to “The Red Shoes.”

This trip “home” for Victoria is akin to a Kevin Spacey-caliber actor returning to his hometown community theater to act in one performance of “Death of a Salesman.”  As Victoria dances here, Lermontov, who is in the crowd, is mesmerized by her.  As we, the film’s viewers, watch her performance, it’s painfully obvious that the backup dancers are not that good, and we are shown that the music is piped into the theater via a record on an old turntable.  This sounds almost comedic, but I think The Archers over-exaggerated the peripherals to allow those of us who know nothing about ballet to see and hear what Lermontov sees and hears: other music is tin-sounding compared to his orchestra, and other dancers are clumsy oafs compared to his dancers.  There are also some wonderfully dizzying shots from Victoria’s perspective as she pirouettes.  The crowd is a spinning blur, but Lermontov, who represents Victoria’s ultimate goal, is always in focus.

As Victoria and Julian grow even closer in their relationship, Lermontov becomes increasingly jealous.  But jealous of what?  Lermontov coldly dismissed the last dancer over whom he obsessed (who left the ballet for a man).  Why did he do this?  He knew that something better would come along.  It always had, and he thought that it always would.  But not so with Victoria.  Lermontov’s jealousy of Victoria’s relationship with Julian is not borne of his love for Victoria the person, but instead his love for Victoria the dancer – his greatest creation.  As she drifts further away from the dance and deeper into Julian’s arms, Lermontov becomes more unraveled.  This is sinisterly depicted by the Archers in shots of Lermontov’s eyes; shots that are reminiscent of Kathleen Byron’s eyes as she lost her mental grip in The Archers’ Black Narcissus (1947).  A final emotional confrontation leads to results reminiscent of the end of Black Narcissus as well.

Of course, the film is called The Red Shoes for more than just its connection to the fairy tale.  In the middle of the film is a fifteen-minute presentation of “The Ballet of the Red Shoes.”  I knew that this was coming, and due to my lack of enthusiasm for ballet, I wasn’t looking forward to it, but after watching it, I couldn’t get over just how amazing it was.  Rather than merely throw in a ballet segment for the sake of padding a “ballet movie,” The Archers, while telling the actual fairy tale, use the graceful art of ballet, their usual blast of lush color, and some eye-popping imagery to let us see what Victoria’s character, “The Dancer,” sees, and to let us crawl around inside Victoria’s head to get a vividly clear idea of what this opportunity means to her.  The segment is so well done that it plays like a good silent picture; no dialogue is needed to tell us all there is to tell.

The Archers take what appears to be a simple story, load it with drama and clever (yet meaningful) symbolism, and wrap it in color so rich, you might try to adjust your TV set once the movie is over and you return to whatever else is on.

La Belle et la bête (Beauty and the Beast)

1946

Starring Jean Marais, Josette Day, and Marcel André

Directed by Jean Cocteau

93 minutes

Mention Beauty and the Beast to ten people, and chances are great that all ten will recall the Disney feature from 1991.  Its animation was gorgeous, its musical numbers were entertaining, it was the first full-length animated feature to be nominated for a Best Picture Oscar, and it was (and still is) popular with kids AND adults alike.  Plus, it promotes positive messages to children that they should not rush to judgment about people they don’t know, and that they should not treat someone differently simply because they look different.

Mention Beauty and the Beast to 100 people, and maybe (hopefully) more than one or two will recall the 1946 French film from writer/director Jean Cocteau that is not so much about judgment and tolerance as it is about love and death.

Sticking closely to Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont’s original tale, Beauty and the Beast (La Belle et la bête) opens by quickly establishing its characters.  Belle (Day) is one of four grown children (three girls, one boy) of a local merchant (André).  Of the four children, Belle is her father’s most beloved, and of the three girls, not only is she the most beautiful (her name translates to Beauty) she is the least shallow.  Her sisters are obsessed with their waning social status because of their father’s financial woes, while Belle is content serving her father and her family in a Cinderella-type role.  In fact, so dedicated is Belle to her family, particularly her father, that she turns down a marriage proposal from Avenant (Marais), much to the young bachelor’s ire.

Belle’s father comes into a financial windfall and must travel to a nearby town for business.  The snooty sisters demand that he buy them lavish things while on his trip, but Belle only asks for a rose, “…for there are none here.”  Unfortunately, all the money he makes goes towards paying his creditors, so he must return home empty-handed and still in debt.  On his trip home, he gets lost in a foggy wood, and happens across an enchanted, seemingly unoccupied, castle.  He eats, drinks, and sleeps there, and before leaving, he picks a rose from the garden for Belle.  At least he can please one daughter, and know she will appreciate his humble efforts.  No sooner is the flower plucked, the father is confronted by The Beast (also played by Marais), who says that he will kill the old man for stealing, unless he sends one of his daughters to take his place.  The father rides home on The Beast’s magical steed to explain his predicament to his family, and to contemplate his fate.

Ever the faithful and selfless daughter, Belle sneaks out to take her father’s place at The Beast’s castle.  She faints at the monster’s initial sight, and is repulsed by his very being, but over time, she grows to respect and pity him as she learns more about him.  During that same timeframe, The Beast falls in love with Belle, and because of this love, he allows her to live, but he does not allow her to leave his domain – until he lets her return home for one week to visit her ailing father.  Finally reunited with her family, Belle tells of The Beast and his riches.  Her siblings and (the scorned) Avenant immediately conspire to dupe Belle into staying home, so that they can kill The Beast and steal his treasures.  Once Belle learns of the plot, she returns to the castle, only to find The Beast near death – not as a result of Belle’s family’s actions, but because of his grief over her absence.  A “loving look” saves The Beast, and turns him back into the prince he once was.

Cocteau’s presentation of this classic tale mixes beautiful vision and unique interpretation that results in a film that is clearly for adults.  Aided by the wonderful talent of cinematographer Henri Alekan, The Beast’s castle is a magical place with a life of its own.  Doors that open and close by themselves are only minor goings-on that Belle and her father experience.  Once in the castle, each visitor comes upon a long hallway, flanked on either side by candelabras that not only light themselves, they are held by pale human arms that protrude through black walls.  At the dinner table, another arm that protrudes from beneath the table pours the wine.  And throughout the castle, the faces that are carved into busts move and watch those who occupy the room.  Belle is exposed to even more magic than her father.  The Beast gives her a mirror that allows her to see her father at home while she is captive at the castle, a glove that transports her to wherever she would like to go (simply by thought), and a necklace that is made of pearls only when in her possession.  But beyond the creative vision, and disguised by an age-old fairy tale about true love, is a clever tale about death and purgatory.

This film reminds me of M. Night Shyamalan’s The Sixth Sense (1999) in that the clues to its meaning are only evident once you’ve seen the end of the film.  That being said, consider yourself duly warned that SPOILERS lay ahead.

First, consider Belle’s father’s visit to The Beast’s castle when compared to Belle’s visit there.  When the father arrives, he wanders the castle freely, calling out to its unknown resident and receiving no reply.  He dines and sleeps in privacy and comfort, and he probably would have been able to leave without incident, had he not picked the rose for Belle, thus incurring The Beast’s wrath.  On the other hand, when Belle arrives, she runs down the hallway in dream-like slow-motion until she ultimately leaves her feet and floats down another long hall (with stunning, flowing white curtains waving in a gentle breeze) to her room.  Why the difference?  Why did Belle float and run in slow-motion to a specific destination while her father wandered the castle on his own two feet, at normal speed, and basically at will?  Belle went to the castle of her own volition, so it’s unlikely that The Beast’s magic “forced” her to her room.  The only explanation can be that Belle is close to death, and that while she might be unwilling to go, she does not resist the trip, maybe recognizing that the flight to her room is the summoning of the afterlife; perhaps a variation of the “long, beckoning tunnel of light” about which near-death survivors often speak.

Other smaller details provide clues about the afterlife.  The arms that hold the candelabras and pour the wine, and the moving faces that exist throughout the castle, represent souls for whom no one has prayed, who are forever stuck between heaven and hell.  The mirror that allows Belle to see her father represents the mythical pools of water that allowed the gods of mythology to look upon mortals.  The Beast’s white steed, which somehow knows where Belle’s house is, where The Beast’s castle is, and how to travel between the two, is not unlike the white horse in the Bible, as described in Revelations Chapter 6, Verse 8: “And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death….”

Another strong clue is Belle’s request of The Beast to allow her to visit her ailing father for one more week.  The Beast struggles with his decision for fear that she will not return.  But why does she need to go back when The Beast has already given her the mirror so that she may watch over her father?  She has this need because she realizes and accepts her fate, and she left her home without saying goodbye to her father.  If you knew that your death was imminent, wouldn’t you want one last chance to tell someone something?

The clincher for me, though, is The Beast himself, in his actions and his words.  When he first speaks to Belle, after she awakens from her fainting spell, he tells her that she mustn’t look in his eyes.  This is not to spare her from some horrible fate; he is no Medusa.  It’s obvious that she is his ticket out of his current existence (purgatory), but it’s also clear that he is smitten with her, and that conflict between his heart and his head gives him cause to be ashamed of not what he is, but of his motives for demanding her presence.  He knows that a “loving look” from her, like a prayer to a lost soul, will free him from his limbo, but he hesitates to foster that look from her.  Yes, his original intent was to use her, but he did not expect to fall in love with his ticket out.  Perhaps his most telling hint is when he entrusts Belle with the key to the pavilion that houses his untold amount of riches.  The Beast refers to this treasure as his “earthly riches.”  Why “earthly”?  If The Beast is merely a man who suffers a great curse, why not just call them his “riches,” or his “human riches”?  Because he is no longer of this earth, and regardless of what he looks like, that also means that he is no longer human.

When Belle finally bestows her loving gaze upon The Beast, he turns back into a man (a prince, to be precise, which would explain his wealth).  Almost simultaneously, Avenant, who is attempting to steal The Beast’s treasure, is slain by a statue’s (soul’s?) arrow.  Laying on the ground, presumably dead or dying, Avenant turns into The Beast.  We don’t see Avenant again, but it’s safe to assume that a “changing of the guard” has taken place, and a new Beast must dwell in the purgatorial castle, waiting to be freed by a loving look – a prayer for a new lost and tortured soul.  (This would also explain why Cocteau used the same actor to play Avenant, The Beast, and The Prince).  What better way to illustrate man than to have one person play three eternally connected roles: Man, soul-in-limbo, and saved soul, the last of which is shown in the last shot of the film, when The Prince and Belle leap into the air, without ever returning to the ground, launching their ascension to the heavens above.

Black Narcissus

1947

Starring Deborah Kerr, Sabu, David Farrar, Jean Simmons, and Kathleen Byron

Directed by Michael Poweel and Emeric Pressburger

100 minutes

Twelve years.  That’s how long I spent in Catholic schools (thirteen, if you include kindergarten).  And during my time in the Delaware parochial school system, I encountered nuns in almost every grade; nuns who taught me everything from typing to psychology to trigonometry to sex education (no, really; in fact, it’s a wonder I ever got … well, you know).

With this upbringing, I remember the first time I sat down to watch 1947’s Black Narcissus.  I sarcastically thought, “A film about nuns!  And set in the Himalayas, no less!  How exciting this should be!”  Well, shame on me then for judging a DVD by its keep case.  While the premise of the story is one of nuns in the Himalayas, the film itself, directed by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressbuerger, is rich with breathtaking color accented by sharp contrast.

Sister Clodagh (Deborah Kerr) is a Calcutta-based schoolteacher and devout member of the Order of the Servants of Mary.  She receives word that she has been chosen to head a new nunnery, to be called St. Faith, in the Himalayan Mountains, where she and other nuns will provide medical care and education to the locals.  This venture will make her the youngest Sister Superior in the history of the Order, and her current Superior, Mother Dorothea (Nancy Roberts), who does not think she is up to the task, seems to set up Sister Clodagh for failure by assigning the sickly Sister Ruth (Byron) to the group.  When Sister Clodagh and her team of nuns arrive, they establish their convent in the Palace of Mopu, which was generously donated to them by the Old General (Esmond Knight), the local man of power and affluence.  The nuns are assisted in their efforts by the Old General’s agent, Mr. Dean (David Farrar), a rugged and handsome man who is as worldly wise as the nuns are spiritually so.  But as time progresses, Sister Clodagh and the other nuns find themselves in situations for which they are not prepared, including wavering faith, physical temptation, and psychological madness.

When you watch enough black-and-white films, you learn to notice when the cinematography is better in certain films than in others.  For example, compare The Lady Eve (1941) and The Third Man (1949).  Both are excellent films in their own rights, but The Third Man uses shadows and light to create darker blacks and fewer grays.  The visuals become as integral to the film as the plot, characters, and dialogue, because they set the tone for the film.  The Lady Eve simply LOOKS like a “normal” black-and-white film, and there is nothing wrong with that, because that particular tone isn’t critical to that particular film.  When you watch most modern color films, the colors are just there on the screen, as they normally would be in daily life.  One example, though, of integral color usage is 1990’s Dick Tracy.  Director Warren Beatty assaults the eyes of his viewers with screaming, contrasting primary colors throughout the film.  Compare it to most modern color films, and the difference is immediately evident.

That use of color in Dick Tracy set a tone of nostalgia, done to give the film that old four-color comic strip feel, and it worked.  But the use of color in Black Narcissus goes far beyond visual gimmickry.  The color plays an important part in setting the tone and establishing a major contrast in the film.

When the nuns arrive at the highest point in the Himalayas, they find a natural environment exploding with rich color, yet in they walk, wearing the plainest of full-length white habits.  We know that the nuns are chaste, and we can surmise that people living on a remote mountaintop are going to be somewhat primitive by comparison.  But the radical contrasts between the nuns’ white habits (and the white nuns themselves) and the colorful local flora (and the darker-skinned “natives” of Hindu descent), drive the “fish out of water” point home without a whisper of dialogue.  But the color isn’t the only source of contrast found in this film.

According to the film’s narration, “Nanga Dalle,” the mountain on which the convent stands, means “The Bare Goddess.”  How fitting a name is this for a place where nuns will live?  They are bare in that the will never procreate, and they are goddesses by their holy nature.  In contrast to that, when the edifice was known as the Palace of Mopu, it housed The Old General’s father’s mistresses.  If you can take that step and liken the mistresses to prostitutes (if the man had a house full of them, they surely weren’t in it for love), how fitting a name is “The Bare Goddess” for them as well?  They were bare because of their dearth of morals, and they were goddesses because they were worshiped for their sex.  One name, two types of women.  Contrast.

On the nuns’ property sits the Holy Man, Phuba (Ley On).  He does nothing all day but sit and pray.  No one is quite sure how he maintains physical sustenance, but they know he is always there, sitting and praying.  His methods and (lack of) actions are the antithesis of the nuns’.  The nuns teach and heal and sew and farm and pray, all in the name of their God, while Phuba does nothing but sit and pray in the name of his God.  Yet the nuns, for all of their hard work, earn little respect, while Phuba is revered by all.  One common spiritual goal, two different Gods, two different methods, two different results.  Contrast.

Also in contrast are the lives of the nuns and the lives of the film’s other key players.  Mr. Dean is a handsome, fit, rugged man who knows his way around the land, its people, and its culture.  His lifestyle is vastly different from that of the Sisters; he likes to drink, and he makes it subtly clear that he knows his way around women.  He is exactly the kind of help that Sister Clodagh DOESN’T want – the kind who, for all of his practical knowledge, is the embodiment of loose morals.  Farrar plays him well, ensuring that he doesn’t come off as some macho stud, but rather as a confident man, with arrogance just close enough to the surface to occasionally remind us that he could, if he wanted to, do some serious moral damage.  He is also a realist, and sees religion not as “God in heaven” but as pie in the sky.  Contrast.

Seventeen-year-old Kanchi (Simmons) is a sensuous young local who is entrusted to the Sisters’ care.  Again, the nuns are confronted with an individual, like Mr. Dean, whose ways are vastly different from theirs.  Kanchi adorns herself with nose rings and other jewelry, as well as colorful and flowing garments, and always has a glimmer of mischief in her eyes.  She has no dialogue (save one scene where she cries after being whipped for suspicion of theft), but she doesn’t need dialogue.  Her beauty, her suggestive dress, her seductive moves, her sly glances, and her taboo age speak volumes against the religious backdrop, and her silence adds mystery.  Contrast.

But if Kanchi is a seductress, then who can she seduce in a convent full of nuns and children?  Possibly Mr. Dean, although that would be too easy (and chances are if he wanted her, he would have had her long before the nuns came to town).  Besides, Dean is the type of man who enjoys challenges, and bedding a 17-year-old nymph is certainly not that.  Enter The Young General (Sabu), sent to St. Faith by his father to receive a formal education.  The Young General looks to be in his late teens or early twenties (Sabu was about 23 at the time), and while he is a young man of affluence and respect, he has a sincere desire to study.  But once under Kanchi’s spell, The Young General loses interest in the nuns’ cerebral offerings.  This solidifies Kanchi’s powers of seduction.  If the man who can have anything he desires with the snap of his fingers (or his father’s fingers) is seduced by her, she must be something special.

This combination of things takes its toll on the Sisters’ psyches.  Symbolically, the convent’s demise starts with a small scene where Sister Briony (Judith Furse) and Sister Clodagh discuss, among other things, the red spots that have appeared on all the nuns’ bodies.  The cause of the spots could be attributed to anything – bad water, infectious plant life, insect bites – but the cause is unimportant.  It’s as if their entire surroundings have infected the nuns, and as is the case with many infections, this one spreads and grows, and becomes a symbol for a spiritual epidemic.

The most radical victim is Sister Ruth.  Already physically ill, she does not adapt well to her surroundings, and her resentment towards her situation, the locals, and Sister Clodagh (as the scolding Sister Superior), grows worse with each passing day.  Complicating matters is Sister Ruth’s attraction to Mr. Dean.  At first, the attraction is merely physical; she is still young in life and in vocation, and is surely more prone to mental wanderings than the older nuns.  However, when Mr. Dean pays Sister Ruth a harmless compliment, her attraction becomes an obsession.  This leads to false accusations, severe jealousy, and, ultimately, madness.  Byron turns up her character’s psychotic heat in perfectly measured increments, and Powell and Pressburger film her growing madness with meticulous care, using colors, shadows, and tight close-ups to their fullest potential.

Then there is poor Sister Clodagh.  As a novice put in a situation an expert would be challenged by, the odds are against her success before she ever reaches the mountains.  Add to that pressure all the other factors mentioned, and it only takes Sister Philippa (Flora Robson) to request a transfer due to her own wavering faith to trigger several flashbacks to the life Sister Clodagh knew before her calling – a life of fun, affluence, and romance.  Not only did Sister Clodagh leave behind a comfortable secular life, she might have left it behind for the wrong reasons.  Did she run TO something in her vocation or did she run FROM something in her secular life?  There it is again: contrast.

While Black Narcissus is a film about nuns and challenged faith, it has no spiritual agenda; it never preaches.  It is a beautiful work that shows how physical seclusion can fracture the lives of those who already live in emotional seclusion.

The Philadelphia Story

1940

Starring Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, James Stewart, Ruth Hussey, John Howard, and Virginia Weidler

Directed by George Cukor

112 minutes

We live in a world of preconceived notions, and our lifestyle has put us there.  As a society, we are so accustomed to taking in as much information in as little time as possible (so that we can move on quickly to the next thing), we sometimes forget to take the time to fully understand things.  Sound-bite news feeds, on-screen crawls, and sidebar articles can offer just enough information to get us by at the water cooler the next day, and because of our short attention spans, we sometimes find it easy to make generalizations about people because its quick and easy, despite any inaccuracy. 

Which of the following sounds familiar to you (either based on your own thoughts or on the comments you’ve heard from others)?  All models are dumb.  All geniuses are geeks.  All writers drink.  All rich people are snobs.  The list could go on and it could get far worse.  George Cukor’s The Philadelphia Story looks at the preconceived notions of a variety of personalities, dismantles those notions, and does so with humor, charm, and romance.

The Philadelphia Story opens with a short scene that wonderfully plays like an old silent picture.  A handsome and affluent man storms out of his large house with luggage in hand.  Nipping at his heels is a beautiful and affluent woman who pulls a golf club from the man’s bag and spitefully snaps it in half over her knee (golf club shafts were made of wood back then, kids).  The man cocks his fist, but rather than hit her, he palms her face like a basketball and pushes her to the ground.  End Scene.  Cukor’s efficiency here is fantastic.  In less than a minute, and with no dialogue, we know (or we can safely assume) that these two characters are wealthy, spiteful, and soon to be divorced.  It’s instant conflict.

Fast-forward two years, and we learn that the woman was Tracy Lord (Hepburn), a publicity-shy Philadelphia blueblood, and the face-palmer was her ex-husband, C.K. Dexter Haven (Grant), also of old Philadelphia money.  Tracy is set to marry George Kitteredge (Howard), a man not of blue blood, but of blue collar, who earned, not inherited, his wealth, and who has high social and political aspirations.

Enter Macauley “Mike” Connor (Stewart) and Liz Imbrie (Hussey), reporter and photographer (respectively) for Spy Magazine, who will attend the Lord-Kitteredge nuptials under the guise of being friends of Tracy’s brother, who is traveling abroad and cannot attend.  While there, Mike and Liz will covertly cover the wedding for the magazine.  Dexter has arranged this fraud, seemingly for revenge, but things, as you know, are rarely as they seem, and this situation is no exception.  (By the way, Dexter plans to stick around for the wedding as well.  His thought process is that even though they are divorced, Tracy is still his wife until she is remarried, and he has every right to see it happen.

When Tracy scolds Dexter for inviting strangers into her home, he reveals their identities (but he doesn’t tell Mike and Liz that Tracy knows), and he explains to Tracy that the magazine story of her wedding is the price she must pay to bury another story about an affair between her still-married father and some dancer.  Blaming both her father and Dexter for the pinch that she’s in, Tracy allows the charade to continue, but takes the opportunity to crank up her snobbery level ten-fold, with the help of her kid-sister Dinah (Weidler) and their mother, Margaret (Mary Nash).  Mike and Liz, commoners in an uncommon situation, find themselves overwhelmed by, and contemptuous of, the affluence of those around them.  Still, they have no choice but to carry out their assignment.

Preconception runs rampant throughout this film.  Tracy looks down on Mike not because of his socioeconomic status, but because of his job.  She views him as nothing more than a snoop who refuses to let private lives remain private, until she learns that Mike has published a book of poetry.  She then tags him as an intellectual snob until, but ultimately realizes that his poetry comes not from his mind, but from his heart. 

Mike pegs Tracy for being a high society* snob, until he gets to know her better, too.  In fact, he discovers what a fascinating person she truly is.  Throughout the film, she is at odds with nearly everyone: Dexter, for their previous marriage and his connection to Spy; her father, for his philandering ways; her mother, for tolerating her father’s lifestyle; Mike, for his disdain of society and his intellectualism; and Liz, for her normalcy.  Tracy even harbors a little resentment for Dinah, her kid sister, because Dinah still believes that Dexter is the only man for Tracy. 

But even though she was born into wealth, Tracy has a headstrong and independent will (classic Hepburn character trademarks).  She is the center of everyone’s universe, yet she resents that everyone puts her on a pedestal.  She yearns for a true, “normal” love, yet she prepares to marry a man largely because of what he is, not who he is.  Some would call her hypocritical, but in the hands of Hepburn, Tracy is sympathetically misguided – the poor little rich girl at odds with the most important person in her life … herself.

Also interesting is C.K. Dexter Haven.  While everyone is busy being angry at someone else, Dexter remains somewhat neutral.  He might be admired, envied, or despised, and he might instigate problems between others, but his motives, and the core of his character, are pure, and that purity is fueled by his love for Tracy – a love that never died, even if their marriage did.  He has not invited Mike and Liz so that Spy can publish the dish on Tracy’s wedding; that’s nothing but a cover story.  Dexter wants to spare Tracy and her family from the public embarrassment that her father is causing with his wandering libido, and Dexter’s deal with the magazine was the only way to do that. 

Also, he has no real concern that Mike (who has fallen in love with Tracy, or at least thinks he has) or George are threats; he doesn’t have to.  Let’s face it: he’s C.K. Dexter Haven, and he knows it.  He is only concerned about Tracy and her happiness, and he sincerely believes that her happiness is with him.  So, while his actions show that her happiness could be with someone else, his confidence in his own idea of the truth lets him get her without taking her.  He embraces the “If you love something, set it free…” mantra, but he never tips his hand as such.

The Philadelphia Story is one of those rich movies (not in dollars, but in depth) with a greater message comprised of smaller messages, none of which is preachy or heavy-handed.  It covers tabloid journalism’s quest to do whatever it takes to get a story, it addresses the divide between the social classes, and it touches on divorce, adultery, and sexism (all of which still ring true today).  But the overall puzzle that is made up of these pieces is one of handling preconception.  Not all models are dumb, nor are all geniuses are geeks, nor are even worse preconceptions involving race, gender, or religion true.  It also shows that not all rich people are snobs, not all intellectuals are snobs, and a person’s lot in life doesn’t define who that person is.

With a sharp script, tight direction, and excellent performances from a roster of Golden Age all-stars, The Philadelphia Story gets that message across with plenty of laughs, in a story that spans all of two days.  By the end of the film, feelings are hurt, fences are mended, jokes are made at nearly everyone’s expense, and not everybody wins.

But in the end, Tracy finally, and happily, marries … and it’s all caught on camera for Spy Magazine.

*Kudos to you if you understand this reference.  What, you thought I would just give it to you here?

The Lost Weekend

1945

Starring Ray Milland, Jane Wyman, Phillip Terry, and Howard Da Silva

Directed by Billy Wilder

101 minutes

Hollywood has had this habit (pardon the pun) of portraying alcoholics as funny drunks, getting cheap laughs from the “antics” of actors like Dudley Moore in 1981’s Arthur, and Foster Brooks, a Las Vegas comedian who appeared in various TV movies and series, and who was known as “The Loveable Lush.”  Even legends like W.C. Fields and Dean Martin had popular and entertaining real-life personas of being perennially excessive drinkers.

All of these antics have also been to the delight of the industry’s wallet.  If a man humiliates himself as a result of being intoxicated, Hollywood is ready to milk every slur, stumble, or fall for a laugh and a buck.  Yes, there have been exceptions, like Leaving Las Vegas (1995) and 28 Days (2000), which are two excellent modern examples of how Hollywood deals with alcoholism’s debilitating hold on its sufferers.  The best classic example, though, is The Lost Weekend (1945), a film that is more sobering than a month on the wagon.

Director Billy Wilder’s masterful establishing shot speaks volumes.  It’s a wide shot of the city skyline, which is cliché, but this view of the city simply lulls us into thinking it’s a standard opening shot.  Wilder pans and fixes the lens on an open apartment window; then, as Wilder slowly zooms in, we see, hanging by a length of rope from the open window, and dangling high above the street/sidewalk/alley below … a bottle of booze. 

Not only does the sight of this shock us out of our lull, it tells us several things about the main character, and we haven’t even met him yet.  We know that if a man hangs a bottle of booze from his high-rise apartment window, he must be hiding it from someone, and if he’s hiding it from someone, he probably shouldn’t have it to begin with.  It shows his resourcefulness at finding unique hiding spots, because if he has gone to the extreme of hanging the bottle outside, chances are all of his inside hiding spots have been found.  It also shows the desperate extent to which an addict will go to ensure that he gets his fix.  We know, seconds into the film and without a word of dialogue, we are in for an intense ride.

Through the window and into the apartment, we meet Don Birnam (Milland), a failed writer and recovering alcoholic, who is packing for a weekend in the country with his brother, Wick (Terry).  Don’s girlfriend, Helen (Wyman), arrives with a pair of concert tickets, and Don manages to persuade Wick to accompany her, after which the brothers can take a later train to the country.  Fate steps in, and Wick finds Don’s dangling bottle, which he quickly pours down the drain.

Wick and Helen leave Don with no booze and no money, until Don finds some hidden for the cleaning lady.  Don steals the money and heads straight for the liquor store for two bottles of rye.  Then he heads for the local bar to down a few shots before he opens the bottles.  As the weekend progresses, so does Don’s drinking, to the point of hospitalization.  Wick abandons him, Helen worries for him, a local girl who hangs out at the bar looks for love from him, and Nat (Da Silva), the barkeep, keeps on pouring for him.

Watching a man drink himself into oblivion is a difficult thing to do.  Going with him to the bottom of the bottle is harder still, and that’s exactly where Oscar-winners Wilder and Milland take us.

Wilder’s greatest storytelling achievement in this film is that he manages to take time away from us.  We know that the “lost” weekend is a long one – Friday to Monday – and that it starts mid-afternoon on Friday.  But once we get into the evening, the weekend grows more blurred for Don, so it grows more blurred for us.  Wilder only uses subtle clues to tell us that a substantial amount of time has passed, like the number of shot glass-sized rings on the bar and the number of milk bottles outside Don’s apartment door.  Don slips in and out of sleep, in and out of bars, and in and out of consciousness, and while we might be given hints as to whether it’s day or night, we’re never sure which day or night it is. 

Time is not simply one of those elements that is crucial to a film’s believability, it is something that is important to all of us, because we never seem to have enough of it, so we are always aware of it.  Think about the number of “timekeepers” in your life: clocks, watches, computers, cell phones, etc.  All of them keep time.  Losing this sense of time in the film is exactly Wilder’s goal; someone on a multi-day bender will not have a tight grip on time, so neither should we, and that gets us deep inside the character.

A sequence of note is the flashback, as told by Don to Nat, about the time Don and Helen meet for the first time.  This sequence lays some nice groundwork on just how much of an impact alcohol has had on Don’s life, and on the lives of his loved ones.

At first, those supporting characters seem two-dimensional, but what they represent are standard personalities – common character denominators of people who populate an alcoholic’s world.  Wick is the one who has tried so hard to help the alcoholic recover, but finally gives up; Helen is the one who loves the alcoholic, and who will do anything to keep the alcoholic alive; and Nat is the one who, despite knowing better, takes twisted pity and feeds the alcoholic’s needs.  And all play their parts despite the consequences.

As for Milland, he rises to the daunting task of creating a character that is deceitful and mean and selfish, yet so tragically flawed and self-aware that he commands sympathy.  Out of everyone in his life, he is his own greatest victim; not just by the damage he does to his own body and mind, but by the scars he leaves on his own soul.  And it’s that soul that continues to fight, despite the scars.  Nearly everything Don consciously does seems to have a dual purpose – selfish and unselfish.

He sends his brother to the concert with Helen, so that (selfish) he will be alone to drink, and (unselfish) because they are the two people who he has made suffer the most, and who deserve a couple hours away from the daily worry and care for him.  He buys two bottles of rye with the expectation that Wick will find one.  This “decoy” bottle (selfish) will make Wick think that Don has been caught, when Don’s second bottle is all he’ll need, and (unselfish) Wick will feel better about himself thinking that he stopped his brother from downing a bottle of booze.  He arranges a date with Gloria when he already has a girlfriend, (selfish) so he can have companionship with someone that is not trying to save him or rehabilitate him, and (unselfish) he can give Gloria the opportunity for a night out on a “real” date, not the usual “dates” she makes with older men.  Don’s split behavior continues throughout, even when he steals money from a stranger’s purse, so that he can pay a bar tab.  He is thoughtful enough and remorseful enough about the negativity of his own actions to leave a flower in the purse as a form of apology.

Even after the Hitchcockian hallucinations Don he has while suffering through the DTs, some might consider the film’s ending to be a little too tidy, but having lived through Don’s experiences, it comes as nothing short of sweet relief.

His Girl Friday

1940

Starring Cary Grant, Rosalind Russell, Ralph Bellamy

Directed by Howard Hawks

92 minutes

In my life, I have watched an inordinate amount of episodic television, across all genres and networks, during every hour of the day and night, without prejudice towards premier or rerun.  (It’s this experience, particularly during my formative childhood years, that now makes me a savant at commercial jingles – not that it pays any bills, but I thought I’d mention it).  If I were asked the dreaded “desert island” question and was forced to choose only one TV show to watch for the rest of time, I would seriously consider creator/writer Aaron Sorkin’s The West Wing.

The show, about the day-to-day inner-workings of the White House, appeals to me because of its crackling dialogue, which Sorkin serves intelligently, wittily, and at a blistering pace that is reminiscent of Howard Hawks’ His Girl Friday.  But where The West Wing laces its politics with humor, His Girl Friday laces its humor with politics.

After an extended leave of absence, Hildy Johnson (Russell), ace reporter for New York City’s fictional newspaper The Star Ledger, returns to the office to inform her publisher, Walter Burns (Grant), that she is leaving the newspaper business for good.  She has become engaged to insurance salesman Bruce Baldwin (Bellamy), and plans to move in with her new husband … and his mother … to settle down as a homemaker in Albany. 

This greatly concerns Walter because he will not only lose his best reporter to a life of (what he perceives to be) abject boredom, he will also lose his ex-wife to another man – an ex-wife he still loves.  Making matters worse, Hildy is scheduled to leave in only a few hours, with the nuptials to take place the next day.  Hoping to change Hildy’s mind about her reporter’s life and her heart’s love, Walter takes every scheming opportunity to postpone, and ultimately prevent, her marriage and departure.  Hildy is quite familiar with Walter’s wily ways, so she is as careful as possible while around him, meaning Walter must be twice as conniving (in the names of love and news, of course) to get his way.

Walter’s mission begins with a little bribery.  He offers Hildy the commission from a $100,000 life insurance policy to be underwritten by Bruce, in exchange for her getting the scoop on the story of the century.  Earl Williams (John Qualen) is a man convicted of shooting a cop, and he is to be executed by hanging the next day.  Complicating Williams’ case is the fact that he is white, the cop was black, and the Mayor (Clarence Kolb), who is up for re-election, is using his support of the execution as a springboard to secure the city’s black vote (despite the governor's opposing wishes). 

As events unfold and as Walter’s scheming takes its toll, Hildy wants to forfeit the commission and flee for Albany.  But Walter finds more ways to keep her around by whatever means necessary.

One of the most important aspects of any film is the chemistry between its stars, but that is difficult to quantify, because, like organic chemistry, costar chemistry can take on many forms. 

Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, who starred in nine films together, had the great chemistry of two people with mutual restrained desperation for each other (thanks, in part, to their long, off-screen affair that resulted in the marital equivalent of unrequited love).  William Powell and Myrna Loy, together in 14 films, had the chemistry of two people who had been together for eons, but acted like newlyweds every day (they were only ever friends in real life).  And real-life lovers Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, together in just four films, had a heat that has yet to be matched in Hollywood since.

In His Girl Friday, Grant and Russell have a chemistry of two best friends (with myriad benefits) who can’t live with or without each other.  It’s this chemistry, when combined with each actor’s individual talents, that makes the rapid-fire dialogue – with numerous instances where their dialogue overlaps for what feels like glorious minutes – work so well, because they are that comfortable with each other.  This comfort level also makes their critical comic timing perfectly smooth.  Unfortunately for us, unlike the dozens of combined pairings of the three aforementioned couples, Grant and Russell make their only on-screen coupling in His Girl Friday.

Like the films featuring Tracy & Hepburn or Powell & Loy, His Girl Friday has a strong sense of female empowerment and equality, as evidenced in Hildy’s first scene, when she returns to the newspaper.  She strides with great confidence through a field of desks, and is showered with enthusiastic and respectful greetings from her male peers.  This strong sense continues throughout the film, whether in Hildy’s double-speak dealings with Walter, her verbal spars with the boys in the press room (and a fantastically motley bunch they are, featuring great character actors like Porter Hall, Roscoe Karns, and Frank Jenks), her interview with Earl Williams, or her pants-wearing role in her relationship with Bruce. 

Yet, for all that empowerment and equality, and like other Hepburn and Loy characters, Russell’s Hildy won’t sacrifice her feminine identity.  Hildy laments that her marriage to Walter was a failure, she yearns for the “normal” life of a homemaker, and she empathizes with the only other pivotal female character in the film, Williams’ friend, Molly Malloy (Helen Mack), who is misunderstood and mistreated by the male reporters.  These instances remind us that while Hildy might be “one of the guys” on a daily basis, she is still a woman at heart.

Dig a little deeper into the film’s dialogue, and you’ll find scathing jabs taken at politics, politicians, corruption, nepotism, racism, sexism, capital punishment, and the power of the press, all delivered by screenwriter Charles Lederer in a style that Aaron Sorkin surely must admire, if not downright envy.

Spinning all of these plates is director Howard Hawks, who is smart enough to do several things.  First, he compliments the complex dialogue with simple direction.  There are no stunning camera angles, no fancy tricks of shadow and light, and no lavish sets.  This film is based on the play The Front Page (written by Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur), and Hawks maintains the feel of live theater by keeping everything (except the dialogue) to a minimum. 

Second, Hawks doesn’t preach (and this is where His Girl Friday splits from The West Wing).  Yes, weighty issues are addressed, but they only act as reminders of the real world while simultaneously serving as targets for humor.

Third, and most impressively, Hawks knows when to change pace.  Sure, the majority of the dialogue is delivered at breakneck speed, but from time to time, Hawks slows things down enough so that we might catch our breath.  Then he cranks it back up again.  The best example of this is when Hildy interviews Williams in jail.  Progress comes to a near halt as we learn the convict’s story, but once that’s done, Hawks says to us, “I know you’ve been on a roller coaster ride that feels like it’s now over, and I’m sure you appreciate the stoppage, but what do you say we ride it again, only this time with a few more curves?”

We gladly ride it again, and we never want the ride to end.