Ben-Hur (1959)

 

The Best Years of Our Lives (1946) ****

 

Mrs. Miniver (1942) ****

On most days I wouldn’t trade my parents for anyone, but if the stars aligned absolutely perfectly and I could pick my own I would choose Atticus Finch (Gregory Peck) from To Kill a Mockingbird (1962) and Kay Miniver (Greer Garson) from Mrs. Miniver (1942). For me, they are the epitome of good parenting.  Thankfully, they both have now found their way into the 1001 Book—he was an original and she was just added in the Tenth Anniversary edition.  To say that I adore director William Wyler’s Mrs. Miniver would be an understatement. I don’t care that it’s sentimental and propagandistic, or that I can’t in all good conscience rave about its cinematography or art direction (although they were good in their own right).  Besides the fact that Mrs. Miniver was one of  the most important war films made during WWII, it is also one of the best pieces of ensemble acting to come out of the studio system—starting with Garson’s spell-binding performance in the title role and ending with Henry Travers’ engrossing turn as Mr. Ballard.  Some may disagree, but in my opinion Mrs. Miniver is truly one film that deserves to be seen before one’s death.

Based on Jan Struther’s 1939 book of essays, which described a middle-class British woman’s concerns over Britain possibly going to war, Mrs. Miniver was William Wyler’s unapologetic answer to American isolationism. The Academy Award winning screenplay was written by Arthur Wimperis, George Froeschel, James Hilton, and Claudine West over a period of more than one year. It was the product of constant rewrites which were dictated by America’s ever changing views on the war. Wyler, a German Jew, vehemently thought that Nazism was a scourge upon humanity and believed that the United States should join Britain in repelling the German menace.  Unfortunately, many Americans and their elected representatives believed that the country should stay out of a war that did not concern them.  As such, Wyler knew that no conventional war movie, with soldiers, tanks, and guns, would aid in changing the minds of ordinary Americans, and so he made a motion picture about a small British village ravaged by total war (more specifically the Blitz). 

People understood that bombs fell on battlefields and soldiers died in war, but seeing everyday, ordinary country Brits, women and children and the elderly, being tormented, and in some cases killed, by German aerial bombs was a whole other matter--this was how Wyler planned to present Mrs. Miniver to American audiences. Although the film premiered six months after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and the U.S. entered the war, it still had a powerful message for all audiences, which was delivered by the village vicar (Henry Wilcoxon) in the somber but rousing final scene: “This is the people's war! It is our war! We are the fighters! Fight it then! Fight it with all that is in us, and may God defend the right.” Yes, this speech was pure propaganda, but in the words of British Prime Minister Winston Churchill, it was “propaganda worth a hundred battleships." For his part, President Franklin D. Roosevelt ordered that the vicar’s entire speech be printed on leaflets and dropped over Europe and he had the Voice of America broadcast it on several different occasions.

The reason Mrs. Miniver was so inspiring to Americans and Britons alike is that the Miniver family and their village were ordinary people attempting to survive in extraordinary circumstances. The story begins by demonstrating that the Minivers are everyday middle class people who want nice things for themselves and their children. Like most women, Kay (Garson) buys frivolous things that she doesn’t need just because she wants them and then attempts to hide the purchases from her husband, Clem (Walter Pidgeon), who also purchases things he doesn’t need. They have two young children at home (Christopher Severn and Clare Sandars) and a son, Vin (Richard Ney), who occasionally comes down from Oxford to enlighten them about how much he is learning about the world.  They have a cook (Brenda Forbes), a housekeeper (Marie De Becker), and a social club to go to on weekends. Quite simply, they are your typical middle class British family. Duty and responsibility mean something to people like this, and so when war does come they do as they are expected: they abide by blackout regulations; they build and stock a bomb shelter; Clem joins the Home Guard and risks his life to aid the evacuation at Dunkirk; and, Vin voluntarily enlists in the RAF.  Moreover, they do all of these things without complaint. Nothing is insufferable—not bombs falling on their home; not a shot down German soldier demanding food; and, not the death of a loved one. As long as they remain strong, resilient, indefatigable people who are willing to fight for their way of life there is nothing that can destroy them—as long as there is a will there is a way. And, of course, this turned out to be true, since it was the British stiff upper lip which resolved itself not to give in when German bombs reigned down on the nation for more than eight months.

It’s difficult to imagine anyone else other than Greer Garson playing Mrs. Miniver, but MGM first asked Norma Shearer and then Ann Harding to play the role.  Both women declined because they didn’t want to play a mother who had a grown son. Garson, who was younger than both of those women, also had concerns but Louis Mayer convinced her to take the part and the rest is, as they say, history.  Her soft but steely turn as one of cinema’s most courageous and determined mothers and wives not only earned her her only Academy Award, it also made her the biggest female star at MGM. Her stoic countenance, regal beauty, and effortless ability to convey her character’s thoughts with one look were perfect for the character of Kay Miniver.  For me, her performance is flawless, which as a Bette Davis fan is somewhat disheartening because I so love Ms. Davis as Charlotte Vale in Now, Voyager (1942), but there is no doubt in my mind that Garson rightfully earned the 1942 Best Actress Oscar statute over Davis. 

Mrs. Miniver, of course, would not have been nearly as effective as it was without its stellar cast. Obviously Garson’s Oscar-winning performance is the star of the show, but Teresa Wright, Dame May Whitty, and Henry Travers are also standouts in the production.  Wright, who deservedly won a Best Supporting Actress Oscar, portrays Mrs. Miniver’s daughter-in-law Carol not as a hysterical war bride but as a realistic young woman who wants to enjoy her happiness, no matter how brief it may be.  As for Whitty, her Lady Beldon required her to humorously represent the old guard while also demonstrating indignation at what the world had devolved into  due to war.  And, then there is Henry Travers, the renowned character actor.  Perhaps the most touching scene in the movie is when he first shows Mrs. Miniver the rose that he wants to name after her.  In this, he must display pride, nervousness, and affection for both his rose and Mrs. Miniver.  It’s such a quiet and nuanced scene and the perfect way to first introduce Mrs. Miniver’s many wonderful qualities to the audience. 

Although I know it’s pure propaganda and overly sentimental at times, for me Mrs. Miniver is one of the best wartime movies ever made.  I am exceptionally happy that the editors of the 1001 Book finally inducted it into its table of contents—now, if only they would remove some of the absolutely horrible films that they insist remain on the list.

Wuthering Heights (1939) **1/2

As novel to screen adaptions go, director William Wyler’s Wuthering Heights (1939) is far from a faithful retelling of Emily Bronte’s gothic tale of love, jealousy, and vengeance.  Never mind that the entire second half of the novel is omitted by screenwriters Charles MacArthur and Ben Hecht’s Oscar nominated screenplay, it’s the last twenty minutes of the film that will forever cause Bronte to turn in her grave. Yet, I’m not going to discuss how insanely wrong MGM presented the true meaning of Wuthering Heights to countless generations of non-readers in this review. Instead, I want to talk about two things: Greg Toland’s gorgeous black and white cinematography and the romanticization of pathological behavior.

Wuthering Heights was nominated for eight Academy Awards: Best Picture, Best Actor (Laurence Olivier), Best Supporting Actress (Geraldine Page), Best Art Direction (James Basevi), Best Director (Wyler), Best Original Score (Alfred Newman), Best Screenplay (MacArthur and Hecht), and Best Black and White Cinematography (Toland).  Of these eight nominations, only Toland went home with the gold statue, and only because Gone with the Wind (1939) was in color and thus won Best Color Cinematography.  Perhaps things would have turned out better that award season for Sam Goldwyn had he opted for Vivien Leigh to play Cathy instead of Merle Oberon. I expect his unrelenting statement that Wuthering Heights, a commercial failure until its reissue, was his favorite of all of his productions instead of such superior films as The Best Years of Our Lives (1945) and The Little Foxes (1941) was a direct result of getting trounced by Leigh and Gone with the Wind in 1939. 

Toland described Wuthering Heights as “a soft, diffused picture, a fantasy”.  Through Toland’s lighting and camerawork, Wyler was able to depict four separate thematic moods.  Every last scene in the Earnshaw house (Wuthering Heights) is presented as somber, dark and foreboding.  From the opening scene where Heathcliff (Olivier), Isabella (Fitzgerald), and Ellen (Flora Robson) are sitting around the hearth when Lockwood (Miles Mander) interrupts their constant unhappiness, this house is lensed as a house of doom.  The moors that Cathy (Oberon) and Heathcliff escape to in times of both happiness and despair are depicted in two ways.  While Toland always seemed to capture the windy look of the rugged moors, he also appeared to present them based on the mood of the story.  When the couple experiences happiness the lighting is warm and inviting, but when things are going bad, say when Cathy chases after Heathcliff in a torrential downpour, the sky is dark and menacing.  And, then there is the Linton house, which always seems to be presented as extremely bright and cheerful, but can also be filmed in a way that its brightness also seems overbearing—more on that in a minute.

Known for his penchant for filming scenes in front of mirrors, Toland captured two of the most memorable scenes in Wuthering Heights by employing mirrors. It is not a coincidence that both scenes involved Cathy, since in Bronte’s novel mirrors had the habit of mocking and tormenting Cathy.  One scene occurs after Cathy and Heathcliff have a big fight, in which she treats him like a servant after returning from her first convalescence at the Linton house. Upon returning to her room she gazes at herself, dressed in one of Isabella’s fine dresses, in a full-length mirror. As she grows enraged with herself over how she treated Heathcliff she proceeds to violently rip the dress from her body. The other memorable mirror scene finds Cathy gazing into a mirrored dressing table as she prepares for Edgar Linton’s visit (David Niven). When Heathcliff barges into her room to dissuade her from the meeting, her mood completely changes.  For Cathy, both in the film and in the novel, mirrors represent her two personalities/faces—one is wild, carefree, and in love with the world in which Heathcliff resides, the other face is wanton for fine, pretty, respectable things and maliciously hateful toward Heathcliff’s presence, as it endangers her ability to first obtain and then keep “respectable” things. 

And this brings me to Wyler’s romanticization of pathological behavior in Wuthering Heights.  I’ve heard people say that this is a film about undying love and all of the idiotic things that go along with such a statement. Quite frankly, it is not, even if that is what Goldwyn wanted with his insane demand that the ending, which Wyler refused to shoot, find the ghosts of Cathy and Heathcliff wandering the moors eternally together. In today’s world, Cathy and Heathcliff’s story would have been one you would see on the nightly news: obsession turns to murder suicide.  Let’s forget that Heathcliff’s true character is bastardized by this movie—he was a horrible, though troubled, man in the novel.  It is Cathy’s behavior that is pathological—she probably would have been diagnosed with some sort of personality disorder if such a diagnosis existed at the time.  She loves Heathcliff but despises him at the same time. She doesn’t want to settle so she marries someone she doesn’t love to achieve the security and respectability that she so desires. Yet, when Heathcliff elopes with Isabella she has a nervous breakdown which causes her health to deteriorate, which causes her premature death. Ick! 

Only the deathbed scene, at least for me, somehow salvages the true nature of this unhealthy relationship.  Perhaps some found it romantic, but for me it was filmed in such a way that it truly represented their relationship.  Usually death scenes are shot in an aura of softness and employ somber lighting, but Cathy’s room of death is filled with bright lighting and so much white that it is sharp to the eye.  Forget Heathcliff’s whimpering and declarations of undying love, this brightly lit room is spotlighting how selfishness, vanity, vengeance, and revenge have no place in the world of love.  Cry Heathcliff for the world of happiness you never had. Feel your pitiful life drain from your listless sick body Cathy as you document the true state of your relationship by saying, “If I could only hold you till we were both dead.” In the end, your depravity not only destroyed both of you but those who made the mistake of loving you.  I expect many will not agree with my interpretation of the ending, but I take solace in the knowledge that Bronte probably would look at it the same as I do. 

Dodsworth (1936) **

(This is my contribution to the Mary Astor Blogathon, hosted by Tales of the Easily Distracted and Silver Screenings. Please follow this link to find other great contributing posts.)

“Love has got to stop some place short of suicide.” What a great line to walk out on your selfish, self-involved, two-timing wife.  I rank it right up there with, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Still, director William Wyler’s Dodsworth (1936) is not a particular favorite of mine, but I do admire the performances of Walter Huston and Mary Astor.

Based on the 1929 Sinclair Lewis novel of the same name, Dodsworth tells the the story of the disintegration of an American couple’s marriage as they take the Grande Tour of Europe. After selling his motor company Sam Dodsworth (Huston) decides he and his wife, Fran (Ruth Chatterton), should enjoy life and learn the meaning of the word leisure. For over twenty years they’d spent their lives in a provincial Midwestern town called Zenith, seeing the same people week after week and doing the same respectable thing over and over. On the surface they seem like a happily married couple, but once they set sail for the Old World it soon becomes obvious that they want totally different things out of life. For one, Fran is afraid of growing old. As such, she has a habit of becoming involved in flirtations with young, penniless playboys (in this order: David Niven, Paul Lukas, Gregory Gaye) and socializing with washed-up aristocrats (Maria Ouspenskaya).  All the while, Sam is off sightseeing and really immersing himself in learning about the cities he is visiting.  By the time Fran decides she wants to run off and marry one of the playboys, you can’t help but be happy for Sam—even though he is miserable.  To quote Francis Preston Blair: “Good riddance to bad rubbish.” 

Dodsworth is a drawing room melodrama about the perils of extramarital affairs amongst the rich and fabulous (although Chatterton, in my opinion, is far from fabulous). Hollywood films of the 1930s liked to showcase the goings on of the wealthy to deflect the public’s attention for an hour or two from the misery of the Great Depression.  I personally prefer the comedies to the melodramas—it’s easier to laugh at the rich than feel sorry for them.  I suppose this is one of the reasons I’m not a big fan of Dodsworth.

However, the biggest reason I am not especially fond of Dodsworth is Ruth Chatterton. In every film I’ve ever seen her in she grated on my nerves. She was an accomplished stage actress who never made the necessary transition to movie acting.  What I mean by this is she always came across as stilted and affected—there was no naturalism whatsoever.  I suspect had they got a Myrna Loy or Billie Burke to play Fran I would have enjoyed the film so much better.

What I did like about Dodsworth was Huston and Astor. While her part was a minor one, Astor’s Edith Cortright is the most likeable character in the entire movie. One of the standout scenes finds Edith and Fran discussing age.  When Fran comments about wanting to look as good as Edith does when she’s her age the look on Astor’s face is priceless. Of course this only highlighted how desperate Fran was to appear young—especially when you consider that Chatterton was fourteen years older than Astor.  Then, later in the scene when Edith notices than Fran is on the verge of engaging in an affair she says one small word that speaks volumes by the look on her face: “Don’t.” After her turn as Brigid O’Shaughnessy in The Maltest Falcon (1941) Astor was forever linked to playing an unsympathetic character, so it is always nice to see her in Dodsworth where she plays such an agreeable woman.

Whenever I see TCM host Robert Osborne introduce Dodsworth he always comments that people should give it a chance because Huston plays a completely different character than the one he is most known for in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948). This, of course, is true.  Sam Dodsworth is a stand-up guy with money and good manners. Huston plays him as a complex figure, who starts the film off as a confident man. By the middle of the film he has become a broken cuckold who needs to regain his confidence.  As such, Huston gives one of the best performances of his career (although Oscar picked Paul Muni in The Story of Louis Pasteur over him that year).

Overall, Dodsworth is a mildly entertaining drawing room melodrama. Fine performances from Astor and Huston somewhat make up for the fact that Ruth Chatterton is so freaking annoying in it.

Jezebel (1938) ****

(This is my contribution to the William Wyler Blogathon.  Please check out all of the wonderful blogs participating in this great event, which is hosted by The Movie Projector and runs June 24-29.)

Of all the directors screen legend Bette Davis worked with in her storied Hollywood career William Wyler was her favorite.  They worked together three times: Jezebel (1938), The Letter (1940), and The Little Foxes (1941)—she received an Academy Award nomination for all three films.  No other director knew how to handle Davis like Wyler. As an actress Davis was known for her uncompromising dedication to her roles, no matter if she were playing a complete shrew in Of Human Bondage (1934) or an alcoholic actress in Dangerous (1935). She was also known for her ability to hijack a picture from a weak-willed director. And, this is the main reason she and Wyler worked so well together: he was anything but weak-willed.  He, like Davis, was a perfectionist.  The difference is he knew perfect when he saw it, while she had the habit of assumption.  What I mean by this is that she often thought if she held nothing back and gave the most honest and raw take that she could then it must have been perfect.  Yet, Wyler knew there was more to capturing cinematic greatness and that is what he taught Davis when they worked together on Jezebel. 

Based on the 1934 Owen Davis play of the same name, Jezebel, which was nominated for five Academy Awards, including Best Picture, tells the tragic story of headstrong New Orleans debutante, Julie Marsden (Davis, in a role that was originated on the stage by her not BFF Miriam Hopkins). When Julie decides to test the love and patience of her longtime on-and-off-again beau Preston Dillard (Henry Fonda) on the cusp of the announcement of their engagement by wearing a red dress to the Olympus Ball (where all unwed women wear white) she sets in motion a series of events that lead to her eventual downfall.  There are three things that make Jezebel such a memorable picture: the costume design, the Olympus ball scenes, and Davis’ performance. 

The story takes place in 1850s New Orleans, so when the first glance we get of our heroine is her riding a hellish horse and wearing a riding habit we should know she’s a bit progressive for the times in which she lives.  The fact that she would wear said riding habit into greet a roomful of “properly” dressed guests to a party she’s late for only compounds the fact that Julie Marsden is obviously a feminist.  Still, the riding habit is by far the least memorable of the costumes Davis wears in Jezebel when one remembers the infamous red dress and the virginal white gown she wears to beg Press to take her back.  Designed by Orry-Kelly, every costume Davis wears is perfectly matched to the scene in which it is worn.  The dress most remember is the red gown that gets poor Julie into all kinds of trouble.  To answer Julie’s question upon seeing it: yes, it was saucy!  What most people don’t know about the dress is that it was first made out of red satin but when photographed in black and white it looked dull, so the color had to be changed to rust-brown to appear red on film.  Still, it is a rather startling dress, especially when it is contrasted against all the white gowns at the Olympus Ball.  It fits Davis perfectly and matches Julie’s fiery personality at that point in the movie.  The other standout gown is the frilly, virginal white dress that Julie wears when she greets Press at Halycon Plantation.  At this juncture in the film Julie is filled with humility and repentance and is more than willing to lower herself before her beloved.  This is a key point, because when Orry-Kelly designed this dress he had to make sure it showed well when Julie literally kneels at Press’s feet and begs him to take her back. She is enveloped by the dress and it shows just how small Julie feels about the way she’s behaved. 

That bad behavior, of course, is on full display at the Olympus Ball.  After Julie refuses to change her red dress before going to the ball Press decides he’s going to teach her a lesson in humility. For a sequence that was originally scheduled for only a half-day of shooting the ball scenes turned out to be some of the best in the film.  A half-day soon turned into five excruciating days of extensive takes and camera movements.  The ballroom was huge and had a massive chandelier that hung oppressively overhead. Countless couples (all “properly” attired) are dancing as a full orchestra plays a waltz when Press and Julie enter the ballroom.  When Press removes Julie’s cloak to reveal her scandalous dress all eyes are shockingly focused on the young couple for a moment.  They literally walk the gauntlet as they slowly walk past a line of men who Press warningly glares at. It is at this moment that Wyler and Oscar-nominated cinematographer Ernest Haller focus in on Julie’s eyes, which go from defiant to humiliated in a matter of seconds. Things become even more intense when Press forces her to dance, even as the entire floor of dancers leave the floor, repulsed by the couple’s impropriety. The overhead shot of the empty dance floor, sans Press and Julie, is almost unbearable to watch. The scene itself is what I like to refer to as a theatre of tragedy.  Press and Julie are the actors, while the other attendants are the audience.  As his grip tightens around her waist while she begs him to take her home, you see them encircled by those white dresses in a domineering overhead shot. A spotlight literally shows the complete disintegration of their relationship.  It is one of the most powerful, almost completely non-verbal scenes I recall ever watching. 

Of Davis’ many great performances, Julie Marsden is most probably the most subtle.  Davis had Wyler to thank for this, as well as for her Best Actress Oscar statuette. Perhaps one of the reasons most people don’t remember Julie as a bitch is because of the way Wyler asked Davis to play her.  Instead of speaking aggressively and dealing death glances with her eyes, Davis was asked to play Julie with a smile on her face and a sweet lilt in her voice.  She may have been giving Press hell or inciting duels, but she did it with a sweet Southern smile and a coquettish twinkle in her eye. At first when Wyler asked Davis to play her character like this she didn’t understand and was very off-put, but after watching the rushes she soon realized that her director was right. I think that is what makes Julie one of her most memorable characters—she was so different from the roles Davis usually played.  I mean, really, who can ever forget how she looked as she knelt before Press—completely humble and innocent—begging for his forgiveness and love.  How often did Bette Davis kneel before any man?  And, then, of course, you have that indescribably baffled look on her face when Press introduces his new wife (Margaret Lindsay) to her.  As she takes a moment to take in what he’s said you can see her internal struggle to understand what has just taken place. Her only response, obviously dumbfounded, “Your wife?”  Priceless.

Oddly enough, Jezebel had as much drama happening behind the scenes as it did in front of the camera.  For one thing, Wyler and Davis started a torrid affair that reportedly resulted in a pregnancy. And, perhaps to fully encompass the role of Jezebel, who in the words of Aunt Belle (Best Supporting Actress winner Fay Bainter) was “a woman who did evil in the sight of God,” Davis also conducted an affair with Fonda after having a fight with Wyler.  It took a phone call from Fonda’s pregnant wife (she was carrying Jane) to make Davis end the fling.  In addition, at one point Jack Warner was seriously considering replacing Wyler with William Dieterle because Wyler was so far behind schedule and over budget. Davis had to plead with Warner to keep Wyler and promised to work until midnight every night if that’s what it took to finish the film with Wyler.  In the end, the film finished a month late and nearly $400,000 over budget.  Ah, but it was all worth it, as Jezebel made Bette Davis a superstar and William Wyler a top-tier director.