Weeks 10-12

Soooooo...we’ve been house hunting, and that’s occupied the majority of my critical and creative energy over the past few weeks. As a result, I’ve again fallen behind in posting. But I have kept up with viewing. Here’s an epic six-film post to catch us up. My apologies. Please bear with me!

The Philadelphia Story (1940): It seems like an odd premise—at least by today’s standards: a scandal might possibly interrupt the nuptials of socialites. But perhaps it’s not that odd for the plot of a theater production, which is what The Philadelphia Story is based on (in fact, Katharine Hepburn reprises her role as Tracy Lord from the play in the film). And perhaps that’s just it—maybe we don’t have many films like this anymore, because fewer films are based on theater productions. And maybe that’s because American audiences don’t have the patience for a film with minimal set pieces and maximal dialogue. In this, as in many romantic comedies of the period (including many others with Hepburn and/or Grant and/or Stewart), densely packed lines are delivered rapidly and in quick succession. It can be exhausting to follow, absorb, and process everything the characters are saying to each other. But it’s also rewarding. And the best part about the film is that several outcomes seem entirely possible (even probable) as we’re coming into the homestretch. Even though I’d seen the film before, I was myself only half-sure of how it would turn out. It’s wild, it’s fast, and it’s funny, if still more than a little old-fashioned in its philosophy.

Stagecoach (1939): Yet another film full of classic western tropes—the macho, fearless cowboy, the savage and violent Indian, the righteous Calvary—but darn it if this film isn’t immensely entertaining. I’ve never been a fan of Wayne’s, but in a film like this, I can certainly see his appeal. He exudes cool confidence, and you can’t help but root for his character. And for a film that is more than 75 years old, it involves some remarkable action/stunt sequences, unique camera maneuvers, and breathtaking cinematography (which showcases the scenic Monument Valley). And it’s full of a surprisingly amusing cast of characters. Furthermore, the film seems to sympathize with the outcasts (an escaped prisoner, a disgraced and drunken doctor, a prostitute) while sticking it to “The Man” (a greedy, thieving banker, who amusingly and presciently observes, “What this country needs is a businessman for a president!”). And while the final showdown between Wayne’s character and his brother’s killer is a bit hokey (but still visually striking), the film overall is an entertaining success. (I’m even left suspecting Tarantino drew some inspiration from Stagecoach when he wrote The Hateful 8.)

Annie Hall (1977): Sometimes I love Woody Allen’s work. Sometimes I don’t. In this one, I think he gets it just about right (at least for me). He’s just the right amount of neurotic. Just the right mix of annoying and appealing. I love the manner in which he repeatedly breaks the fourth wall in this film, with numerous direct addresses and asides to the audience. This is a technique that few films since seem to get right (although the recent film, The Big Short, comes pretty close).  My favorite is when he’s in line at the theater, listening to a blowhard loudly offer his opinions about film, and Alvy actually brings out Marshall McLuhan to discredit him! I also love the scene when Alvy first rides in a car with Annie. It perfectly encapsulates the passive-aggressiveness and nervous energy of his character: “You have a nice car. You keep it nice. Is this a sandwich?” I also like the structure of the film. May times the non-linear narrative is done as a gimmick, and I suppose some might suggest that’s how it was used here as well, but I think the way the story unfolds serves to maximize the emotional impact. We already know where the relationship ends up, and this way we get to see glimpses of how it got there (not in chronological order, but more like how we’d recall the events from memory or relate them as short stories to our friends).

Rebel Without a Cause (1955): I’ve always thought this title was something of a misnomer, because he’s certainly not without cause. But I suspect that’s’ the point—the title reflects the adult perception of this “rebel’s” behavior as being without cause or merit. The film follows Dean’s character as he struggles to transition into adulthood. He’s angry. He’s lonely. He feels like the adults in his life are failing to provide a positive model of adult thought and behavior. Generally, adults are portrayed as distracted and distant—a not uncommon depiction in films from the post-war era, as affluence and commercialism ballooned. Adolescents are given more freedom during this time, but they’re also generally ignored.

A few things strike me about this film. First, there’s a fine example of good community policework early on—an officer offers to talk (and listen!) to Dean’s character without (much) judgment or pressure, and without even the threat of “throwing the book at him” (and it’s a standing offer that extends beyond their first meeting). Also, it’s lovely seeing Dean play a character that is simultaneously so cool and uncool. He’s got style, but he’s awkward and emotional; he’s vulnerable. And finally, the film is certainly melodramatic and unfocused at times, but I hardly think those are faults—because that’s pretty much what most of adolescence is like, too.

Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948): Another fine film by Huston. The tone and pacing is fantastically crafted. This is a great example of picking an intriguing setting, introducing us to some interesting characters full of personality and desire, throwing some fantastical opportunity at them, and then winding it all up really tightly and letting it go. With each new development in the story (finding gold, being discovered by another potential prospector, having run-ins with bandidos, etc.), we bring each character a little closer to his breaking point. And we wonder, as the film progresses, which one of the trio of prospectors we’re most like—hoping we’re the nobler Curtin (or even Howard) but worrying we’re the increasingly fearful, paranoid, greedy, and obsessive Dobbs, stumbling ever closer to a tragic (but seemingly inevitable) demise. I feel Bogart was robbed of the Oscar for this role (I don’t think he was even nominated), but the film was honored during award season. And there’s an interesting bit of trivia on that topic: Walter Huston won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor for his role as the prospector “Howard.” John Huston, who won the Academy Award for Best Director for this film, is Walter’s son. That was the first time that a father-son duo won Oscars at the same ceremony.

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner (1967): This film gets credit for intention, certainly. It was released at a time when interracial marriage was still illegal in more than 15 states. The acting is superb—especially by Poitier, Hepburn (in one of her several Academy Award-winning roles), and Tracy. And there are some very satisfying moments—like when Hepburn’s character fires her snoopy and judgmental employee: “Get. Permanently. Lost.”

But the film has its problems. First, towards the end of the film, we get one lengthy, pious monologue after another. Few of us ever speak at length so eloquently or effectively as several characters in this film do—especially in moments of stress or passion. Second, after all of the goodwill established early on, the final (and most important) say still comes down to the old white patriarch (even if his decision is to say that it’s not really his decision, everyone still listens to and eagerly awaits his judgment). Finally, I didn’t care for the theme song the first time I heard it (during the opening credits) and I was downright sick of it by the time the film was over! J

But overall, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner is a still-timely example of how white liberals might advocate equity and justice outwardly but are often poor at practicing what they preach—especially when it bears actual personal consequence in their own lives.

A side note: Hepburn never saw the final cut of the film (her final of nine films with husband Spencer Tracy), as Tracy died less than three weeks after filming wrapped, and she felt it would be too painful to watch.