Ah, Wilderness!

Ah, Wilderness! (Clarence Brown, 1935) The 1933 Eugene O'Neill play adapted by the wife-husband team of Frances Goodrich and Albert Hackett, who also wrote The Thin Man, Father of the Bride, It's a Wonderful Life, and The Diary of Anne Frank (play and adaptations). Just the collective writer credits is reason enough to watch the film, which (I've read in some film circles, incorrectly as it turns out) inspired the "Andy Hardy" series at M-G-M. 

 

"Inspired" as in as loose an interpretation of the term as possible. They're both about families and have Lionel Barrymore and Mickey Rooney in the credits. But, the "Hardy" series never dealt with alcoholism, sloth, and the revolutionary pangs of rebellion and first love that can raise the roof of any American domicile, until it is planed down to respectability (or some form of it). It may be the lightest of O'Neill's plays and so not threatening to the "American values" of M-G-M head Louis B. Mayer. But, the O'Neill name would have appealed to M-G-M production head Irving Thalberg (who had cut back activities after a 1932 heart attack) and his replacement David O. Selznick.

It's not all Currier and Ives at the Miller household in 1906 New England, where father Nat (Barrymore) is a newspaper publisher, sagely juggling the traumas, large and small, happening under his roof, with wife Essie (Spring Byington), children (in order of birth) Arthur (Frank Albertson), Richard (Eric Linden), Mildred (Bonita Granville), and youngest Tommy (Mickey Rooney) and Nat's brother Sid (Wallace Beery) and Essie's sister Lily (Aline MacMahon). Sid is living in his brother's house because he can't hold a job, largely due to his constant drinking. Lily is there out of charity for a spinster, which Sid would love to change, if not for her constant rejection due to his drinking and questionable past.

Then, there's Richard, about to graduate from High School and suffering the pangs of first love, two things that can puff out a guy's chest and mess with his head—as the saying goes "you can tell a Senior, but you can't tell him MUCH."*

With his mind swimming with Oscar Wilde, G. B. Shaw, Marx and The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam, and mooning over the girl next door (Cecilia Parker), he thinks himself a man of the world, bound for Yale, and is itching to prove himself, when, frankly, he's still living under his father's roof and hasn't even kissed a girl (or "the" girl, as she's afraid of kissing). The influences and urges set him up to become a failure like his Uncle Sid—although Sid, for all his talk and self-conceit (and self-deception) does have his uses—so, the faltering steps the kid takes to manhood have to be monitored and negotiated.

That includes not citing Marxist tracts in his graduation speech, learning how to drive the family's Stanley Steamer, his passionate love letters to his girl, Muriel, which are intercepted by her father and found to contain passages from Swinburne, leading to the parent storming the Miller residence and threatening to cancel advertising in father's newspaper. Muriel is forced to write a farewell letter to which man-of-world Richard can only blurt "Geewhillickers!" and bust out in tears.

 

To say nothing of his getting roaring drunk and getting rolled by a floozy.

Growing up is tough. And one is reminded of that other dramaturge John Wayne who when assured that that the immaturity of an opponent is a temporary thing and "will learn" usually replied "...if he lives." Nobody learns anything getting killed in the process.

But, O'Neill—and Goodrich and Hackett—makes sure the kid survives long enough to go to Yale. It's a sweet movie, sometimes painful, but everything promises, if not happiness, continuity, and maybe an upward trajectory from the fates of so many in O'Neill's plays, whose foibles and self-delusions are given a light dusting of sugar in Ah, Wilderness!

 

* “You can tell a freshman by his silly, eager look / You can tell a sophomore ’cause he carries one less book / You can tell a junior by his fancy airs and such / You can tell a senior, but you can’t tell him much.”

The Good Earth

The Good Earth (Sidney Franklin, Victor Fleming, George W. Hill, Sam Wood and Gustav Machatý, 1936) This is a film (as Leonard Maltin would say) "very much of its time"—Hollywood critical code for saying that if it was made this way today it would be picketed and protested and denounced on the Senate floor (well, maybe not the last one). So, let's just get it out of the way. There's a lot of racism in The Good Earth, from the casting of Paul Muni* and Luise Rainer (and many of the principals, including Walter Connolly and...Charley Grapewin?!), all Caucasians, as Asians,** which is unfortunate, the music is Hong-Kong china-gong cliche-ridden, the pigeon-English of the screenplay insulting. Absolutely true.

Give them points for trying in bloody 1936, though. The original plan for the film, as envisioned by author Pearl Buck and M-G-M honcho Irving Thalberg was to create an all-Chinese film, but studio pressure for "better profits with bigger stars" from M-G-M head Louis B. Mayer (who didn't want to make the film, whether it was profitable or not) compromised the plan—Paul Muni was cast as farmer Wang Lung. And, because of anti-miscegenation language built into the Hays Code, as Wang was being played by a white guy, a Chinese actress could therefore not be cast as Mrs. Wang. So the part went to Luise Rainer, who had won the Oscar for Best Actress for "The Great Ziegfeld."***

Original director George W. Hill traveled to China to film location footage that was supplemented by California locations and sets. Hill died before principal photography could take place and Sidney Franklin was hired as director—but as, with other big M-G-M productions, other directors stepped in for some sequences, including the ubiquitous Victor Fleming (of Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz fame), and Sam Wood, who directed the genuinely frightening scenes of the looting at The Great House.  This one tears the "auteur" theory to shreds as it was, very much, a Producer's picture. Thalberg (fictionalized in "The Last Tycoon" by F. Scott Fitzgerald), oversaw the whole thing, picking directors from his stable of them to maximize the thrill of specific sequences to enhance the spectacle of his "prestige" picture, and despite the clashing styles, the thing seems to work rather seamlessly.

Beyond the piece-meal approach and industrial racism, though, The Good Earth is frequently thrilling with production value and subtle in its politics. In it, we see a lower-caste family go through the travails of living off the soil. When The Good Earth turns against them and a drought threatens the family, they're forced to movie "to the city" to look for work. Glossy this production may be, but it doesn't turn a blind eye to tragedy, with surprisingly dire consequences for the family. Their fortunes turn—through theft—and they prosper, but that good fortune corrupts, distancing the family from the community. Only when the future is threatened with a devastating invasion (and it literally looks like it) of locusts—through a combination of M-G-M effects wizardry and micro-photography—does the village, now a small city, band together and defeat a Nature they can beat back with sticks and fire.

As I stated, the film is worrisome for its attempts at political correctness and political duplicity at the expense of caricature and wrong-headed casting, but it does deliver an unblinking look at the havoc that can be wrought on people caught between the gales of Nature and their own natures. Rainer is fairly luminous throughout, and it is particularly heart-warming to see Keye Luke, whom I'd only known as an old man, young and strapping as the best educated (and thus least respected) of the farmer's sons.

The Good Earth should be seen in the spirit of "The Big Epic" (with all the frothing, high dudgeon and drama inherent in such enterprises).  It is best, flaws known and forgiven...if not ignored.

 * I'm as Chinese as Herbert Hoover" was Muni's retort to his suggested casting.

** And, look, as sure as Anthony Quinn was Arabian, you can bet that box-office potential wins out over authenticity every day.  Only a couple of years ago, there was a furor that Chinese actress Zang Ziyi was cast in the lead of Memoirs of a Geisha.  Of course, authenticity and cultural sensitivity should be the basis of casting (along with such minor considerations as talent and ability to pull off the role...), but...Zhang Ziyi?  If you could land her for a movie...wouldn't you?

*** Rainer at this writing is alive and well and celebrated her 100th birthday January 10th, 2010. She won back-to-back Oscars in 1935 and 1936, which she stated was "the worst possible thing" for her career. She has mostly stayed out of the lime-light, but occasionally does acting jobs that have struck her fancy--like a dual-role on "The Love Boat," in 1983.  

Libeled Lady

Libeled Lady (Jack Conway, 1936) This must be a favorite of some programmer at Turner Classic Movies, as it seems to show up on its schedule every single month without fail. It is an M-G-M confection, designed to be another pairing of William Powell and Myrna Loy (they made fifteen movies together in all), whose chemistry in "The Thin Man" series guaranteed box-office rewards.  

There was another woman in the mix, however. Powell's off-screen love, Jean Harlow, wanted to be in the film as well, and it is at this point, one should explain the plot, as slight as it is.

Heiress Connie Allenbury (Loy) is accused by the sensational headline-seeking newspaper, The New York Evening Star of being the home-wrecker in a prominent socialite divorce. She isn't and so sues the paper for libel to the tune of five million dollars. This will break the paper and so managing editor Warren Haggerty (Spencer Tracy) tries to convince Ms. Allenbury to call off the suit, which she refuses to do on principle and out of spite. There's no way the paper can produce evidence to the truth of the matter, and no way that they can defend themselves against the charge. So, just like they did with the original story, they have to manufacture the evidence.

Haggerty calls in associate Bill Chandler (Powell), former reporter, to produce the evidence by having him stalk Allenbury, harrass her and serial-seduce her so they can catch her in "the act" (well, of course, and I'm a little brutal in my description of the plan because it is the modern-day equivalent for what was considered a "screwball" situation in a 30's comedy—it actually shows what a creep Tracy's character is when you think of it like that). This necessitates Chandler getting married to Haggerty's fiancée Gladys Benton, so that there will be "another woman" wronged by any potential romance between Chandler and Allenbury. It's a gambit Gladys resists violently, then eventually favors because she's been engaged to Haggerty so long she thinks he may have forgotten where he kept the receipt for the ring, and maybe this might jar him into matrimony, and also pay more attention to her than the paper (Haggerty suffers from "Walter Burns Syndrome"). That's a lot to hang on a hair-brained scheme based on deceipt, but I suspect these people drink a little.

So Chandler goes off to try and woo the heiress, a team of photographers in tow to catch anything "in the act." But, Connie proves herself immune to his charms...especially when he's putting on airs, as he suspects is necessary with Connie. She rebuffs him. She finds him more attractive for his grace when he's exposed in his own flummery, like pretending to be a great "angler" and ending up fish-less, soaked to the bone and looking like a fool. As she's inclined to not give gold-diggers the time of day, this willingness to look like a total fool has some appeal. The plot wouldn't go anywhere if it didn't. 

And let's face it, it's William Powell. Even if she weren't married to him in an alternate movie series timeline, the pairing of Loy and Powell seems only natural. Her sophistication combined with a cynic's viewpoint (played charmingly, of course) was the perfect off-set to Powell's breezy charm (with a boy's sense of impropriety. Once established, Powell never gave a line reading that didn't seem to originate straight from his brain (something that can be said for Tracy, as well). Both actors could play variations on their themes, but only had to make minor tweaks in inflections and manner to make the part their own, once engaged.

The revelation here is Jean Harlow. She crackles in her role, with a natural gift for comedy. She had wanted to play the Loy part, the studio balked, and she compromised, taking the less romantic role (with less time with Powell), but more material to sink her teeth into. Her Gladys is a hoot, and her confrontation scene with Powell and Loy, where the two co-conspirators try to out-lie each other is screwball gold.

The cast was aided by one of M-G-M's more utilitarian directors, Jack Conway, who (according to Loy) usually had one direction: "faster." Conway doesn't do anything fancy, except make sure the material was optimized and the actors in focus. Conway was not an "auteur" with fancy camera moves and direction that called attention to itself.  But he was a stalwart, who brought things in on time and on-budget and that could cut reasonably well. The budget was up on the screen and that pleased his studio bosses—who liked to think they were in control of the movies and the bottom line. And he kept the actors happy, which may be the secret to good comedy in the first place.