Guys and Dolls

Guys and Dolls (Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1955) I'm not a big fan of musicals, although there are musicals I'm quite fond of. It's the form that bothers me—the interruption of narrative flow for a serviceable song that may or may not have anything to do with what came before or after it. If it's an operetta, sure, I can go with that if everything is mostly sung, anyway. If the musical involves the musical field, breaking into song is a natural extension. I admit it's a small-minded prejudice and, despite my grumpy attitude, it isn't absolute—I admire things that are exceptions to the caveats. Hey, nobody's perfect. And when I lean away from my prejudices, it's usually because a song is so musically magical or the lyrics so damned clever that they would be sorely missed if they were taken away. Plus, there are musicals that elevate the inherent emotion with song in ways that merely dialog, however well-written, could not achieve. So, my collection of cherished musicals is sparse, with subject matter all over the map and in different formats, animated and live-action. They thrill me, rather than having me carp through a song: "Get on with it..."

"Guys and Dolls" is one of those exceptions. Based on two Damon Runyon stories—"The Idyll of Miss Sarah Brown" and "Blood Pressure", it was a Broadway "smash" when it debuted in 1950 (directed by George S. Kauffman!), with a book by screenwriter Jo Swerling, which was rewritten by Abe Burrows, with songs (composed between the two drafts) by Frank Loesser. The later script had to merge into the songs from the earlier draft, which causes a little bit of a fracas here and there, but it makes for an entertaining and charming evening. 

So, you'd think when the movie adaptation came along, after 1,200 Broadway performances and 555 in London, everything would be on the square and level. But, the movie adaptation, produced by the Samuel Goldwyn Company, compounded issues by dropping songs—some of them ("A Bushel and a Peck,""Marry the Man Today,""More I Cannot Wish You," and "My Time of Day") already made very famous by the Broadway run—and then added three new songs...to accommodate the casting, which was done with an eye toward box office returns, rather than production logic. More on that later, but first give us to introduce personae dramatis:

The story revolves illegal betting in New York City. One of the high rollers is one Nathan Detroit (played in the film by Frank Sinatra), who, through his connections, runs a necessarily "floating" crap game from many locations throughout the city. But, due to the efforts of the local police constabulary, Nathan Detroit, one particular night, cannot get one of his usual locales to provide the hosting duties for the evening's festivities. The Biltmore Garage might do it...but with the first presenting of a security deposit of one thousand clams. This, Nathan Detroit does not have.

But, he happens upon another high roller in the well-tailored form of Mr. Sky Masterson (Marlon Brando), who is a good bet to never turn down any bet. Nathan Detroit then wagers with Mr. Sky Masterson that he cannot convince any woman of his choosing to go to a romantic dinner in Havana, Cuba. To Masterson, this is a cinch of the lead-pipe variety. Until, of course, Detroit chooses Sergeant Miss Sarah Brown (Jean Simmons) of the "Save a Soul" Mission. For Masterson, this is akin to drawing a Nothing card hand, or rolling Snake Eyes.

The film then follows Masterson's efforts to win the bet, thus saving himself a thousand G's, and Detroit's efforts to secure a hospitable roost for the Big Game in the happenstance that he should be the loser of the bet. Oh...and to further put-off his fiancee of fourteen years, Adelaide (Vivian Blaine—the only hold-over lead star from Broadway*), a nightclub dancer at the Hot Box Club.

Goldwyn was thinking Gene Kelly for the role of the smooth Masterson, who is the romantic lead role and has quite a few songs to sing, but Kelly's studio—M-G-M—would not loan him out (which is ironic as they ended up distributing the movie for Goldwyn, anyway). The next choice, naturally, would be Frank Sinatra, who desperately wanted to play Masterson. But this circumstance was not to be. Goldwyn chose, in his stead, to give the role to the biggest box office bonanza at the time, which happened to be Marlon Brando. Marlon Brando, who could not sing...maybe could dance a little. It was fine with the director, Joseph Mankiewicz, who had directed Brando in Julius Caesar, a role of some considerable acclaim and status...and moolah made at the box-office. Brando got the role. 

This did not impress Mr. Sinatra, who could sing and could dance and had displayed these abilities in many a previous musical production. The Masterson role was played on Broadway by Robert Alda (father of Alan Alda), who had a rich voice and who could acquit himself well with a song. But Sinatra was stuck in the Nathan Detroit role, which was more of a character type, played by Sam Levene on the stage (and one must say that Levene was not too accomplished a crooner) and so, received simpler "talky" songs. This was a situation for which Sinatra could not be feeling gratified about. He was much aggrieved and could only wish that a stage light would fall on his co-star, so as he might be able to step into the role.

But, he was given a conciliatory song—"Adelaide" (which he sang out of character)—and sat back while the actor he called "Mr. Mumbles" was given voice lessons that he might warble the songs that Sinatra could do at the drop of a down-beat.

 

The results, however, for all the effort, were none too shabby.   

Sure, they had to splice together a usable version of the ditties from many Brando attempts, but Brando brought Method to the madness and "acted" his way through it, which was compelling enough for Mankiewicz and the paying rubes who hadn't taken in the stage version.

And, by the by, it's not a bad production. Mankiewicz doesn't try to make it realistic in any way, creating a stagey New Yawk gangster bubble-world where everything is immaculate—even the sewers!—and there is merely the suggestion of rough-house among these sharps, but nobody really gets hurt...or "offed". No "rods" are produced, and no legs get broken. Not even a nose gets bent out of shape.

And the only "singing" that is done is...well, it's a musical, no matter how many "takes"...it takes.

But, it's not the Tony Award-winning stage version. Oh, folks did get to see a version of Vivian Blaine's performance (with a couple of her songs axed). And they got to see the performance Mankiewicz was most grateful for--Jean Simmons' turn as Sarah Brown. She was a third-choice compromise after the director had been turned down by, first, Grace Kelly, and, second, Deborah Kerr. Simmons was accomplished and well-known (and already Oscar-nominated...for playing Shakespeare, fer crying out loud) and she had the added advantage of already having worked with Brando before (in Désirée the year before). He called her "the dream...a fantastically talented and enormously underestimated girl. In terms of talent, Jean Simmons is so many heads and shoulders above most of her contemporaries, one wonders why she didn't become the great star she could have been."

And, of course, they got to see "the show-stopper" in the play's last act--"Sit Down, You're Rockin' the Boat" performed by the stage-show's Stubby Kaye (who played the role of Nicely-Nicely Johnson in both versions).

It was one of the "sure things" in a production that spent a lot of its time rolling the dice, hoping for the best.

* Marilyn Monroe lobbied for the part.

The Big Country

The Big Country (William Wyler, Robert Swink, 1958) One of those films you hear so much about—when one is talking about "epics"—that, once you see it, you wonder what all the fuss is about. Oh, the technical specs are there: stunning cinematography by Franz Planer in Technicolor and Technirama (although early videos before remastered DVD's tended to look a bit washed out and squeezed); a top-notch cast where Charlton Heston is only fourth-billed; and a rousing score by Jerome Moross that busily pumped up the excitement when nothing much was happening (director Wyler evidently hated the score, but it rarely flags—much the same way Elmer Bernstein's score for The Magnificent Seven goosed that film a couple years later). And William Wyler's framing has just enough "edge" to it that when he went off to prep Ben-Hur in Rome (leaving second unit director Robert Swink to finish it) the difference is extremely noticeable. Swink managed to solve some story-issues, but the "snap" of Wyler's visual flair just isn't there, especially in its use of the Technirama frame.

East-coaster James Mackay (Gregory Peck), a sailor by trade, has traveled out West to San Rafael to marry his beloved, Patricia Terrill (Carroll Baker), daughter to "The Major" (Charles Bickford), wealthy land-baron and owner of the Ladder ranch. He's met by ranch foreman Steve Leech (Heston), who takes one look at McKay's city-slicker duds and pegs him for a "rube," especially galling as he's a little sweet on his boss' daughter, as well.

What McKay doesn't know is he's stepped right into a situation not too far afield of Dashiell Hammett's "Red Harvest" where two warring factions are competing for supremacy—the Terrill's and the Hannassey's (led by the blustery Rufus Hannassey played by Burl Ives in an Oscar-winning turn). San Rafael may be "Big Country" (as McKay is continually told by locals), but it doesn't seem to be big enough for two ranches and their respective herds of cattle. The burr under everybody's saddles is the Maragon spread, which has an accommodating body of water for watering the parched cows out on the chaparral. The late owner of the area kept the peace by allowing access to everyone, but things seem to have gotten out of control, now that it's run by Maragon's daughter, school-teacher Julie (Jean Simmons). Seems the strategy for dealing with her is to either make her sell or marry her and she's not having any of it.

And McKay is metaphorically a fish out of water. He doesn't fit in out West. He does things differently than they're used to in the passive-aggressive West. When a bunch of Hannassey's men (led by son Chuck Connors) have a little fun drunkenly hog-tying McKay, the Terrill's want to string them up—and even shoot up the Hannassey ranch over it—but McKay dismisses the attack and doesn't want anybody escalating the tensions on his behalf. That's not how they do things out West! And McKay is taken to be a coward, something driven home when Leech offers the use of the horse "Old Thunder"—withholding the information that "Thunder" is a notorious ill-tempered bronco—which McKay refuses, not wanting to be made sport of.

While the Terrill's are off on their little pissing match, McKay secretly works with the horse, constantly being bucked off*, until it finally is worn down and acquiesces to being ridden. McKay chooses to keep that knowledge secret—he doesn't give a rip what the others think of him, nor does he check with anyone when he takes a solo sortie out to the Maragon place to inquire about purchase. The Terrill's go into a panic at his disappearance, not realizing that McKay knows how to navigate...and evidently never having seen a compass.

McKay's "otherness" is played up in a lot of the film for drama and comedy—McKay's never acquiring the hang of greeting with "Howdy" or "Good Morning" garners an exquisite Peck triple-take—and his stoicism may be the biggest point of the film. Wyler had some dealings with water-rights in his private life, but he saw The Big Country as a Cold War allegory of oneupmanship and territorial transgressions using the philosophy of "Might Makes Right." His protagonist is no antagonist. Peck's McKay doesn't like violence, and though he does carry guns in the film—they're a gift to the Major in a fancy case—he only fires one once...and quite deliberately. In a wild west with so many characters shooting promiscuously (as they say in The Wind and the Lion), McKay's naval Captain makes a third act resolution a little problematic—the film was constantly being rewritten while in production (much to the consternation of the actors). It's what happens when you concentrate on "The Message" rather than "The Story."

It's an odd Western where so much of the footage is of someone thinking rather than acting (or "reacting"). It throws the pacing off—Moross' score helps speed through the gaps—and there are a couple of dodgy "within-the-take" edits indicating that someone was aware of the pokiness. The overall effect is to make one think that the West is some kind of "Crazy Town"—maybe there's something in that water!—where everyone is just a little too quick to make assumptions and stubbornly adhere to them no matter what anyone says. Except for the one stranger who sticks to his lack of guns and is comfortable in his own skin, no matter what anybody else thinks. One may initially think that the heads of the Terrill and Hannassey clans are the stubborn ones, but there's enough mule-headedness in everyone to go around.

The West is thus a place of contradictions—you have to be strong and stand up for yourself, but in a way that the community approves of, and if you change to accommodate them isn't that going against that principle? Maybe that's what Peck is thinking about throughout the movie (the Westerners certainly don't appear to be thinking!)—stay methodical and tenacious and consistent and maybe you can wear people down in the same way as "Old Thunder." And...if you do that enough over time...maybe, just maybe...you can bring life to the desert and bring civilization to the wild.

* Peck, of course, doesn't do the stunts himself for obvious safety reasons, but in addition  the horse's owner insisted on doing the stunts himself. That owner was Slim Pickens.

Hamlet (1948)

Hamlet (Laurence Olivier, 1948)

This is the story of a man who could not make up his mind" intones Laurence Olivier at the beginning of his Production of Hamlet (In a case of over-reach, the man who would be Lord Olivier gets the opening card over Wm. Shakespeare).

Well, yes, that's an easy way to look at it. And while it's essentially true, it negates the fact that Hamlet is struggling with the moral implications of killing, especially since the object of all the daggers he's throwing out with his eyes is, himself, a murderer, traitor, and is sleeping with his mother.* Hamlet tries every trick in the book to expose the treachery, even takes a stab at killing him himself (with collateral damage**) Hamlet is wrestling with his conscience the whole way--while depressed, grieving--and with not good reason: his quest is based on the flimsiest of evidence--the word of a ghost. A ghost that even his Spock-like friend Horatio saw, to be sure (or not to be), but a ghost nonetheless. Such evidence would never stand up in the Court of Elsinore. The Dark Prince must also wrestle with the consequences of his actions--from his father he knows of the existence of Hell and the damnation murderous actions would lead to.

"Couldn't make up his mind." He wanted to slit the King's throat, not his own.

Every production of "Hamlet" must wrestle with the text *** that ballooned with many versions, asides, and blind alleys. Olivier stripped it bare: No Rosencrantz, no Guildenstern, no Fortinbras, no battle on the plain in Denmark and so, no "Let my thoughts be bloody" speech. In this version, Hamlet does not compare his plight with the futility of war, and in 1948, considering Olivier's "rally-the-troops" version of Henry V, an anti-war statement must have seemed in bad taste, after surviving the blitzkrieg.

And just as every Hamlet must pick and choose what sections to explore, every actor playing Hamlet must contend with ghosts;**** not the play's, but the players of the past. Like baseball veterans chasing old records, each Hamlet is a reflection of the past, and a portent to other Princes. The current crop of actors taking on the role must have considered Olivier's take, or Richard Burton's, or Nicol Williamson's, just as Olivier must have thought about John's Gielgud and Barrymore. Olivier does take chances given the film medium. His "Frailty, the name is woman" speech is done in voice-over with some choice epithets that burst out of him on-set. That's a good choice for the scene, where Hamlet is in a public space following a celebration and could conceivably be overheard by some hanger's-on. He is much more verbal in his further monologues when he is thought to be crazy, or alone. The "To Be or Not To Be" speech is performed on a parapet overlooking the sea, with dagger in hand. It's a good concept to have the prince "on-edge" at that juncture.

The unique staging of that speech is one of those elements that absolutely separate the filmed Hamlets from each other.***** To me, there are three others: the presentation of the Ghost of the murdered Old Hamlet, the use of Polonius, and the approach to Ophelia. Here's how Olivier treats them.The Ghost: Olivier wraps him in vapors of the real and optical variety, dressed in his battle armor, looking sepulchral, and emaciated, like a classic death figure, with a low-whispered voice--supplied by Olivier (although Gielgud is rumored to be speaking the lines) and played back slowly.
Polonius: As played by Felix Aylmer, and directed by Olivier, Polonius is a comic figure, whose verbosity is played for laughs, and most treat him with a feigned patience, and wish he'd get to the point.
Ophelia: As played by the 18-year old Jean Simmons, Ophelia is very much the traditional Ophelia as delicate flower. She goes crazy with the loss of Hamlet, the death of her father, and no Laertes to bolster her. She is an Ophelia too frail to stand on her own and crushed by the whirl of events, and her cracked sanity is portrayed by a far-away gaze and "fairy-princess" demeanor. How influenced she is by Hamlet's shifting moods is hard to say. But she is "ingenue-as-victim" in the Hollywood tradition.

The other thing I hear about Olivier's Hamlet is that it is somehow a "film noir" interpretation of the play. Except for some fine deep-focus black and white photography, I don't see it. No play of shadows--in fact, everyone is extremely well-lit. And the movie's very set-bound; nobody's walking down the "mean streets" of Elsinore.

Laurence Olivier's Hamlet won the Best Picture Oscar in 1948, with Olivier winning Best Performance by an Actor. He was the first person to ever direct himself to an Oscar-winning performance. Only one other actor has done it: Roberto Benigni.

* Gertrude. One of the interesting things to note about the various "Hamlet's" is the varying ages between mothers and sons. They're starting to get it right, but it wasn't always thus: In the 1990 Hamlet, Gertrude (Glenn Close) is only nine years older than Hamlet (Mel Gibson). In this one, Gertrude (Eileen Herlie) is fourteen years younger than Hamlet (Olivier)! I guess it's an improvement when your realize in the original stagings Gertrude was probably played by a man! And incidentally, Herlie also played Gertrude to Richard Burton's Hamlet--he was five years younger.

** I've always called "Polonius," the verbose father of Laertes and Ophelia, "Collateralous."

***Unless you're Kenneth Branagh, whose 1996 all-star "Hamlet" used the second Quatro version (1604) (with additions from the First Folio version), clocked in at 4 hrs., 2 mins., was filmed in 70mm, with 6 track Dolby sound, but at least had Rosencrantz, Guildensterm, Fortinbras, the "Let my thoughts be bloody" speech, and had a Gertrude who could have conceivably (heh) been Hamlet's mother!

**** There are other ghosts at Elsinore if one is to believe Olivier's camera-work. Elsinore is an enclosed castle with labyrinthine corridors and vast open emoting spaces. Between acts, we flit down corridors and up spiraling staircases as if the audition is, itself, an apparition, seeing everything in turn with an omniscient view-point. And in a reversal of stage tradition, we go to the actors, rather than them coming to us.

***** Most actors address the audience on-stage. Mel Gibson's Hamlet performs it in a burial catacombs, Kenneth Branagh, while looking in a mirror, and Ethan Hawke...at the video store.

Black Narcissus

Black Narcissus (Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, 1947)  God in heaven, this is one of the most beautiful movies ever made.   In fact, this might be the contender that beats Gone With the Wind as the most gorgeous movie ever to be made from trashy material.* 

I haven't read the book "Black Narcissus" by Rumer Godden, so it's premature and ignorantly judgmental to call it trash, but the evidence from the film—a lust triangle between a pair of nuns and the only white man in the Himalayan neighborhood is soapy to the point of leaving rings around your eyes.  It does bring up the conflicts of those devoted to faith when confronted with Earthly desires, and how tough it is for physical beings to be married to Christ when he's an absentee husband.  It's just that, dramatically, the conflict is presented so turgidly as to approach the giggle reflex, despite being performed by (rather bravely, I think, or foolhardedly) the former lover of the director, Deborah Kerr, and his current lover, Kathleen Bryon (interestingly, she played the wife of elderly James Ryan in the Framing sequences in Spielberg's Saving Private Ryan), who present subtlety and hysteria (the latter, approaching Exorcist-like possession).

There is that contrast, front and center, but there are also the ones between Western  faith and Eastern spiritualism in the parallel stories of the nuns (and their duties and desires) and the demands of a local girl (Jean Simmons—uh, yeah, Indian by way of Crouch Hill, London) and her arranged marriage to a young prince (Sabu), and in marked contrast to a monk who lives his life, hermit-like and with no distractions to his faith.  There is some validity to the total for that, although the nuns and their belief system come out poorly in the comparison.

What is NOT in conflict (and makes it a must-see no matter the subject matter) is that Black Narcissus is one of the most beautiful movies ever made, in large part due to director Powell, production designer Alfred Junge, the amazing cinematographer Jack Cardiff, but also process shooter W. Percy Day and a young up-and-comer by the name of Peter Ellenshaw, who would create a lot of legendary magic for Disney over the years).

The photo-chemical wonders accomplished by these men is mesmerizing—one of those rare films (like The Leopard or Barry Lyndon) that you could take any frame and hang it on a wall.

The Technicolor palette pops and not subtly, and images are rich and lush, evoking a sensuality far beyond what the script calls for or evokes.  Powell once said, "Sometimes in a film its theme or its colour are more important than the plot."  That's certainly true of Black Narcissus.  There is a sumptuous quality to the images whether they suggest the bare asceticism of the nun's cloister or the natural wildness of the Himalayan landscape (incredibly, the film was shot at Pinewood Studios and Leonardslee Gardens, West Sussex, the home of a retired Indian Army officer), the planes of the faces (Cardiff could photograph women like no other), reflected in love or contorted in hate, the warm peace of a Himalayan glade, or the terrifying verticality of the nun's cliff-side perch.

That cliff telegraphs events in the film like a deus escarpment, which manages events and resolves conflicts in a very (shall we say?) orthodox manner.  Let's just say that "falling" is a major theme of the film, which manages to maintain its own balance by the strength and audacity of its images.

* Ya know?  It's odd.  Look at movies like Gone with the Wind, Black Narcissus, The Godfather.  Really, really garbage material out of whose sow's ears were pulled the silk purse equivalent of classic and artistically great movies (although I'm not a great fan of GWTW—too much reading).  Makes you wonder why anybody would want to remake a classic film, when they could be remaking the bad ones to make them classics.  Anyway, it's something to ponder.