Topper

Topper (Norman Z. McLeod, 1937) Amazing that this one hasn't crossed my path before. The original author, Thorne Smith, was responsible for the source of I Married a Witch, which was an odd twee dip into the supernatural, dark cauldron division. Topper is considerably lighter—airier in spirit—much more screwball comedy-oriented, especially given its send-up of the privileged class.  

George and Marion Kirby (Cary Grant, Constance Bennett) are idle-rich folk, who after a night and day of irresponsible living cannot escape an irresponsible death by taking a corner too fast in their roadster and crashing into a tree. They don't survive, although they do walk away from the accident, but merely as ghosts, fading in and out of reality—a sort of supernatural version of an extended drunk. "Well for once in our ... Well, for once, we're stuck," says George with clarity and a little regret. 

The couple decide then and there to do a good deed—taking on, as guardian angels, their banker Cosmo Topper (played by scene-stealer Roland Young), hen-pecked by his restrictive wife (Billie Burke). He lives a carefully-managed, tightly-scheduled life of quiet desperation, yearning to breathe free, or at least have a little fun now and again. The Kirbys provide him with the ghost of a chance and, although initially stumbling with the opportunity, he learns to embrace it, dealing with the disappearances, the levitation's and the other miracles that his ambassadors to a better life provide him.

It's from 1937, but the effects work is still pretty amazing—combinations of split-screens, double exposures, fade-in's, crash-edits, blue-screen and invisible wire-work. Even though the ghost-tricks have been done (and...done to Death), some of them are still startling (how DID they do that thing with the dogs?!). Clever and fun, and variations of the theme, so they don't over-use the same effect over and over again.

Nice cast, too. Hard to believe this was Grant's first foray into the light comedy stance that would be his signature style for the rest of his career (Hollywood hadn't discovered this yet?) and studio stalwarts like the frog-voiced Eugene Pallette, Alan Mowbray, and Arthur Lake (he'd become Dagwood in the "Blondie" movie series) making the most of their scenes. There's even a brief musical interlude with Hoagy Carmichael!

Inventively realized by Norman Z. McLeod, who (having directed the Marx Brothers) knew how to get out of the way of performers and tighten things up for the movies, Topper is delightful, smart of concept and word, ingenious in execution, and a genuine crowd-pleaser...in this life or the next.

My Man Godfrey

Turner Classic Movies' Star of the Month is William Powell, who seems to have fallen out of the consciousness and discussion of Great Hollywood Actors. I will avail myself of seeing a bunch of his films, as I've always found him astonishingly creative and real.

My Man Godfrey (Gregory LaCava, 1936)  Bill Powell isn't given nearly enough credit in Hollywood history.

Popular in his day, he worked just enough to maintain his reputation and dignity, then retired and kept to himself. But you watch him in something like My Man Godfrey—a not quite screwball comedy of the "The Rich, They are a Peculiar Lot" school—and you see him stretch a little bit, and definitely see him playing a different character than the familiar Powell persona (even an extended drunk scene is played differently than his pleasantly soused Nick Charles from the "Thin Man" series), but still retains that measure of insinuation that took every line of dialogue and made it spin on its heels. His character, Godfrey Pike, starts out as a bum living in a dump underneath the Brooklyn Bridge, where he's picked up by socialite-heads as part of a charity scavenger hunt for the idle rich.

He attracts the attention of Irene Bullock (Carole Lombard, formerly Mrs. Powell) probably because he's different, a genuine "find," and he does stick out like a sore, if well-manicured, sore thumb among the derelicts. Articulate and dignified, he's quietly worldly-wise, politely sarcastic (neat trick to pull off, that) and keeps a cool eye on the rich partiers for whom he's an oddity, a curiosity—like watching a car wreck—and slightly discounted, although he's  probably better than all of them as a human being. Mentored by Irene, he assumes a position as a gentleman-butler for her family, a job that's bested a steady stream of other men. But he does the job well, keeping his opinions to himself, the most sane man in a palatial asylum.

And an asylum it is, with the father (the foghorn-voiced Eugene Pallette, staple of Capra comedies) the only one with any sense (or schedule), and who has long given up on his family making any steps to adulthood. Mother (Alice Brady) is a drama queen, who can only be distracted by her protege Carlo (Mischa Auer) and other daughter Cornelia (Gail Patrick) has to fill her empty life with schemes and conspiracies.

But Irene is a dreamer. In Godfrey, she finds a competent supplement, practical, in marked contrast to her flibbertigibbet, caring to her carelessness.

Such a creature, alien to her environment, makes her fall in love with the old boy, while he still tries to make his way through Society, and back to the life he has previously abandoned.

It's all high-style and fast-paced. And even though Lombard's society gal is a comic cry-baby notched up to "11" on a scale of "10," she is leavened somewhat by the tolerating, sly performance by Powell—who insisted that Lombard, his ex-wife, get the part.

Powell was the epitome of well-mannered play-acting, while never, ever betraying a dull moment. He made style which—when done in the hands of amateurs can look confining—seem effortless, while also being insouciant, and fun.

Mary of Scotland

Mary of Scotland (John Ford, 1936) The film, written by Dudley Nichols from Maxwell Anderson's play, begins with an odd preamble, giving an overview of the whole Mary, Queen of Scots/Elizabeth R situation, and ending with the hopeful suggestion that they are "all equal now," buried close to each other in Westminster Abbey. Cheery thought, and, despite what the play and movie say, the only time that Elizabeth and Mary were in the same room together.*

It's a problematic film. betraying its stage roots (the speeches are very formal, stylized, and performed theatrically, with no overlap and AT THE TOP OF EVERYBODY'S LUNGS, as if trying to reach the last row of the balcony) although Ford works overtime to find interesting angles to shoot from. So much Hollywood gossip swirls around this film**—part of Hepburn's "box-office poison" cycle (she'd just bombed with Sylvia Scarlett and more were on the way)—that one is hesitant to bring it up as sources for the film's problems, which are many. 

But the main fault lies with Anderson's play, which lionizes Mary (Katherine Hepburn) while demonizing Elizabeth, and the production goes right along with it—Mary's first lines are a prayer to God for returning safely to Scottish shores, while Elizabeth's is ordering people around and played (by Florence Eldridge) as if she were Edward G. Robinson. It would have been nice if this subject were a little more nuanced, as it involves two strong women in positions of power with men as being subjective, if constant irritants. One wishes that the two could have gotten together and agreed that all the men surrounding them were jerks and done something about that, rather than engaging in power plays for England's throne.

But, that's not how history went, and the play plays fast and loose enough with the facts as it is. And this is Mary's movie, to the point where Hepburn is the only cast member with close-ups—jarring close-ups that have the feel of insert shots as the lighting changes dramatically from the establishing shots—Elizabeth is only seen in full shots that emphasize costume over performance.

There are joys to be had, though. Ford's penchant to use unruly horses is much in evidence, and the animals are particularly out of control on the sound-stages that dominate the film. And Frederic March is something of a revelation, boisterous and accented, his is the best performance in the film. And Ford's presentation is never less than spectacular, as has been mentioned, giving the film a scope that it wouldn't have had in other's hands. 

 

A not-altogether successful film, but interesting to see.

The History of John Ford: Wagon Master

When Orson Welles was asked what movies he studied before embarking on directing Citizen Kane he replied, "I studied the Old Masters, by which I mean John Ford, John Ford, and John Ford."

Running parallel with our series about Akira Kurosawa ("Walking Kurosawa's Road"), we're running a series of pieces about the closest thing America has to Kurosawa in artistry—director John Ford. Ford rarely made films set in the present day, but (usually) made them about the past...and about America's past, specifically (when he wasn't fulfilling a passion for his Irish roots).

In "The History of John Ford" we'll be gazing fondly at the work of this American Master, who started in the Silent Era, learning his craft, refining his director's eye, and continuing to work deep into the 1960's (and his 70's) to produce the greatest body of work of any American "picture-maker," America's storied film-maker, the irascible, painterly, domineering, sentimental puzzle that was John Ford, John Ford, and John Ford. 


Wagon Master (John Ford, 1950) The western expansion of the American frontier is a standard theme of...the Western. John Ford had featured prospective settlers (and settling prospectors) in many of his films, but made the phenomenon the center of his film Wagonmaster, a modest black and white western, made in between When Willie Comes Marching Home and Rio Grande. Wagonmaster could well be the pilot episode of the television series "Wagon Train" (1957-1965)—which also starred Ward Bond in the first four seasons. There are no A-list stars—just the "Ford Stock Company" stepping front and center in the film, rather than filling the corners and back-stories.

Ford begins the movie bluntly with an almost silent sequence (Ford learned his craft making silent pictures)—the Clegg's (Charles Kemper, James Arness, Hank Worden, Fred Libby, and Mickey Simpson) are robbing the Crystal City Bank, resulting in Pa Clegg being shot in the wing, and, incensed by the inconvenience and the impertinence, shooting the chief clerk in the back without regard to the escalation. The bank's sole source of internal light, a hanging hurricane lamp, swings with the force and the temerity of it. There have been no titles, no studio accreditation, no introduction. The movie begins with a terrible act with no word of warning.

It is only then that the titles appear proudly, diametrically, over footage of a dogged wagon train (complete with dog) accompanied by the "Song of the Wagonmaster" by The Sons of the Pioneers emphasizing the highs and lows of the rolling life. There is a lot of music in Wagonmaster, over such montages, that one might be distracted from some of the more beautifully comp0sed shots, or the rigors it took to achieve them, but to say it's a "musical" (as some appreciative writers have stated) may be stating it too strongly, considering the amount of song and group-musicianship in others of his works.

As the Clegg's silently take to the hills, watching their backs, two horse-traders ("That's my business!"), Travis (Ben Johnson) and Sandy (Harry Carey, Jr.) ride  out of Navajo Country with their latest acquisitions, trying to calculate their fortunes at $30 a head. They pull into Crystal City, the town still recovering from the recent murderous bank robbery and the Sheriff makes a show of checking the ponies while actually appraising the men attached to them—they're neither the type nor the number.

Convincing the Sheriff enough of their innocence to sell him a pony—and play a prank that sets the horse, with the Sheriff temporarily attached, careening into the streets—the two plan to rest up in town to play a few rounds of "High-Low-Jick, Jack, Ginny and the Bean Gun," which, besides the passing of funds, will give Travis his own assessment of the town and his future fortunes, given a conversation he'd had previously that day.

"I'm in"

The film proper doesn't get underway until Travis and Sandy meet the blustery ("I repent my words of wrath") Elder Wiggs (Ward Bond) and a small contingent of his party of Mormons who are being run out of Crystal City by the "fine" folk there who do not like their ways ("that's why I keep my hat on—so the horns won't show"), Their aim is to wagon-train to a "valley reserved for us by the Lord," by the San Juan Rover, hoping to get there before the winter rains come, to set up an outpost for their brethren to follow to. They want to buy the ponies and are in need of "wagon-masters" to negotiate the trail. During an extended negotiation that involves whittling interspersed with some volatile umbrage by the elder over price and the pony-men's lack of availability (even though they don't drink, don't chaw, don't cuss—much—and display no vices, other than a propensity towards gambling), the elder walks away merely with horseflesh and the responsibility for the journey.

Well, if there ever was a gamble...; when the Mormon party is escorted to the city limits, Travis and Sandy are there to meet them as they inform Wiggs that his group is not facing hundreds of miles of unknown alone. Wiggs is grateful for the help, but not all of the party are thrilled, chafing from taking orders from ruffians not part of the flock—they have women and children, after all. Wiggs has to be peace-maker, which is an unusual role for him, and one he's not accustomed to.

It's a big country out West—it was filmed in Moab, Utah (out-of-reach in order to discourage visits by producers) and parts of Monument Valley (to take advantage of extras from the Navajo nation, some familiar faces from other Ford productions can be seen among the Natives), but being close to the outskirts of civilization—that being Crystal City—the wagon train comes across others of their outcasts, which the sheriff listed as "Mormons, Cleggses, showfolk, horsetraders." The Mormons are far enough along that water is in short supply when they come across #3 in the list: Dr. A. Locksley Hall (Alan Mowbray), travelling showman and rumored dentist, selling a healing elixir, accompanied by two women no one would confuse with nurses Fleuretty Phyffe (Ruth Clifford) and Denver (Joanne Dru, who had just featured in Ford's She Wore a Yellow Ribbon). When they're found, they have run out of water, and are staying alive—but not on their feet—with the doctor's snake-oil.

Liquor and loose women are usually not a good mix with Mormons, but as the party is in a terrible spot, they're allowed to be party to the train, at least until they reach water. Being show-folk, they don't quite understand the necessity of rationing water with no shaving and no showers.

But outcasts attract, and though the Mormons keep the "show-folk" at arm's length, Elder Wiggs has enough of a past with (what he calls) "hootchy-kootchy shows", he can see Miss Fleuretty as "a fine figure of a woman" (she's loyal to the doctor, however), and Travis and Denver have one of those passive-aggressive flirtations that pop up in Ford films with strong women and cowed boys. Although the journey involves struggle, generally everyone is doing the right thing, perhaps due to their empathy with their lot as outsiders or undesirables, perhaps to their religious beliefs, regardless of their faith—extending to the Native Nahajo's who welcome them into their camp, as Mormons have a reputation for being less dishonest than other whites.

And far less than the "Cleggses." It is inevitable in the rules of drama that in all the wilderness that they should eventually meet up with antagonists. It's where the good feelings generated within and by the wagon train are challenged and where their dreams are threatened. It's also crucial in the Ford Universe; sure, everybody is an outcast from "polite society," but that doesn't make everyone a saint by default. That list of "Mormons, 'Cleggses', show-folk and horse-traders" has one rough-hewn peg in it and the "Cleggses" have no best intentions other than fulfilling their basic needs with no aspirations beyond that. Ford's heroes, no matter their place in society (or outside of it) have hopes, dreams...plans...purpose.

But, his villains: they may have dreams, but also have no qualms ruthlessly—or cluelessly—quashing the dreams of others. In Wagonmaster, community is all, and once the stakes rise high enough to affect the future, that's when ultimate action must be taken against oppression, even on a wagon train that now, thanks to being overrun by the "Cleggses", has no guns.

Wagonmaster has no stars to bank on, (but, then, neither did Stagecoach)—the one Oscar winning actor of the bunch, Jane Darwell, has very few lines (maybe five) in the entire thing. Stars have a tendency to dominate story, and in the case of Wagonmaster, would distract from it. Better that the story remain distributed among the many, and that the focus be on the journey and the collective that it forms. As it's the story for the quest for settlement and the forging of a community with the best of intentions and with an eye toward the future.

It was one of director Ford's favorite films, despite it lack of success at the box-office. That maybe entirely due to the vision that he held for it and his view of how well the task was accomplished—what we now call the "signal to noise" ratio.* 

Better than The Searchers, though? To my mind, no. But, then, The Searchers is a study in human nature and its worst qualities in regards to race prejudices, whereas Wagonmaster points to the best instincts, despite the impact of such things. Wagonmaster has hope and looks ahead, not back.

It's a beautiful film to watch, and one to cherish.

* A modern example is George Lucas' Star Wars: Oh, sure, everybody loved it, but it was a film that he was disappointed in, despite its success—that he felt that need to tinker with it, erasing the flaws he constantly saw in it, to make it closer to what he originally had in mind.