I'm going to try to cut down some of the long-drafted posts that I haven't gotten around to. So, since we haven't done too many of these Saturday posts in awhile, let me re-acquaint you that the spot is traditionally "Take Out the Trash Day."
The Unholy Wife(John Farrow, 1957) One of the last films produced by RKO's film division, this one is an exercise in pure pulp, originally a TV presentation on the CBS "Climax!" anthology series (the second season episode called "The Prowler") gussied up with some religious pretensions to assuage those who didn't show up to ogle starlet Diana Dors portraying a "bad girl" who confesses to committing "the perfect murder" just hours before her execution. Well, to say it's "the perfect murder" may be a delusion of grandeur, nor is it in any way shape or form true, so the audience is already having to deal with an unreliable narrator as we watch her unfold the tale. But, given the convoluted machinations that Dors' Phyllis Hochen takes to get what she intends, one is tempted to just give up on the character and have them gas her early.
But, the film (filmed in Technicolor—and one is tempted to say that, despite the poor quality of the available images, it's not likely anyone will mourn it not being remastered) begins with a black and white view of morality that will be ignored throughout the film: "I know that in your book, there's no such thing as a perfect crime. Right always comes out on top. Good always triumphs over evil. The guilty always punished. And yet, I did manage it. The perfect crime." Then, in flashback, she walks out the front door of "the house I hated—the one they now call "The House of Death" and fires a deliberately aimed bullet from a revolver. Subtle.
It's a hell of an opening, but it's a false flag. She's not shooting anybody. She's just trying to convince her doddering mother-in-law (Beulah Bondi) that there's nobody out prowling around the house. This may be a little extreme outside anything but an NRA convention, but extreme is usually the way Phyllis plays it, as will become evident throughout the movie, even if Dors' performance of it is rarely above the cool, calm, and colluded variety. At any rate, daughter-in-law randomly firing a gun outside the house seems to assuage Mom's jitters (eh?), so off she goes to bed.
That allows Phyllis to have a little rendezvous in The House of Death's kitchen—The Kitchen of Death?—where she meets up with rodeo cowboy San Sanders (Tom Tryon), the fellow who's been prowling outside the house, who she's evidently having a fling with, as her husband...well, who the Hell knows where her husband is at this point because Phyllis is telling her story in flashback and only gives us the set-up—she doesn't tell us how it all started. And it starts with her being a floozy.
Phyllis is a single-mother, originally from England (in case Dors' accent slips), married to an Air Force sergeant who seems to have flown leaving her with a young son while she hangs out at bars trying to latch onto a high-roller. In comes sauntering vintner Paul Hochner (Rod Steiger) from the Valley and his pal, Gino (Joe DeSantis). Paul's in a good mood and finding Phyllis (not a tough thing to do) just makes him that much happier. Paul is smitten and proposes that they spend the next day at the beach, so he can get to know her son, Michael. Paul, due to a war-wound, can't have children, but Michael would realize his dream of having an heir for the vineyard that has been in his family for generations. Phyllis sees Michael as a burden, but Paul and Michael bond, despite Michael's jealousy of Paul's new attention to his mother.
Phyllis tries to warn off Paul by telling him of her past, but he is not swayed and the two marry. But, from her perspective, the marriage is not a happy one, and Phyllis takes up with the rodeo cowboy. Phyllis tries to send Michael off to a boarding school so she can have more time unsupervised, but Paul refuses the idea and so, thwarted, she begins to plot. That shot in the dark at the beginning of the movie sets up the circumstance. When there's a dust-up between Paul and Gino at an industry fair, Phyllis runs home to shoot Paul when he comes in the door. When the person she kills turns out to be Gino, returning to apologize, Paul determines to take the blame to keep her from being deported, rather than calling the sheriff and portraying the shooting as an accident.
Phyllis plants evidence on the body implicating Paul, and the police arrest him and charge him with murder. This might seem like enough for Phyllis, but when she learns—from Paul's priest-brother—that the judge may acquit him, she doubles-down testifying on his behalf, implicating herself in such an amateurish and clumsy way that everyone believes that she's just lying for her husband and so he MUST be guilty. It's tortured logic and how everything get resolved is even more tortured and a bit convenient for things to come around to the point at the beginning of the film.
If you're wondering why the emphasis on "Unholy" in the title, it's because of the presence of Paul's brother, a priest, who spends a lot of time doing unpriestly things, but still has enough credibility—despite his obvious prejudices—of being able to convince a lot of righteous people about the errors of their ways. Everything is just a little on the hysterical side, but, then the thing has so much pulp in it, you wonder if it might even extend to the wine Paul produces. Everyone tries gamely, especially Dors (who could be better and seemed to excel at comedy), but no one can rescue this one.
Speaking of pulp, you can't find a DVD of The Unholy Wife anywhere—the only copies available are on VHS (hence the quality of the screen-grabs—inspiring one of those rare "I cleaned my glasses for this?" moments)—but until that time when some video-house decides the time is right and the demand is there for a "Diana Dors Collection" there won't be any remastering project in the future. So don't hold your breath, but considering holding your nose when watching this unholy mess.
It's a Wonderful Life(Frank Capra, 1946) It's a legendary movie that was a failure upon release. It was the first movie by an Oscar winning populist director, an immigrant to the U.S., after serving as the chief propagandist for the Armed Services during the horrific days of World War II. The war had changed him. And when Frank Capra started work on a new project, it was a tough sell. But, Capra started a new production company, Liberty Films (with two other director-veterans, George Stevens and William Wyler) and the first project was an adaptation of a self-published short story by Phillip Van Doren Stern, "The Greatest Gift." RKO bought the film rights and after several drafts (by such as Dalton Trumbo, Clifford Odets and Marc Connelly, RKO encouraged Capra to read the short story, and Capra championed it, starting work on a script with a handful of writers—along with the credited husband-wife team of Frances Goodrich and Albert Hackett, there were contributions by Michael Wilson, Jo Swerling, and even Dorothy Parker.
It is Christmas Eve in Bedford Falls. The thoughts and prayers there are causing a stir in Heaven and an angel-in-training (Henry Travers), but not—to use Lincoln's phrase—one of the "better angels," is dispatched to help one man, George Bailey (James Stewart) from throwing away his greatest gift—his life. But, what has transpired in that life to reach that point? For fully 99 minutes of the film's 129 minute length, the potential angel Clarence—and we—are given his history.
George has big dreams, but they are always dashed by circumstance and sacrifice for "the right thing." George is a victim of that old saw "life is what happens while we're busy making other plans." Life, the Depression, the decisions of others, all conspire to make George's life one of desperation, stuck in his hometown at a job he didn't intend...that makes him forget that he has an adoring wife (Donna Reed) and a clutch of kids at home, which might be taken away from him if the prominent banker in town (Lionel Barrymore) makes good on his plot to destroy George and his family's little savings-and-loan, made possible by the banker's theft of its assets.
It's a good life, but not the one George wanted, but he might even lose that, and so on that snowy dark Christmas Eve, he contemplates taking matters into his own hands and taking his own life, before it can be taken from him. For 3/4 of the movie's length, George is put through the grinder, sees all the work and sacrifice gone to naught, and the realization—from the banker's words—that he's worth more dead than alive. In a monetary sense, it may be true, but worth is more than dollars and cents. And with incarceration looming over him, George is only looking at the bottom line. And he's reached it.
What could be worse?
It is only by heavenly intervention that George can be shown the ledger of his life by contrast. Clarence grants him a look into an alternative version of the Universe—one in which he had never been born. And everything has changed—the people he's known, the people he's helped, his families that never knew him and never existed, the city he grew up in, all are a Dark Universe version of what he had known. The big difference is that no one knows him; he was never born. He is shown the significance of his life by the void that is left in its absence. His Christmas gift is the revelation of just how much his life is worth and the difference it has made.
It's a novel way to look at life, not too far different from the fantastical approach The Archers had with A Matter of Life and Death (released at approximately the same time) in dealing with the affairs on Earth—elements of fantasy are mixed with the hammering bluntness of recognizable reality to deal with matters that might be common with the audience. At the same time, Capra uses the flashback technique (ala Citizen Kane) to tell most of his story and compress a life into pertinent highlights, the better to mix and match the contrasting realities and make them as recognizable and significant to the audience as they do to George. We experience his horror to the alternate "Non-George" reality as soon as he does.
The film starts in Heaven, takes us through Purgatory and Hell as surely as "The Divine Comedy," and lands us back to Capra's version of Heaven—a democratized solution to the issues that have, given George's nightmare vision, been reduced in significance. For Bedford Falls, thoughts and prayers are not good enough—little do they know their significance to George—but grassroots actions, good-intentioned, save the day. Money, the root of George's depression, is volunteered, and George's worth is satisfied, both in their actions to his charity, but also in a way that would impress even a banker.
Significantly, the film begins and ends with the ringing of a bell—a call to action and attention.
The film is a depressive's nightmare, yet it has endured, long past its lackluster run at the box-office, and despite—and probably because of—a slippage into the public domain due to clerical neglect, as a Christmas classic since the 1970's, cheering and warming the hearts of millions for the special film that it is. There isn't much dissension in that, and its message of the worth of one life and its impact can touch anybody. For example: I had an acquaintance, a quite brilliant writer, who, after battling a long and terrible disease, joined with his family one night, all together, to watch It's a Wonderful Life, and, satisfied, went to bed where he passed away in his sleep. I can't think of It's a Wonderful Life without thinking of him, as little interaction as I had with him, and the two are inextricably linked. That's the significance of one life, how powerful it can be, and how it can influence the lives of others. We are "The Greatest Gift" to the world when we can make it a better place, when we can change it—for the better—and when we can see the individual value of the person, despite the attempt to turn us all into statistics, metrics, hits, followers, samples or net worth. As baseball announcer Red Barber used to say, God doesn't count the net worth or toys at the end of a life, He counts the scars. Merry Christmas to you all.
The Baron of Arizona(Samuel Fuller, 1950) The second film directed by Samuel Fuller—the first was I Shot Jesse James—was another take on "The Old West," combined with a True Tall Tale of an entrepreneur who tried to win the West—by cheating—and, for a time, pulled off one of the greatest attempted swindles in the United States...of the United States. There is a saying that no great fortune was made without larceny and The Baron of Arizona tells the story of James Addison Reavis (played with a malevolent charm by Vincent Price), who conducted a decades length long-con back in the day when land was unclaimed and the paper-trail was basically three sheets to the wind, and when the previous residents were indigenous people...who never kept records. So, Reavis came up with a plan (fictionalized by Fuller): He finds an orphan with Spanish roots and invests in her (and his) future, placing her with a governess (Beulah Bondi) who will raise her with a regal breeding. Leaving them for years, he travels to Spain and, of all things, joins a monastery with the intent of gaining access to its land records and forging a document indicating that the Arizona territory were granted by King Ferdinand of Spain to a fictitious baron of the territory, Miguel de Peralta. To complete the claim, he gains access to a duplicate archive and repeats the forgery.
Reavis travels back to America and reunites with the orphan, Sofia (Ellen Drew), who has now grown to womanhood. He marries her, and, with the bogus records carefully set in place, claims her as the descendant of the fabricated baron, the true baroness of the territory, before all other claims, and, conveniently, making him the baron. He manages to make the case to the U.S. government that Arizona is deeded to her by Spanish decree, and then sits back, king of his own makeshift kingdom. The U.S. Government, under the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo and the terms of the Gadsen Purchase, is bound to honor the earlier claim, but the land has since been settled with towns, government and blocks of land for the development of a transcontinental railroad, all of which are now held by the "previous owner," and Reavis imposes a duty ("revenues, rents and royalties") for the use of "his land."
Those who don't pay it or can't afford it (that would be the settlers) are kicked off their land. This, of course, does not sit well with the citizenry that start rumbling about the situation, and start to take matters into their own hands, even fire-bombing the Reavis home, previously the mansion of a railroad baron. The scheme brings Reavis thousands of dollars and a large headache for the government, which attracts the attention of John Griff (Reed Hadley) who works for the Department of the Interior who suspects the forgery ("It's a bad cigar wrapped in a rich Spanish leaf") but has difficulty proving it. As a quick fix, the Government sends the Secretary of the Interior to buy Reavis out for $25 million. He refuses. After all, as he says at one point (quoting what he is called by Pulitzer) "Nothing is sufficient for the man who changed geography"
When a surveyor general disputes the claim, and the citizens' resentment turns to mob-violence, Reavis doubles down and sues the government for $11 million dollars, prompting a more thorough government investigation and the further resentment of the settlers. But their increasing resentment outside causes rumbles inside the Reavis home, and it's here where Fuller the writer stumbles a bit with conflicting emotions and strained credulity for the motivations of both Reavis and Sofia. She fears the mob and the violence but at trial, she stands before the court and vehemently defends her husband despite her doubts. Reavis, for his part, risks everything with his actions, the only saving grace of the episode (besides having Price and Drew "selling it") is a cracker-jack line that Reavis delivers when asked why he does what he ultimately does: "I fell in love with my wife."
Shot in just 15 days with a cost of around $135,000, The Baron of Arizona rarely betrays its threadbare budget or quick shooting schedule, thanks to the cinematography of James Wong Howe (a stroke of luck for Fuller—Howe was a veteran of the Hollywood studio system since the silents) who manages to burnish the high-noon scrub and midnight street scenes with a high contrast richness far beyond the dollars spent on the cheapest locations and the backwater western town sets.
It is a Western, but based on a true incident in the Western migration and not on the romantic myth of Manifest Destiny. It is just as much a part of the American story and the snatch-and-grab greed behind the taming of the West in the name of fresh starts and seeking the Dream. There are ranchers but no cowboys, no shoot-outs and the Cavalry doesn't come to the rescue. No Indians to fear, but only what they feared—the naked avarice of white men who wanted it all for themselves.
Without the trappings of the Western, it may be the truest Western of all.
The Baron of Arizona—a story of two "miracles in the rain"
Make Way for Tomorrow(Leo McCarey, 1935) Orson Welles famously called Make Way for Tomorrow "the saddest movie ever made," containing one scene "that would make a stone cry." Not the sort of endorsement that would have you running out to see it. But, it's been on my list of "must-see's" for a while and I finally got a chance to see what all the hankie-wringing was about. I found not "the saddest movie ever made" but certainly one of the best, if not the best, films McCarey ever made. It's the story of Barkley and Lucy Cooper (Victor Moore and Beulah Bondi), two old retired souls just coming out of the Great Depression. They invite their kids (Thomas Mitchell, Elisabeth Risdon, Minna Gombelli,and Ray Mayer) over to tell them the news: they're moving out of the family homestead. This shocks the children—why would they leave their home? Well, because they have to...the bank has foreclosed. They've made arrangements with the bank to pay what they can while Barkley maintains hope that he can still work—hard to believe at his age and at the end of the Great Depression. Well, when will they have to move out, asks George (Mitchell), the oldest. "Tuesday," comes Barkley's dry reply.
It's a funny moment, but also slightly horrifying. It's up to the kids to find a place for Mom and Dad and at short notice. They've been getting by, hoping for the best in a bad situation and they don't want to bother the kids who have their own lives and own complications. But that's made the inevitable a situation that has to be dealt with on the spur of the moment. The kids scramble to find a solution, but the one child who might be able to house both of the parents has a husband who needs convincing and that's going to take some time. So, everyone agrees on a short term solution—George will take Mom and another of the kids will take Dad. They're going to split them up, a couple who've been together fifty years, until such a time as they can get them back together again...at some indeterminate time down the road. And time, for them, is in increasingly short supply. It's sad, but McCarey and his writers (Viña Delmar did the screenplay based on a play by Helen and Nolan Leary, adapted from a novel by Josephine Lawrence) have the tragedian's eyes towards the better and worse natures of human beings, finding the humor in frailties and sadness in the noble gesture.
This is what makes the movie very, very special. It's a common issue of dealing with the elders, who've lived independently and taught their kids to do the same. Now, the folks are dependents, and everyone has to adjust...and uncomfortably so. Dad is sickly and has to sleep on one daughter's couch, while looking unrealistically for employment. Mom inserts herself into the eldest's family, and George's wife finds her life and independence and social standing threatened. Lucy realizes all of this and tries to be understanding, but the family dynamic makes her stand out, a fifth wheel. Meanwhile, the parents pine for each other, writing letters that Dad has trouble reading—he's broken his glasses—and wait for the day they can reunite and be together again. But, it's a dream until the children can get their acts together, but their own lives are tough enough. Life conspires to pull the old folks apart until they can meet again before they are separated again...maybe for forever.
It could be so treacly, but Moore and Bondi underplay, Bondi more so than Moore, letting the emotions simmer below her face and centered on the eyes, which seem perpetually downcast and slightly confused. She was only 50 when she starred in it, but make-up and her empathetic restraint make her seem much older. "Empathetic restraint" is a good phrase for the tone of the entire film, sympathetic, but rarely sentimental in the face of poor circumstance, charming in the times of nostalgia, ironic, the other times. Life is full of irony. Grace is in how you rise above it.
Two lovely passages of writing: the first when Lucy confronts Grandma with the circumstances of her situation: Rhoda Cooper: Why don't you face facts, Grandma? Lucy Cooper: Oh, Rhoda! [Pats her hand] Lucy Cooper: When you're seventeen and the world's beautiful, facing facts is just as slick fun as dancing or going to parties, but when you're seventy... well, you don't care about dancing, you don't think about parties anymore, and about the only fun you have left is pretending that there ain't any facts to face, so would you mind if I just went on pretending?
And a poem that Barkley and Lucy share in their last fling of the movie—maybe forever: A man and a maid stood hand in hand; bound by a tiny wedding band. Before them lay the uncertain years that promised joy and, maybe tears. "Is she afraid?" thought the man of the maid.
"Darling," he said in a tender voice, "Tell me. Do you regret your choice? 'We know not where the road may wind, 'or what strange byways we may find. 'Are you afraid?" said the man to the maid.
She raised her eyes and spoke at last. "My dear," she said, "the die is cast. 'The vows have been spoken. The rice has been thrown. 'Into the future we'll travel alone. 'With you," said the maid, "I'm not afraid."
McCarey made two movies in 1937—Make Way for Tomorrow and The Awful Truth. The latter is one of the most entertaining movies about divorce ever made, and, with a cast headlining Irene Dunne and Cary Grant, it went on to win the Academy award for Best Picture that year. In his acceptance speech, McCarey said "Thanks. But you gave it to me for the wrong picture." Truer words were never uttered at the Academy Awards. Make Way for Tomorrow was voted into the National Film Registry in 2010.
Make Way for Tomorrow was released in May, 1937; The Awful Truth in October, 1937.
After the latter became a big hit, the former was advertised in much the same way.
