Sylvia Scarlett (George Cukor, 1935) This one can't be considered a movie of the libertine, free-and-wheelin' "Pre-Code" era of movie-making, but it takes mild chances (if only teasingly), but hardly enough to account for its reputation as one of the most financially disastrous movies on the 1930's despite a good script, solid direction by George Cukor and the pairing of Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn (though it being their first—Hepburn had met Grant at Paramount and recommended him to Cukor—no one could anticipate their subsequent chemistry). The film's lack of success labeled Hepburn as "box-office poison" and she didn't become bankable again until she bought herself the rights to "The Philadelphia Story" and revived her career with it...also with Grant in the movie version.
But, it looks tame today, even quaint. And it wouldn't so much as cause a pursed lip among the blue-haired old ladies who went to see Victor, Victoria or Shakespeare in Love. It was just before its time, although Cukor—who was euphemistically esteemed throughout his career as "a woman's director"—enjoyed depicting the sexes in sometimes challenging ways, often as satire, often as comedy. Sylvia Scarlett is a light-hearted drama (until it turns dark) and a comedy of manners (if those manners only tease but don't commit, and Judith Martin would certainly not call that "manners"). It's a little bit of everything, but more soufleé than stew.
In Marseilles, when the seamstress wife of Henry Scarlett (Edmund Gwenn) dies, he becomes desperate to flee the country from French officials. He's been embezzling funds from the lace factory where he was employed as a bookkeeper, and lost all the funds to gambling. With some lace that he has stolen, he decides to head back to England to start anew, but tells his daughter Sylvia (Hepburn) that he will go alone and send for her later. She will have none of that, and so cuts off her hair and tells him that if she travels with him as a boy, the police will be confounded in their search for a man and his daughter.
While ferrying across the channel, they make the acquaintance of one Jimmy Monkley (Grant), a charming Cockney con artist and grifter, who uses his acquaintance with the Scarlett's to throw suspicion off himself when they go through customs (he rats out Henry's lace so as to distract from the diamonds he's smuggling in his shoe). Despite the seeming betrayal (and the £100 Monkley gives the Scarlett's for their trouble), the three decide to hook up as con artists using Monkley's contacts in London. The living arrangements are a bit problematic, as Monkley can't seem to figure out while "Sylvester"—the name Sylvia goes by in her disguise—is nervous about sharing a room with him, and gets downright agitated about dressing down for the night. What is wrong with the boy?
The first scam attempt involves Maudie Tilt (Dennie Moore), a lady's maid whom Monkley tries to seduce to steal her lady's expensive pearl necklace. The escapade doesn't pan out but it does manage to hook Maudie up with the band, partially because she's attracted to "Sylvester" which worries Sylvia, but not as much as when her father starts to fall for Maudie. Sylvia/Sylvester, having a crisis of conscience, insists they give up the dangerous grifter life, and instead become travelling show-people, "The Pink Pierrots," a cavorting harlequin troupe caravaning from small town to small town entertaining the villagers.
In one town, they meet bohemian artist Michael Fane (Brian Aherne), who is enchanted by the group, but, curiously, most by Sylvester—who, in turn, is attracted to him—prompting Fane to gasp the most famous line to pass the censors: "I say, I know what it is that gives me a queer feeling when I look at you..."
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"...There's something in you to be painted!"
Of course. That must be it. Artistic inspiration. While Sylvia Scarlett (the movie) flirts and teases with the gay mystique, there is nothing beyond girl-on-girl pecking (mistaken or otherwise) that produces something akin to horror in Hepburn's character. Even Aherne's outburst is provincially couched in Sylvia's subterfuge—he's attracted to her because she's a woman, though dressed as a man. Safe enough. And when "Sylvester", smitten with Fane, borrows ladies' gear to appear all flowery and girly, he is charmed but ultimately dismissive once learning the truth of Sylvia, going back to his un-British—in fact, Russian-European—mistress.
The sexual politics is flummery—just a tease—because once things settle—and people settle—things are safely hetero, but, at least, they take one chance: the pairings are not based on Hollywood archetypes of who should be with whom (we've all seen disastrously mis-paired types in many a final fade-out), but rather in personality types; the romantics are together and the churlishly cynical are as well, being matches of the soul, rather than the romantic heart.
At least that is a bit different; the couples deserve each other, for good or ill. It's not much of a revolution, certainly not enough to inspire a reprisal at the box-office. In fact, it's merely common sense, but that's something rarely found in romantic films.
Or in romance, for all that.
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