The Image of Fred

‘And that is the problem with other claims that all thoughts are images. Suppose I try to represent the concept “man” by an image of a prototypical man — say, Fred MacMurray. The problem is, what makes the image serve as the concept “man” as opposed to, say, the concept “Fred MacMurray”? Or the concept “tall man,” “adult,” “human,” “American,” or “actor who played an insurance salesman seduced into murder by Barbara Stanwyck”? You have no trouble distinguishing between a particular man, men in general, Americans in general, vamp-victims in general, and so on, so you must have more than a picture of a prototypical man in your head.’

From How the Mind Works by Steven Pinker, published in 1997. I admit to being charmed by the author seizing upon Fred MacMurray as, not an example of man, but as an example of a possible example of man, in 1997, six years after FM’s death, nineteen years after his last film. Pinker must obviously just really like DOUBLE INDEMNITY, and I don’t blame him.

I don’t think I’m going to sample page seventeens any more. This comes from page 297 of my copy of HTMW, but I’m not going to sample page 297s either. Just whatever page seems interesting — particularly filmy bits in non-filmy books, like this one.

The other thing I could add about MacMurray — mainly remembered today for two films he didn’t want to do, the above-mentioned DOUBLE INDEMNITY (already turned down by George Raft, Hollywood’s greatest turner-downer, a man with the unfailing instincts of a homing pigeon raised in total obscurity) and the above-unmentioned THE APARTMENT, in which he plays another insurance man NOT seduced into murder by Barbara Stanwyck — is that Jean-Pierre Melville credited him with inventing underplaying. Melville, a man of fervently-held and idiosyncratic opinions, claimed that before DOUBLE INDEMNITY, even Humphrey Bogart hadn’t begun underacting.

I have pondered this dictum long and not particularly hard, and have concluded that it is not so much true or false as unprovable, since “underplaying” is a somewhat subjective judgement. We all feel that there’s a contrast between pre-stardom Bogie and the figure who appears in THE MALTESE FALCON and then keeps appearing, but I think what mainly happens is that Bogart looks slightly uncomfortable when he’s not the centre of attention, then becomes it and thus becomes comfortable, all his odd qualities suddenly justified by the fact that he’s the star. By 1944, when Bogart could have seen DOUBLE INDEMNITY and decided to copy MacMurray’s casual, unassuming approach, he’d already done not only THE MALTESE FALCON and CASABLANCA. Is he really not underacting in those?

The other thing that happens in 1944 is that Bogart starts working with Howard Hawks, which might well be significant. Hawks talked about getting Bogart to reduce his harshness, his tough-guy act, though when Hawks talks, the one thing you can rely on is his coming out of the story looking good.

As for MacMurray, his discomfort at playing ignoble characters seems to have helped decide him to do as little as possible. Also, he was a sax player, and thought of himself as such. Not as an actor. He was always most comfortable letting the woman have the spotlight. James Cagney may have called Bogart “the world’s luckiest white man,” but MacMurray seems to have really considered himself as such, and had the grace to act accordingly.

Forbidden Divas: The White Orchid Type

David Melville Wingrove is back, with the perfect Forbidden Diva for this historical moment --

FORBIDDEN DIVAS

THE WHITE ORCHID TYPE

“I can’t face an unknown future with an un-powdered nose.”

– Barbara Stanwyck, The Other Love

What do you write about at a time when life as we choose to call it has been forcibly put on hold? Most of us today are made to live in our own private cells of suspended animation – in a void, an absence, a dream space. We are forced to be and not to do, to feel and not to act. We are in a glass room that lacks the usual walls or ceiling or floor. A smooth and unvarying expanse of crystal on all sides, it is fully transparent yet wholly impossible to break. Through it we can see and hear and speak, but we cannot touch. Can any film approximate a life that none of us have ever lived before? How do you make a film about the act of waiting? How do you deny motion when all a motion picture camera ever wants to do is to move?

Barbara Stanwyck at the start of The Other Love (1947) is forced – against all her instincts and all her will – to call a halt to her life. Here she is not the tough-talking dame of her other movies, the “high-ridin’ woman with a whip” who terrorises the Wild West with Forty Guns (1957), the gal so butch she makes John Wayne look like Liberace or Paul Lynde. Here she is an avatar of suffering nobility, who might be incarnated – in your average film of the 40s – by Greer Garson or Loretta Young. She is a lady concert pianist, glamorous and successful yet at the same time incurably lonely. She has no choice but to put her career on pause when she falls fatally ill with TB. She checks into a plush sanatorium in the Swiss Alps, the sort that looks more like a luxury hotel with a few X-ray machines stashed away in one room.

It seems a mystical, almost otherworldly realm. Snow-capped mountains dream away in the distance, while long white muslin curtains waft gently back and forth in the alpine breeze. (One sure test of the skill of a director is the way he handles curtains; the Hungarian émigré Andre de Toth passes this test with a splendour few others have ever matched.) She is taken immediately with her handsome doctor (David Niven) who tells her that all activity will henceforth be forbidden. Her one goal must be to rest, relax and recuperate. “You must try and think of yourself as being in a deep sleep,” he tells her. “Before you know it, the darkness will be gone.” He even forbids her to play the piano. Her response to all this is remarkably docile. She places herself, with serene resignation, in his hands and in the hands of Fate. It is largely a question of which one chooses to grab her first.

On her first night at the clinic, she finds a spray of fresh white orchids has been delivered to her room. She assumes they must come from the doctor. She has had a glance around the dining room and concluded that none of her fellow patients is “the white orchid type.” Then she finds out these orchids are a standing order – from a man who ‘left’ the sanatorium six months ago to a woman who ‘left’ it only last night. She realises she is in receipt of flowers sent by a dead man to a dead woman. It is a concept so morbid it smacks of outright necrophilia. The music by Miklos Rozsa goes into a lyrical frenzy surpassing even his Oscar-winning score for Spellbound (1945). She throws herself ever deeper – metaphorically speaking – into the arms of her doctor. Ah, but all may not be quite as it appears…

On her arrival, the doctor forbids her to smoke and takes her cigarette lighter – monogrammed with her initials KD for Karen Duncan – away for safe keeping. (We may be glad it is not engraved with Barbara Stanwyck’s own initials, BS.) One day she breaks into his private sanctum, opens a drawer and finds a whole trove of cigarette lighters that were left behind by previous (and deceased) lady patients. She starts to suspect, as we do, that her doctor’s methods are a fairly serious violation of the Hippocratic Oath. Is he in the habit of fucking his patients until they get better? Or – and this sounds a lot more likely – of fucking his patients until they die? This story, which is allegedly by Erich Maria Remarque, is coming more and more to resemble The Magic Mountain as rewritten by Mills & Boon.

Hell, of course, hath no fury that is quite like Barbara Stanwyck scorned. No matter if she is at death’s door. She takes up with a dashing racing-car driver (Richard Conte) who just happens to be driving round that particular mountain. In defiance of the best medical advice, he whisks her off to Monte Carlo. She sits up late at the gaming tables, where a sexy croupier (Gilbert Roland) gives her smouldering glances over a big stack of chips. She even gets to attend a party on board a yacht thrown by Natalie Shafer, famous to viewers of a certain age as the fruity and snooty Mrs Howell on the 60s TV sitcom Gilligan’s Island. A life-threatening illness seems a small price to pay for such an honour. But this jet-set debauchery swiftly goes pear-shaped. Babs ends up in the most perilous situation a consumptive heroine can face – wandering about Monte Carlo in the rain, clad in white mink and chiffon and minus an umbrella!

Speaking of outfits, the wardrobe that Edith Head designed for The Other Love must surely have been le dernier cri in tubercular chic. Most memorable is a long white Grecian shift with a black diamante sunburst at the waist, which our heroine wears to dine at the sanatorium. (Yes, this is the sort of hospital where the patients dress for dinner.) Memorable too, and for all the wrong reasons, is a truly hideous spangled sweater with Christmas trees and reindeer crawling across it. Like any great star, Barbara Stanwyck is impervious to embarrassment – but this looks like something a butch lady detective in a Scandi crime drama might wear in a festive mood. The star would not play an overt lesbian role until A Walk on the Wild Side (1962) but there she had Capucine as motivation.

It becomes apparent all too soon how this ill-starred flirtation with ‘normal’ life can lead only to doom. The one hope is to go back to that mountain-top clinic, submit to the ministrations of the doctor and do her best to wait this illness out. To seal herself away from life until the world, by an unimagined miracle, comes right again. Barbara Stanwyck does what all of us are constrained to do at this time. (Please note sparkly sweaters are optional and, also, they will not necessarily help.) Will she find her true happiness up there on that mountain? The Other Love is a movie; hence it is several shades more optimistic than the TV news. All we know is that strangely serene white realm – those vast stretches of crystal air, where everything is visible and nothing can ever be touched – is where she needs to be at that moment.

David Melville

Bad Barbara