Archive for Cary Grant

The Split

Posted in Fashion, FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , on January 5, 2017 by dcairns

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What was behind Stanley Donen, from more or less 1958 to 1974, becoming a European filmmaker, with the emphasis on Britain? Whatever it was, it did yield some interesting work. We just enjoyed THE GRASS IS GREENER, which falls into the lightly likable camp, but has one really great scene.

In this romantic quadrangle, three of the stars are cast violently against type, but two of them act as if they weren’t. Deborah Kerr, as the Lady of the Manor, is close enough to her usual field — forbidden desire throbbing behind stolen glances, and whatnot. And she’s glancing at Robert Mitchum, who was even more forbidden in HEAVEN KNOWS, MR ALLISON. Mitchum has to play a smooth wife-stealer, a romantic, a charming but dishonorable but not VERY dishonorable rogue. He just does what Mitchum does, and it seems to work, despite being quite removed from his usual honest he-man stuff. Cary Grant has to play a cuckold. He dresses down, and that’s the only adjustment he makes, and again it works fine.

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Jean Simmons, meanwhile, is having the time of her life as a vivacious, dumb and bitchy friend. While Kerr is elegant in Hardy Amies, Simmons exults in  a series of lunatic creations by Christian Dior. Used to being crammed into what she called “poker-up-the-arse parts” — stiff wives, standing by their men, she explodes all over the place like a slightly drunk fireworks display.

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The one time the film reaches her level of extravagance is a split-screen phone conversation, where Donen pulls out all the stops. As the men converse, one in his stately home, the other at the Savoy, the women, who aren’t supposed to be in either spot, listen in. Each time the men swap the phone receiver from one hand to the other (which they always do in perfect sync) the women circle them to continue listening in. Dialogue echoes back and forth, with nobody but the audience knowing that the same thing is being said in each location, sometimes in succession, sometimes in unison. And as a final grace note, Grant flicks something out of his drink — and hits Mitch in the eye, fifty miles away.

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Also of note: Maurice Binder title sequence. Not a James Bond nude silhouette in sight.

These bloody women they will not stop bothering you

Posted in FILM, Theatre with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 24, 2016 by dcairns

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Irene prepares to get things Dunne.

Don’t worry, I haven’t gone all misogynist on you. Just quoting Pete & Dud, while also gearing up to take a look at some of John Cromwell’s monster women.

Bette Davis (see yesterday) is probably the most awful, but she has some stiff competition. Hope Emerson in CAGED is practically a literal she-monster, and Cromwell’s noir outings featured the occasional femme fatale. But the trio of Laura Hope Crews (mother), Constance Cummings (lover) and Kay Francis (wife) have an unexpected amount in common.

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THE SILVER CORD (1933) seems to be the first Hollywood film to aim at that great American holy cow, motherhood, with Laura Hope Crews shrill and fluttering as the controlling, near-incestuous mother of Joel McCrea and Eric Linden. McCrea’s role is almost unplayable, since he has to appear blind to what kind of a family set-up he’s from, while retaining some measure of the audience’s respect — he gives it the old college try, though, and comes out better than he does in BANJO ON MY KNEE. Eric Linden was probably pre-code cinema’s pre-eminent pisspants, and is made to measure as the (even) more spineless son, easily manipulated into giving up the adorable and beauteous Frances Dee because she doesn’t live up to mama’s standards.

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A pensive, festive Linden.

It takes Irene Dunne (in one of several lead roles for Cromwell) to unmask mother, taking her down with surgical precision (Dunne is a biologist — she’s told in Scene One that she’s one of those women who CAN have a career and family, and this news is delivered by Gustav von Seyffertitz, so it is AUTHORITATIVE). McCrea STILL can’t see what’s staring him in the face until Mummy Pittypat flat-out confesses that she’s put all her romantic yearnings into motherhood, and she’s PROUD of it, goddamn it.

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Upon that same rear projection screen, KONG would roar!

The thing is a giant creaking play (by Sidney Howard), but Cromwell, working as was often the case from a script by Jane Murfin, applies long, fluid traveling shots (gliding crabwise  through those weird doorways that seem to have only half a door frame, to admit the camera crew) and takes advantage of RKO’s early facility with rear-projection for a dramatic accident on the ice. It’s not actually a Christmas film, but it’s one of several Cromwell’s suited to this time of year, with its snowy backdrops (see also MADE FOR EACH OTHER, IN NAME ONLY, and especially SINCE YOU WENT AWAY).

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THIS MAN IS MINE stars Dunne again (who doesn’t get enough credit as a great pre-code dame along with Stanwyck, Bette & Joan &c), battling the deliciously wicked Constance Cummings (above) who wants to steal away her husband, Ralph Bellamy (but WHY, for pity’s sake? Because he’s there, I suppose). Dunne has her delicate, piano-playing, landscape-painting hands full with all these Constance Cummings and goings.

Amusingly, this also has Sidney Blackmer, making it a kind of ROSEMARY’S BABY pre-party for Dr. Sapirstein and Roman Castavet.

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ALL OF THEM WITCHES! Dunne & Bellamy/Sapirstein, Blackmer/Castavet and Cummings.

The low-key melodrama is leavened with considerable humour, most of it from the beastly Constance’s more sensible sister, Kay Johnson (Mrs. Cromwell at the time). Describing CC as “a sort of cross between a tidal wave and a smallpox epidemic,” she keeps the whole, dignified thing from getting too self-serious. Slightly surprising third-act violence when Bellamy slugs Constance unconscious with a sock in the eye, and Dunne brains him in turn with a picture frame. Well, civilisation must be preserved.

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As in THE SILVER CORD, the villainess condemns herself out of her own mouth, destroying the illusion she’s built up, and the exact same thing happens a third time in the later IN NAME ONLY (1939). Kay Francis, at the tail-end of her career as leading lady, is hanging on to Cary Grant in a loveless marriage, because she wants not only his money but his dad’s (Charles Coburn, by some genetic prodigy of mutation). Grant meets and falls for widow Carole Lombard, lighting a nice fire under the whole scenario.

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This is the most satisfying of the three, though they’re all worth seeing. It’s like Grant and Lombard are trying to be their own dazzling movie star selves, and every bastard around them is trying to drag them down to ordinary unhappiness with the rest of humanity. Oddly, Grant shines brightest when sparring with catty Helen Vinson (another survivor of the pre-code era, with her sharp little teeth) as a subsidiary bitch. Memorable action involves the worst hotel in the history of cinema, and Francis condemning herself out of her own mouth exactly like her predecessors. A door shuts on her with awesome finality.

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Also: Peggy Ann Garner, Grady Sutton. (“Do you drink? How do you stand it?”)

 

Venice 2 Society

Posted in FILM, MUSIC with tags , , , , , , on April 25, 2016 by dcairns

Cary Grant’s debut in THIS IS THE NIGHT is pretty eye-catching!

The movie “stars” Lily Damita (Mrs. Errol Flynn) but the best work is done by the ineffably unassuming Roland Young, with strong support by Grant, Thelma Todd, and Charlie Ruggles (in non-annoying mode).

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There’s a running gag about Thelma getting her dress ripped off, usually when Young is around, so he can be made to seem like the culprit, a role he is hilariously ill-suited for.

We begin in Hollywood Paris, and as Lubitsch said, “There is Paramount Paris, MGM Paris, and the real Paris. Paramount Paris is the most Parisian.” It’s 1931, so the film, a romantic farce, has elements of operetta seeping in at the edges. There’s no actual songs, but a fair bit of recitative.

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Cary Grant plays a javelin thrower who is also a jealous husband (dangerous combination). Young is dismayed to learn that the married woman (Todd) he’s been fooling around with (it’s a pre-code) is married to a man who throws “those murderous pointed things.” He admonishes her, “Claire, the moment you meet a man, right after you say Hello, you must say My husband throws javelins.”

Frank Tuttle directs with considerable panache — he’s an undervalued figure who could bring surprising flair to multiple genres. Without his THIS GUN FOR HIRE, there might not be any recognizable Jean-Pierre Melville.

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Roland Young gets all the pussy.

Lily Damita is fine, I guess. She does a lot of acting with her breasts, wagging them in outrage or puffing them up as if to intimidate an enemy. Young is the real star, because he’s so unusual. His catchphrase is “Oh,” said with a kind of exhausted dread. Ruggles is his more energetic foil. After he’s tumbled into a canal, and Young threatens to throw him back, he says, “You can’t scare an old canal man like me.”

A small army of screenwriters hammered this thing together, affirming Preston Sturges’ complaint that Hollywood believed writers should work in teams, “like piano movers.” At least in this case, the instrument arrived at its destination gleaming and tuneful.