Archive for The More the Merrier

How Old Cary Grant?

Posted in FILM, Sport with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 1, 2018 by dcairns

The journalist accidentally sent the above query by telegram, not to Cary’s publicist, but to the star himself.

Cary famously replied, OLD CARY GRANT FINE. HOW YOU?

Here’s the first entry in our blogathon on late movies, final films: Judy Dean tackles the swan song of Bristol’s finest movie star, Archibald Leach himself. As films about the Tokyo Olympics go (we are nothing if not topical) this may not have the cinematic values of Kon Ichikawa’s TOKYO OLYMPIAD, but it has Cary Grant, damnit.

“Heavy romance on the screen should be played by young people, not middle-aged actors”  (Cary Grant, 1952)

In WALK, DON’T RUN (1966, dir. Charles Walters) a successful English businessman, happily married with grown up children, finds himself in Tokyo at the time of the 1964 Olympics. Arriving ahead of schedule he’s told his hotel room won’t be available for 48 hours and ends up renting a room in the flat of a young single woman. He meets a member of the US Olympic team who’s also looking for accommodation, invites him to share his room and then sets about engineering a romance between his two flatmates.  

It’s a remake of 1943’s THE MORE THE MERRIER (dir. George Stevens) which was set in an overcrowded wartime Washington. WALK DON’T RUN follows its plot very closely, even reproducing some of the sight gags (a drop-down ironing board, trousers propelled out of the window by their braces).

In the original, however, the businessman is played by Charles Coburn and in the remake by Cary Grant, two actors seldom mistaken for each other.

THE MORE THE MERRIER is a sweet, engaging screwball comedy with Jean Arthur and Joel McCrea making a charming and sexy, if somewhat mature, couple and for whom Samantha Eggar and Jim Hutton, in the same roles, are no match.

What pleasure there is in WALK, DON’T RUN, and there isn’t much, lies in the way Cary Grant subverts the central premise of the film, which is that he is now too old to get the girl and can only act as matchmaker.  The script hammers this home this with a distressing lack of subtlety. In the closing scene, satisfied that the young couple, now married, are about to consummate their relationship, he smiles cheerily and is driven off to fly home to his wife and their silver wedding celebrations. He is passing the baton of love, sex and romance to the next generation. Or not.

Nobody watches THE MORE THE MERRIER wondering if Jean Arthur might fall for Charles Coburn rather than Joel McCrea but in WALK, DON’T RUN, there’s no denying that it’s just possible Samantha Eggar will opt for a man of 60, especially if that man is Cary Grant.  

What the script tries to persuade us to believe is at odds with the evidence of our own eyes. Whether scaling the outside of the apartment building (echoes of TO CATCH A THIEF), showing off his naked body, whistling the theme tunes from CHARADE and AN AFFAIR TO REMEMBER (more reminders of past glories), Grant is on fine form, as dazzlingly handsome, vain and athletic as ever and more than capable of injecting a little life into the leaden dialogue.

But, despite his best efforts, it’s a silly film and with two weak and baffling subplots, some horribly stereotypical jokes about the Japanese and unnecessary coyness about racewalking as an Olympic sport, it must be asked why he decided to do it.

The key seems to lie in his ongoing pursuit of the Oscar that had eluded him for so many years. After being nominated twice for Best Actor, first in 1942 for PENNY SERENADE and then again in 1945 for NONE BUT THE LONELY HEART, and after losing on both occasions, he boycotted the ceremony for many years until persuaded by Ingrid Bergman in 1957 to collect the award for her role in ANASTASIA on her behalf.  Grant believed, and the argument carries some weight, that the members of the Academy had never forgiven him for his break with the studio contract system. Nevertheless, he’d been hopeful of success with his penultimate film, FATHER GOOSE, in which he’d played a dishevelled, misanthropic drunk and was bitterly disappointed when he wasn’t even nominated. It seems doubtful that, had he won, WALK DON’T RUN would have been made, but he was aware that Charles Coburn had walked away with Best Supporting Actor for the original and no doubt thought the remake might offer a chance to do the same.

As it was, he had to wait until 1970 when, under the presidency of Gregory Peck, an old friend who had set about liberalising the Academy and had campaigned vigorously on Grant’s behalf, he was finally awarded an Honorary Oscar “for his unique mastery of the art of screen acting with the respect and affection of his colleagues”.

One last point.  WALK, DON’T RUN could be read as a gay film and the audience just as easily forgiven for predicting that the two male leads will ride off into the sunset together, given that they not only happily share a very small bedroom but engage in dialogue like this:

“Tokyo’s filled with baths.  They’re all quite nice. Ever try one?  Probably one around here somewhere. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll join you.”

The ensuing scene only gives weight to the theory ~

as does this shot, in which Cary Grant recognises his roommate through binoculars with a shout of “Oh, that’s him!”

JUDY DEAN

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Dunne Gone

Posted in Fashion, FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , on May 2, 2017 by dcairns

These sentences that seem like they’ve finished. But then pick up again after the full stop. They’re a James Harvey tic, and I’m enjoying his Romantic Comedy book so much he’s gotten inside my head. So I’d best cut these out before they become annoying. To me!

(There’s a running gag in THE MORE THE MERRIER with Charles Coburn adding unnecessary modifiers to the end of sentences as afterthoughts, so he can never quite decide when he’s finished. Them.)

Anyhow, Harvey likes THEODORA GOES WILD better than we did, but we liked it a lot. Our disagreement is a mere matter of degree — I’m with Harvey when he says the first half of the film, once its premise has been set up (Irene Dunne has written a racy novel under a pseudonym and nobody in her snooty small town must know) is enjoyable but not quite satisfactory. I found it only just good enough to watch. Dunne is terrif, and Melvyn Douglas is slick as ever, but the stuff where he turns up in her town disguised as a hobo, romancing her and trying to get her to reveal her secret to the town, and also, creepily, blackmailing her by threatening to do so himself — it’s just so-so. As Harvey says, the woman should dominate in a screwball comedy.

But this slightly lackadaisical first half is just foreplay to the amazing second half, which fulfils the title and then some. Because (there I go again), Douglas also is a slave to respectability, albeit the big-city kind, so Theodora turns up in his life as a wicked woman, causing chaos and scandal and divorce suits (surprisingly, divorce is embraced as a sometimes-necessary solution here). Since we’ve seen via Theodora’s that this kind of life disruption is therapeutic, we can really sit back and enjoy the shoe being on the other foot — Dunne plays comic triumph wonderfully (THE AWFUL TRUTH) and seeing Douglas’s smoothy charm ruffled and discomfited is hilarious.

This is also where Dunne gets to wear fabulous, silly costumes by Bernard Newman — the first impression of her transformed persona is indelible, thanks to his black feathered glory. As Fiona noted, the costume is not only glamorous but hilarious because of how it MOVES — it keeps twitching, as if possessed of its own inner animation. It underlines and then undercuts what Dunne says and does, because as with nude ballet, not everything stops when the music does — each dramatic move she makes sets off little tremors and spasms in her plumage.

Some very elegant direction from Richard Boleslawski, apparently already suffering from the heart ailment that would kill him midway through his next film. With cinematographer Joseph Walker (Capra’s main man), he devises sweeping shots which manage to glide into the world of ritzy glam evoked by Theodora’s racy novel, without gliding OUT of the world of comedy. There’s just the right level of exaggeration to it all.

And there’s a dog. Dogs in place of children in screwballs, always. Hard to think of a single major screwball with kids in. (The minor but fun SHE MARRIED HER BOSS and IT’S LOVE I’M AFTER do have good monster brats, though.) Corky, as Jake the dog, is no Asta/George/Atlas/Mr. Smith/Skippy, nor is he as cute as the cutest puppy in the world in THE YOUNG IN HEART, but he’s pretty adorable, as is his film.