Dodsworth (1936) **

(This is my contribution to the Mary Astor Blogathon, hosted by Tales of the Easily Distracted and Silver Screenings. Please follow this link to find other great contributing posts.)

“Love has got to stop some place short of suicide.” What a great line to walk out on your selfish, self-involved, two-timing wife.  I rank it right up there with, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Still, director William Wyler’s Dodsworth (1936) is not a particular favorite of mine, but I do admire the performances of Walter Huston and Mary Astor.

Based on the 1929 Sinclair Lewis novel of the same name, Dodsworth tells the the story of the disintegration of an American couple’s marriage as they take the Grande Tour of Europe. After selling his motor company Sam Dodsworth (Huston) decides he and his wife, Fran (Ruth Chatterton), should enjoy life and learn the meaning of the word leisure. For over twenty years they’d spent their lives in a provincial Midwestern town called Zenith, seeing the same people week after week and doing the same respectable thing over and over. On the surface they seem like a happily married couple, but once they set sail for the Old World it soon becomes obvious that they want totally different things out of life. For one, Fran is afraid of growing old. As such, she has a habit of becoming involved in flirtations with young, penniless playboys (in this order: David Niven, Paul Lukas, Gregory Gaye) and socializing with washed-up aristocrats (Maria Ouspenskaya).  All the while, Sam is off sightseeing and really immersing himself in learning about the cities he is visiting.  By the time Fran decides she wants to run off and marry one of the playboys, you can’t help but be happy for Sam—even though he is miserable.  To quote Francis Preston Blair: “Good riddance to bad rubbish.” 

Dodsworth is a drawing room melodrama about the perils of extramarital affairs amongst the rich and fabulous (although Chatterton, in my opinion, is far from fabulous). Hollywood films of the 1930s liked to showcase the goings on of the wealthy to deflect the public’s attention for an hour or two from the misery of the Great Depression.  I personally prefer the comedies to the melodramas—it’s easier to laugh at the rich than feel sorry for them.  I suppose this is one of the reasons I’m not a big fan of Dodsworth.

However, the biggest reason I am not especially fond of Dodsworth is Ruth Chatterton. In every film I’ve ever seen her in she grated on my nerves. She was an accomplished stage actress who never made the necessary transition to movie acting.  What I mean by this is she always came across as stilted and affected—there was no naturalism whatsoever.  I suspect had they got a Myrna Loy or Billie Burke to play Fran I would have enjoyed the film so much better.

What I did like about Dodsworth was Huston and Astor. While her part was a minor one, Astor’s Edith Cortright is the most likeable character in the entire movie. One of the standout scenes finds Edith and Fran discussing age.  When Fran comments about wanting to look as good as Edith does when she’s her age the look on Astor’s face is priceless. Of course this only highlighted how desperate Fran was to appear young—especially when you consider that Chatterton was fourteen years older than Astor.  Then, later in the scene when Edith notices than Fran is on the verge of engaging in an affair she says one small word that speaks volumes by the look on her face: “Don’t.” After her turn as Brigid O’Shaughnessy in The Maltest Falcon (1941) Astor was forever linked to playing an unsympathetic character, so it is always nice to see her in Dodsworth where she plays such an agreeable woman.

Whenever I see TCM host Robert Osborne introduce Dodsworth he always comments that people should give it a chance because Huston plays a completely different character than the one he is most known for in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948). This, of course, is true.  Sam Dodsworth is a stand-up guy with money and good manners. Huston plays him as a complex figure, who starts the film off as a confident man. By the middle of the film he has become a broken cuckold who needs to regain his confidence.  As such, Huston gives one of the best performances of his career (although Oscar picked Paul Muni in The Story of Louis Pasteur over him that year).

Overall, Dodsworth is a mildly entertaining drawing room melodrama. Fine performances from Astor and Huston somewhat make up for the fact that Ruth Chatterton is so freaking annoying in it.

The Story of a Cheat (Le Roman d’un Tricheur) 1936 **

Never heard of this film or its director, writer, and star, Sacha Guitry?  If you answered yes, you are probably not alone.  Guitry was a prolific French playwright who liked to make cynical films (he directed 33). So, how did such a busy director fall into obscurity?  He fell in with the wrong crowd—notably, he collaborated with the Nazis during WWII.  Guitry has only recently be reintroduced to the cinematic world due to a 4-film DVD collection issued by the Criterion Collection.  Having seen the four films, I can honestly say that Le Roman d’un Tricheur (1936) was my least favorite of the group. 

Guitry plays the Cheat (we never learn his name) and narrates 99% of the film. That’s right, this is in almost every way a silent film.  His voiceover replaces the title cards, and, save the last two minutes of the film, no character speaks a word.  The only other sound you hear is Adolphe Borchard’s music (good thing he was introduced in the odd intro to the movie!). Okay, by 1936 the only other person I recall making silents was Chaplin—and let me tell you, Guitry is most assuredly no Chaplin.  At first, you expect the narration to soon come to an end, then as time continues and so does the narration you try to remember when they started making talkies in France—1929? 1930? Then, by the time you remember, Guitry decides to end his picture by allowing spoken dialogue for the last few minutes—what was the point, then?  It seems gimmicky—and I don’t like gimmicks.

Le Roman d’un Tricheur’s screenplay was adapted from Guitry’s novel Les Mémoires d'un Tricheur. The story itself is somewhat interesting: a boy is saved from eating poisonous mushrooms due to having stolen money from his father and being deprived of that night’s dinner.  While in his heart he wants to be an honest man, the Cheat always seems to find himself involved with people (mostly women) who want to lure him into various acts of theft. His reflections on Monte Carlo and Monaco are hilarious, and there is an abundance of irony throughout.

Still, the humor of the Le Roman d’un Tricheur is not enough for me to overlook just how drawn-out the film seems (and it was only 81 minutes!). Perhaps it’s the idea of being directly spoken to for 79 minutes that makes it seem so long and, at times, boring.  In France, Guitry was viewed as an ego-maniac…maybe that had something to do with his choice to be the only voice heard throughout most of the film. 

Overall, I was not impressed with Le Roman d’un Tricheur.  Now, if you want to see a good Guitry movie, I suggest Désiré, which is far more entertaining. 

Things to Come (1936) **

Author H.G. Wells is perhaps the most famous futurist in literature.  When you think of early science fiction his name, along with Jules Verne’s, probably pops into your mind.  Therefore, it is only fitting that one of the first science fiction films, Things to Come (1936), is based on his novel The Shape of Things to Come (1933)—Wells actually wrote the film’s screenplay. While the film is strong on visuals and ideas, it is weak in narrative and characterization.  That said, it is fascinating to see what people thought the future would look like in 2036 (a mere 24 years from now).

Let’s get the weak elements out of the way first: narrative and characterization. The story predicts that WWII will break out on Christmas Eve 1940 and will last for 25 years. During this time the environment will be contaminated and civilization will crumble.  Set in fictional Everytown, England, the story focuses on how people use technology to create a superior form of civilization. The film is only 100 minutes long, but it covers 100 years of history—this alone makes it difficult to develop a traditional story arc.

It also creates a problem when dealing with characterization. No one can live forever—even in Wells’ science-fiction world—so you have multiple generational characters (played by the same actors) with whom you are unable to connect with on a personal level.  You really don’t care what happens to any of the characters, but you sure do want to see what gadgets the future holds. I like to think that the acting, by such well-known thespians as Raymond Massey, Cedric Hardwicke, and Ralph Richardson, was so bad because the actors couldn’t flesh out their characters.  In particular, Richardson and Massey are the most egregious perpetrators of overacting, and their lackluster performances take a little shine off the overall production.

Yet, while the film has its weaknesses, it is strong when it comes to ideas. Wells was a well-known socialist, and this film is a testament to that.  He predicted WWII would come to England in December 1940 (he was only off by 15 months) and that major cities would encounter devastating blitzes.  Some might argue that he wasn’t that far off in saying that the war would last for 25 years, as WWII might have ended in 1945 but the Cold War continued for another 45 years. Wells infuses the film with his own ideology by writing lines like: “If we don’t end war, war will end us” and “We don’t approve of independent sovereign states.” In his world-utopian vision, Wells creates a Brotherhood of Efficiency (which he also calls Wings Over the World), where the community is more important than the individual.  Quiet frankly, it is an idealized communistic society that conquers nature and then uses it to expand knowledge and peace.  The fact that England was in the midst of the Great Depression and Hitler was making Europe extremely nervous when this film was released might have made such ideas more acceptable to viewers. Had the film been made ten years later I don’t know if it would have found a distributor in England, and I doubt if it would have even made it across the pond to the United States.  But of course, the U.S. did like the idea of sending people to the moon, so they might have liked that part of the film.

What makes this film stand out the most is its overall visual presentation.  From the blitzed-out city blocks to the underground city of the fantastic future, it is easy to appreciate the craftsmanship it took to first design and then built such spectacular sets.  Yes, there are a few giggle-worthy moments when it’s obvious that you are looking at a remote-controlled tank or plane, but such small hiccups are easily overlooked when you look at the overall picture and remember that it was made in 1936.  I remember the first time I saw the underground city—I was just amazed how much detail went into it.  I couldn’t help but think that this design put Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1926) to shame.  Oh, and as if this set alone wasn’t spectacular enough, they built another one for a space rocket that would travel to the moon.  I can’t imagine how director William Cameron Menzies and producer Alexander Korda kept to their 240,000-pound budget. Think about it, they did end their film by saying, “All of the universe or nothing—which will it be?”

If you haven’t seen this yet, it is definitely worth a look for the visuals alone. Block out the overacting and just concentrate on the wonderful, futuristic world that is created—holograms, flat-screen televisions, space exploration, etc. 

Mr. Deeds Goes to Town (1936) **1/2

I know I am supposed to say Mr. Deeds Goes to Town (1936) is a screwball comedy, but I just can’t do it!  Yes, it has many funny moments in it and the main character is a tad screwy, but I can’t put it in the same category as Bringing Up Baby (1938), The Lady Eve (1941), or The Awful Truth (1937). Plus, being a Frank Capra directed film it has a bit of a dark underside to it—and I don’t mean dark humor. I would actually categorize it as a dramedy, as the first half of the film is mostly comedy and the second half mostly drama (with a few choice comical moments pixielated in).  Whatever you label it, Mr. Deeds is a film anchored by understated, good acting and a strong story about the value of honesty and goodness in a corrupt world. 

A standard theme in Capra films, the idea of the simple everyman exposing the falseness of overindulged city slickers, is a crucial element in this film. Gary Cooper plays Longfellow Deeds, a country gentleman from Mandrake Falls, Vermont, who inherits $20 million from an overindulgent uncle from New York City.  Deeds is a poet who loves nature and plays the tuba, and is often mistaken for a country yokel because of his naiveté and plainspoken ways.  He looks like an easy mark to one of his uncle’s shady lawyers, Mr. Cedar (Douglas Dumbrille), but Deeds knows (and says) that working for nothing isn’t natural and so he instantly doesn’t trust Cedar.  Transplanted to New York City, Deeds finds himself surrounded by many people he doesn’t trust—or worse, who think they are better than him because they are cosmopolitan.  His best friends turn out to be his valet, Walter (Raymond Walburn), and his fixer, Corny Cobb (Lionel Stander)—both of which happen to be working class stiffs.

An idealist in every sense, Deeds finds himself instantly attracted to a woman who faints outside his mansion one rainy night. Thinking he has rescued a damsel in distress, Deeds believes he has found his dream woman in stenographer Mary Dawson (Jean Arthur).  What he doesn’t know is Mary isn’t a stenographer, but a Pulitzer Prize winning reporter for The Morning Mail named Babe Bennett.  She labels him the Cinderella Man and opens him up to the ridicule of the entire city.  Eventually Babe falls in love with her “assignment” and starts to regret what she has done, but before she can come clean with Deeds the truth comes out.  At this point the film’s mood totally changes, and I don’t know that I agree with how abrupt the shift is.

If you have seen the film then you remember the gun-wielding, displaced farmer (John Wray), who convinces Deeds he should give away his $20 million to those who need it.  Up until this point there hasn’t been any meaningful reference to the Depression or the downtrodden (except for the fainting Mary). So, when a man bursts into Deed’s mansion and aims a gun at him and goes off on a tirade about feeding doughnuts to horses and having lavish parties, it is completely jarring.  Yes, I know it was a plot device to move the story along to the whole insanity hearing part of the film, but I think some earlier ground-laying of this theme would have been useful.  If I have one nit-pick with the movie it is this…oh, and that hideous Robin Hood feather in her cap hat that Arthur wears in one scene—Samuel Lange, you had a short career for a reason!

Both Cooper and Arthur give understated performances in Mr. Deeds. Cooper (nominated for a Best Actor Oscar) always played the geez, smarter than you think country bumpkin well, and his Deeds is no exception.  His slack-jawed line delivery and easy-going physical mannerisms play well for Deed’s personality.  Some might say that Cooper lacked acting range, but they would also have to admit that he owned his own style and it worked (none better than in his role as Clint Maroon in Saratoga Trunk [1945]). Arthur, for her part, is not, as she is often described, the “quintessential comedic leading lady.” She’s not that funny in this film because this isn’t a screwball comedy!  As a matter of fact, besides a few good one liners and a couple of comical sideway looks, her role mostly consists of her being depressed by her bad behavior or being anxious over the possibility of Deeds being institutionalized.  Am I the only one who notices this?  Still, I always like Arthur—she is just so likable, even when she’s playing a liar.

Overall, Mr. Deed Goes to Town is an enjoyable dramedy.  Nominated for a Best Picture Oscar, this is a typical Frank Capra Depression-Era vehicle. I don’t subscribe to the school of film critics who refer to this period of his work as Capra-corn. Instead, like many others, I believe people went to films like Mr. Deeds because they were inspirational and uplifting.  In the end, that is exactly what this movie turns out to be.

My Man Godfrey (1936) ****

There are few films from the 1930s that I like better than My Man Godfrey (1936).  Screwball comedies are a particular favorite of mine, and this is one of the best ever made.  It is a film filled with memorable characters and lines.  In addition, it has a bit of a serious side, touching on the plight of the Forgotten Man during the Depression.  When you combine all of these ingredients you come up with a deliciously entertaining movie.

If you went to see this in 1936 you would have seen William Powell and Carole Lombard’s names on the marquee, but while both give fine performances, they are greatly aided by the stellar supporting performances of Alice Brady, Gail Patrick, Eugene Pallette, and Mischa Auer.  It is the supporting characters that carry this film along its crazy path. 

Powell plays Godfrey Smith/Park, a privileged Bostonian who chucks it all after a woman does him wrong. He ends up living in New York City Dump 32 until Cornelia (Patrick) and Irene Bullock (Lombard) find him there while looking for a Forgotten Man as part of a scavenger hunt.  He soon ends up being their 5th Avenue butler.

Both sisters are spoiled and narcissistic, but they are different in that Cornelia has a malicious side and Irene is compassionate incarnate.  I suppose this is what makes Patrick’s character the more interesting of the two.  Cornelia is intelligent and jaded, while Irene is flighty and naïve. I often think director Gregory La Cava and screenwriters Eric Hatch and Morrie Ryskind used Cornelia as their focal point in developing their social satire.  Here is a woman who has everything: beauty, class, money, and intelligence. Yet, she seethes with resentment and discontent. A lot of people think Godfrey should have ended up with Cornelia in the end (the whole Taming of the Shrew thing), but what most people forget is Cornelia was the sort of woman Godfrey left back in Boston. For me, Patrick’s is the standout performance.

Eugene Pallette and Alice Brady also do memorable turns as Alexander and Angelica Bullock, the parents of Cornelia and Irene. Pallette, in particular, does a fine job of presenting his character’s astonishment at the complete insanity of his family.  Perhaps it’s his voice, but he conveys both irritation and apathy extremely well.  Brady’s pixie-seeing Angelica is the epitome of oblivious mothering.  Here is a woman who has a protégé (really her paramour, but the Hays Code was around) in would-be musician Carlo (Auer); drinks too much (hence the pixies); and, supports her daughters’ eccentric behavior.  She is no role model, but her daughters are a lot like her—especially Irene, who decides to make Godfrey her protégé. 

Now, I’m not saying that Powell and Lombard don’t give fine  performances, because both are very good.  Powell plays the calm caretaker of the insane asylum that the Bullocks call home well.  He is both bemused and detached in his role as Godfrey.  It is quite comical to watch him thwart off Irene’s advances--especially since Powell and Lombard had been previously married. It is said that she was too animated for him; plus, he was sixteen years older.  So, when Godfrey makes the comment in the film that Irene should find someone her own age and class it was a bit like art imitating life.  Lombard, for her part, plays Irene as a theatrical little girl who doesn’t know how to get what she wants without faux fainting or crying.  The “laugh” is what I find most hysterical about Irene.  Anytime she doesn’t understand what is happening, or when she is unsure of herself, she falls back on that childish laugh. 

Besides fine acting, the writing is superb.  The dialogue is rapid-fire and sharp as an axe.  Each character has their own memorable lines, but I’ve always thought that Angelica Bullock got the best ones—or maybe Alice Brady just delivered hers better than the rest.  My favorite exchange comes between Angelica and Godfrey:

Angelica: My ancestors came over on the boat. Oh, not the Mayflower, but the boat after that. What did your ancestors come over on, Godfrey?
Godfrey: As far as I know, they've always been here.
Angelica: They weren't Indians, I hope.
Godfrey: One can never be sure of one's ancestors.
Angelica: You know, you have rather high cheek bones.

 

And from that point on there is a running gag about Godfrey being of Indian descent.  Overall, it’s just a pleasure to listen to such clever dialogue (especially if you compare it to some of the dialogue in modern film).  Smart witticisms never age and that’s one of the reasons My Man Godfrey seems timeless.

Finally, what most people forget about My Man Godfrey is that it is a slight social commentary about the difference between the rich and poor during the Depression.  The Forgotten Man, men who served in WWI or lost everything in the Crash, found themselves unemployed and displaced living in places like City Dump 32, while the Bullocks lived the high life on 5th Avenue.  The only time the Bullocks of the world notice the Forgotten Man is when they need him to win a silly game for them.  At one point in the film Godfrey says: “The only difference between a derelict and a man is a job.” Of course, more could have been done with this theme.  If I have one complaint with the film it would be that Godfrey shouldn’t have been pretending to be down on his luck but actually have been down and out.  Still, it is a nice twist when you learn the reason he can handle the Bullocks so well is that he was once afflicted with their disease as well.

One interesting aside about My Man Godfrey is that it was the first film to receive nominations in all four acting categories: Best Actor (Powell), Best Actress (Lombard), Best Supporting Actor (Mischa Auer) and Best Supporting Actress (Alice Brady). While none of the actors won the coveted statue, they should have taken solace in the fact that La Cava was passed over as Best Director and Hatch and Ryskind didn’t win Best Screenplay either.  However, the strangest thing about the whole Oscar situation is this: My Man Godfrey wasn't even nominated for Best Picture. Somehow the math just doesn’t seem right there.  Oh, well…

Sabotage (1936) **

I recently wrote a review of The 39 Steps and based on the comments it elicited I came to the conclusion that Hitchcock’s pre-Hollywood films are often overlooked or even forgotten.  I’m sure there are many reasons for this, but I think many of his early British films should be watched to understand how his directorial vision developed.  You don’t just wake up one day and direct Notorious or Rear Window. As such, I think Hitchcock’s earlier films provide excellent examples of how he honed his style over a period of many years. Sabotage (1936) is one of those forgotten gems that one should watch to gain more insight into the Hitchcockian vision.

Based on the novel The Secret Agent by Joseph Conrad, Sabotage is a suspenseful thriller about an international terrorist group (or saboteurs) who hold London in a state of anxiety through their rampant bombings across the city. Though not designated as Nazis by Hitchcock, many film historians believe that is exactly who the saboteurs were meant to represent. This makes sense, as Germany and Italy had just signed the Rome-Berlin Axis and many Western European nations were growing alarmed by Germany’s growing militarism. There were even rumors that German spies were attempting to infiltrate Britain and create public unrest.  As such, the film’s saboteurs serve both an artistic and political purpose for Hitchcock.

The film opens metaphorically with a close-up shot of a flashing light bulb (a warning signal?) and then transitions into a shot of a crowded London street right before a blackout.  In true Hitchcockian fashion, the film cuts back to the flashing light bulb and we watch as the light slows its pace and then goes completely out upon the blackout. Another quick cut takes us to the Bijou,a movie theatre run by Karl Verloc (Oskar Homolka). Dressed in the typical accoutrement of a shady figure—a dark overcoat—Verloc seems to be sneaking back into his home just after the blackout hits. When he lays down on the couch and covers his face with a newspaper you instantly know something just isn’t kosher. When his wife (Sylvia Sidney) comes to complain that the theatre’s patrons want their money back he tells her to give it to them, hinting that they don’t have to worry about money any more.  Why?

Soon we are introduced to Mrs. Verloc’s little brother Stevie (Desmond Tester). Stevie encompasses all that is innocent and good, which is reinforced by his helpfulness and trusting nature. Through Stevie we meet Mr. Spencer (John Loder), the street grocer…well, actually he’s not really a grocer but an undercover Scotland Yard detective who suspects Mr. Verloc is involved with the saboteur group. Spencer and Verloc engage one another in the typical Hitchcockian game of cat and mouse. Verloc comes off as cool and detached whenever Spencer makes suggestive comments about the bombings taking place in London. 

It is really enjoying to watch these two actors play off one another, especially when you throw in Sylvia Sidney as the unassuming wife. In addition, Verloc is the traditional quiet and unassuming Hitchcockian villain. He doesn’t seem particularly menacing (at least until the end of the film) and seems like an inconspicuous personality. In addition, like in so many Hitchcock films, the line between villain and hero becomes blurred when Spencer begins to have feeling for Mrs. Verloc and even when Mrs. Verloc reaps her revenge at the end of the film.  Hitchcock had a habit of blurring this line, in such films as Marnie, Notorious, and some would say even Psycho. It is also interesting to note that John Loder was not Hitchcock’s first choice for the role of Spencer. Instead, he hoped to work once again with his The 39 Steps leading man, Robert Donat, but the actor was being treated for severe asthma at the time.

The puzzle pieces start to take shape when Verloc and an accomplice meet at an aquarium and discuss the city’s reaction to the recent bombing. A newspaper headline reads: “London Laughs at Blackout”. Evidently no one was hurt in the blast and this means Verloc isn’t getting paid.  He’s told he must deliver a bomb that will do substantial damage before he gets his money.  In a rather creative shot (at least for 1936), we see Verloc staring into a fish tank as he imagines as a collapsing building in Piccadilly.  This scene is especially effective, as Hitchcock uses shadows to evoke a sense of sinister unease.

Eventually a plan is put into action to detonate a time bomb at 1:45 on a Saturday afternoon. A note reads: “London must not laugh on Saturday”—yes, the opposite reaction is, of course, the outcome. In a strange twist (but not strange for Hitchcock), Verloc gets Stevie to deliver the bomb, which is disguised in a film reel/roll of Bartholomew the Strangler (a nudge toward the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre of 1572?). Ah, but you never send a child to do a man’s work, now do you? Instead of promptly delivering the “package” Stevie attends a a street show and a parade and finds himself tardily boarding a bus for his destination. The bus, and everyone on it including Stevie, goes kaboom.  It is said that this was one of Hitchcock's’ greatest film regrets—he had violated his own rule of never harming a character with whom his audience had come to sympathize.  In the end, we are privy to the unraveling of Mrs. Verloc and the eventual comeuppance of Mr. Verloc. 

The film is tension filled, especially little Stevie’s errand from hell and the showdown between husband and wife. The bomb delivery sequence is nearly 10 minutes long and is taut with suspense. The showdown between the Verlocs is rife with unspoken anxiety and edited with shots of uneasy close-ups. In addition, Hitchcock uses the theatre setting as a clever device to mix reality with fiction, as in the scene where Spencer is visiting the Verloc’s and he hears screams and shots ring out.  After recovering from being startled, he comments, “I thought someone was being murdered.” And, then with a wonderful comeback, Verloc responds, “Someone probably is.” Priceless, and filled with so many undertones!

Sabotage is perhaps one of Hitchcock’s darkest films—what with killing an innocent child. It is also one of his few films that doesn’t contain a true mystery. Shortly after the film starts everyone knows who the bomber is and there is nothing to truly unravel. Instead, it is purely a suspense film.  As such, it is a rather unique Hitchcock vehicle. 

Modern Times (1936) **

Talking pictures had been around for about a decade when Charlie Chaplin released Modern Times (1936).  A silent film star with a instantly recognizable screen alter ego—the Little Tramp—Chaplin debated whether he should let the Little Tramp speak in this film.  In the end, he chose to make Modern Times his last silent feature film—and the last appearance of the Tramp as well.  However, it should be noted that the there is sound in this film, with machine sounds and voices out of televisions. We also hear the Tramp’s voice when he sings a song in Italian gibberish—perhaps a tongue-in-cheek slap in the face of talking pictures by Chaplin? In the end, the film that took Chaplin four years to make—I suppose when you write, star, direct, score, and produce it takes some time—turned out to be one of his best.

This is a protest film against the effects of automation on mankind. The Tramp represents the millions of people who were unemployed during the Great Depression, who saw machines doing jobs that would have put food in their bellies and roofs over their heads. He was quoted in  a newspaper article as saying that “unemployment is the vital question… Machinery should benefit mankind. It should not spell tragedy and throw it out of work.” The dehumanizing effects of industrialization and unemployment are at the forefront of this film. It is up to the Tramp to struggle against these unruly behemoths, while not so carefully waddling through the institutions that support them.

Now, when you start a film by showing a flock of sheep dissolving into workers you begin it with a statement. We first view the Tramp working on a factory assembly line where he has to tighten nuts/bolts with both hands while his boss watches from the comfort of his office via a video camera. Since everything is based on precise timing, the worker doesn’t have a second to itch--and when the Tramp does this he creates hilarious chaos on the production line, trying to catch up to the bolts he missed. One of Chaplin’s more memorable sequences, this was parodied on I Love Lucy when Lucy works in the candy factory. At lunch time the Tramp is chosen as the guinea pig for the company’s new feeding device, which is designed to cut lunch periods. The machine malfunctions and the Tramp is treated to bolts instead of food, shortcake in the face, and soup everywhere but in his mouth. After lunch the boss speeds up production and the Tramp can’t keep up, so he lies down on the machine and is literally fed through the gears of the machine. This is a visual image worth watching. In the end, it is deemed he has had a mental breakdown and he’s whisked off to the funny farm.

After being released from the psychiatric ward the Tramp makes the mistake of picking up a red flag on the street and waving it.  Unfortunately for him there is a communist rally happening at the same time and he is mistaken as one and hauled off to jail. While in jail he makes yet another mistake when he unknowingly uses a salt shaker filled with cocaine to salt his food. Fortunately for him the cocaine gives him such an adrenaline rush that he helps thwart a prison escape by knocking out his fellow convicts. This eventually leads to his release from jail.

The Tramp’s next job is in a shipyard. It’s a short-lived one after he accidentally sinks a ship. Faced with starvation the Tramp remembers that prison wasn’t so bad, with a warm bed and food to eat, so he tries to get arrested again. This is where he meets Paulette Goddard’s (Chaplin’s then wife) orphan character, whom he runs into as she’s fleeing from a bakery heist—she was hungry. She’s arrested and so is he after he knowingly steals some cigars. On their way to jail their paddy wagon swerves and both captives are thrown out.  And, so the Tramp and the orphan go on the lam together. Inspired by a dream sequence where he and the orphan can live together in suburban bliss with enough food to eat, the Tramp sets out to make this happen.

He takes a job as night watchman at a department store. Here the Tramp and the orphan eat to their hearts content.  Wearing roller skates the Tramp happens upon burglars who just want to eat.  The next morning the Tramp is found asleep and is taken to jail for all the “missing” items. When he gets out of jail he finds the orphan waiting for him. They move into a shack by the lake.  When his old steel mill reopens the Tramp gets a job as a mechanic’s assistant. One of the best sequences in the film happens here. While helping the mechanic (Chester Conklin) get the machines moving again, the Tramp sees his boss get caught in the machine and he has to help free his boss from the moving gears and wheels of the machine. At one point the only thing you can see of the mechanic is his head—he has literally been swallowed by the machine.

When the workers go on strike, the Tramp is out of a job yet again. When he accidentally hits a policeman in the head with a brick he’s taken back to jail. While he’s in jail the orphan gets a job as a dancer in a cabaret. She gets him a job as a waiter. Falling dishes, roast duck footballs, and forgotten song lyrics somehow aren’t enough to get him fired—and so he seems to have made it as a singing waiter. Too bad the juvenile authorities come to pick up the orphan and they have to flee secure jobs.

The final sequence finds the orphan girl downtrodden about their circumstances.  She wants to know what the point is in even trying.  It is up to the Tramp to keep her going—and that’s what he does. Unlike other films where the Tramp is seen waddling out into the cold world alone, this one finds him waddling side-by-side with the girl he loves looking for the idealized American dream of prosperity.  It is a fitting end to the Little Tramp’s appearance on the Silver Screen.

This is most probably my favorite Little Tramp movie. All of the choreographed sequences are a treat to watch, especially the machine scenes.  I also enjoyed the message that Chaplin was trying to send with this film.  There is something overtly dehumanizing about the factory system. In addition, he does a good job of expressing what people really went through during the Depression.  People really did commit petty crimes just to stave off starvation or to end up in jail where they knew they would be given something to eat and a warm place to sleep. While he made only two appearances during the Great Depression (this and City Lights), I often think of the Little Tramp as its mascot.  As I said earlier, I think this was a fitting end for the Tramp.  Beaten down and dehumanized by industrialization, the Tramp looks to the future with hope, as no doubt millions of others did during this same time period. Truly a film of its time.

Camille (1936) ****

In 1852 Alexandre Dumas, fils., published his dramatic novel La Dame aux Camelias. After becoming an overwhelming success in France, the novel was adapted into what is considered the most popular stage play ever produced: “Camille”. Based on Dumas’ own relationship with the tuberculosis-ridden courtesan Marie du Plessis, the story has seen countless retellings on both the stage and screen.  The most recent film adaptation is Baz Luhrmann’s outstanding musical, Moulin Rouge (2001), starring Nicole Kidman as Satine. And, if you happened to be at the Met on New Year’s Eve you saw the newest (and most energetic) version of Verdi’s “La Traviata”—the operatic retelling of “Camille” (but with a name change to Violetta). Whatever name the female lead is given, the story of “Camille” is one every actress worth her salt wants to play.  The New York Times said it best in 1904: “What the North Pole is to the intrepid explorer seeking for fame Camille is to the actress. It is the undiscovered country, always alluring, always fascinating. No other role—unless it be possibly that of Juliet—holds such potent attractiveness for the ambitious woman player.”

Greta Garbo was an ambitious woman player, and in 1936 she gave her greatest dramatic performance in the film Camille. Aided by the steady hand of director George Cukor, Garbo delivered the definitive portrayal of the doomed Parisian courtesan. Although she was nominated for a Best Actress Academy Award, Garbo lost to Luise Rainer in The Good Earth. (I have a big issue with this not only because I believe Garbo was more deserving, but because Barbara Stanwyck’s nominated performance in Stella Dallas was better as well.)  Sadly, legendary MGM producer Irving Thalberg didn’t live to see this film to its end, but if he had to die and leave one film behind, this was the one.

In the film, Garbo plays Marguerite “Camille” Gautier, a beautiful Parisian courtesan plagued with tuberculosis in mid-19th century Paris. Tuberculosis isn’t the only thing Marguerite is plagued with, though—she has a “heart bigger than her purse” and this leads her into a fateful love triangle with the rich Baron de Varville (Henry Daniell) and the handsome, but not rich, Armand Duval (Robert Taylor). While Marguerite obviously loves Arnaud, she constantly pushes him away due to her financial needs, as well as her fear of being in love—she doesn’t believe it lasts. One of the more telling lines about her financial needs comes when Arnaud offers to take her to the country on his seven thousand francs a year and she says she spends more than that in a month.  Yet, somehow he convinces her to ditch the Baron and retreat to the country with him.

Once Marguerite makes the difficult decision to leave the Baron, she has to deal with the act of telling him and procuring from him 40,000 francs to cover her debts.  Henry Daniell is really good in this scene (actually, he’s good in the entire film, but this is his best scene). He plays it with just the right amount of wounded pride and anger. I especially enjoy watching him tell Marguerite that he’s glad to get rid of such a fool and then slaps her across the face after he gives her the money.

And so for a time, Marguerite and Arnaud live blissfully in the French countryside. Yet, money and Marguerite’s past are still an issue. Their happiness comes to an end when Arnaud’s father (Lionel Barrymore) pays Marguerite a surprise visit and asks her to give Arnaud up to save his diplomatic career. In every film they appeared in together Barrymore and Garbo always played well off one another, and this scene is probably one of their more memorable. At first, it is a feisty confrontation between the two, but once Monsieur Duval realizes Marguerite loves his son his tone becomes more sympathetic. Still, in the end, he convinces her to give his son up. And this brings us to the three most unforgettable scenes in the film.

Knowing that she can’t convince Arnaud that she doesn’t love him, she does the only thing she knows will sever their relationship forever: she chooses money and the Baron over him. The look on Robert Taylor’s face when Marguerite walks out the door is priceless. Garbo is more than believably callous in this confrontation.

Hardened by his dismissal from Marguerite, Arnaud seems like a totally different man when he meets Marguerite and the Baron at a casino.  Quoting the quintessential line of the play (and a play that they’ve just come from), Arnaud says it is “The story of a man who loved a woman more than his honor and a woman who wanted luxury more than his love.” This leads to a strange face-off between Arnaud and the Baron at the baccarat table, where Arnaud wins a fortune. Still, after all that she’s done to him, Arnaud begs Marguerite to run away with him. When he says that she will be free of him forever if she can say that she loves the Baron, Garbo’s Marguerite makes her final sacrifice and says yes.  This is painful to watch, it is so emotionally raw. You compound this with Arnaud’s throwing his winnings at her feet and declaring he owes her nothing now that he has paid his debt, and you have one helluva confrontation. Of course, this leads to a duel in which the Baron is wounded and from which Arnaud must leave the country. 

But what happens in the end, you ask? It’s a tragic love story, so have some tissues close at hand when you watch to find out that answer. Needless to say, it is a classic ending…one you will never forget.

This was Garbo’s favorite role. In it she showed just how talented she was.  There are few actresses who truly make you believe they are the character they are portraying, but Garbo embodies this role completely.  It is truly one of the greatest female screen performances ever.

There are very few films that I rate as excellent, but this is one that I thinks deserves that ranking.  The story is a timeless tale of sacrificial love—a favorite theme of mine.  The acting is of superior caliber, especially Garbo and Daniell. For those who are enraptured by elegant, luxurious costumes, this film delivers. Garbo looks stunning in all of her gowns (lots of flounces and ruffles) and the men appear dashing and debonair in their 19th century long coats and top hats. Overall, it is a spectacular production that all classic cinema fans should encounter at least once…if not several times.