I have written before about the Criterion Collection DVDs and their use of imaginative artwork to pay homage to great movies. Last week I learnt that the Satyajit Ray classics Charulata and Mahanagar will soon be out on Criterion, but equally pleasing was a glimpse of the cover design for Ernst Lubitsch’s brilliant 1942 comedy To Be or Not to Be. The picture on the DVD package juxtaposes a famous image from Hamlet - the glum prince, primed for a soliloquy, holding Yorick’s skull in his hand - with a figure dressed in a smart Nazi uniform, so that the skull covers the Nazi's head. This image of fascism defeated, or made buffoonish, by theatre nicely catches the mood of a film about a Polish acting troupe outsmarting Hitler’s men. It also reminds me of what the critic David Thomson said: “If one side is making To Be or Not to Be in the middle of a war and the other is not – you know which side to root for.”
No intention of spoiling Lubitsch’s film for anyone who hasn’t seen it, but just as an appetiser, its opening sequence involves the apparent appearance of Hitler – alone – at a market corner in 1939 Warsaw. As he hesitantly surveys the shops and residents gape at him, a breathless voiceover – resembling nothing so much as a baseball-match commentary – goes:
“He seems strangely unconcerned by all the excitement he's causing. Is he by any chance interested in Mr Maslowski’s delicatessen? That’s impossible! He’s a vegetarian. And yet, he doesn’t always stick to his diet. Sometimes he swallows whole countries. Does he want to eat up Poland too?”
More digs at the leader follow in the next few minutes: an actor (the man who was pretending to be Hitler in that opening scene) responds to salutes with a “Heil Myself”, and a little boy speculates that if a brandy took the name Napoleon, perhaps Hitler “will end up as a piece of cheese”.
Of course, To Be or Not to Be was scarcely the only Hollywood film of its time to lampoon the Fuehrer. One of my favourite “Hitler cameos” occurs in Preston Sturges’s 1944 comedy The Miracle of Morgan’s Creek, about a small-town girl who gives birth to sextuplets, a national record. As news spreads across America and the world, we see the dictator's furious reaction and a headline from a German newspaper reads “Hitler Demands Recount!” Tangential though the scene is to the film, it links Hitler with terminology associated with voting and democracy, presented here as a symbol of America’s moral superiority over Nazi Germany.
Around the same time, the good folks in animation were making more direct propaganda films such as the pleasingly titled Herr Meets Hare (in which Bugs Bunny accidentally tunnels to Germany while trying to find Las Vegas, and speaks incomprehensible faux-German in a shrill, Hitler-like voice), Donald Duck in Nutzi Land (the peevish Donald finds himself working in a Nazi factory, which makes him even more ill-tempered than usual) and The Blitz Wolf, which begins with the assertion “The Wolf in this photoplay is NOT fictitious. Any similarity between this Wolf and that (*!!#%) Hitler is purely intentional.”
Not all these films draw positive responses today. People are often affronted by Nazism being treated lightly in a Hollywood movie (or cartoon!), especially one that was made at a time when the very real horrors of the concentration camps were underway far across the Atlantic. One argument goes that it amounts to trivialising the Holocaust, and some things, we are told, should simply not be joked about. Well, I disagree in a broader sense with that idea – I don’t think any subject, however ugly or distasteful, should lie outside the purview of humour – but in this case the nature of the comedy serves an obviously desirable function: it strips a pompous, self-important figure of his dignity.
Recently there was a comparable scene in Quentin Tarantino’s Django Unchained, where a meeting of the Ku Klux Klan, the white-supremacist group, turns into farce when the members find that they can’t see properly through the little slits in their white hoods; and these are the very costumes that they think make them look so awe-inspiring! The scene drags on too long, but one can’t fault its intention: undermining evil by making it banal, then ridiculous, so that by the end the group is more klutz than klux. (Incidentally, the real history of the KKK has an equivalent for this. In the 1940s, the author William Stetson Kennedy infiltrated the group and passed on its code-words for use in a children’s radio programme about Superman; as little children – including the children of mortified Klan members – began using the “secret words” in their games, the group’s air of mystery was diluted.)
It is useful to have good satirical depictions of this sort in cinema, because there have already been films – powerful and influential and superbly made films – that have depicted evil in grand terms. Two that readily come to mind are Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will – a 
document of Nazi rallies that begins with a stirring scene where Hitler is framed as a deity surveying his land from his plane before descending to make his speeches – and D W Griffith’s silent epic The Birth of a Nation, which portrayed the KKK almost as knights in shining white armour. The movies served different functions: Riefenstahl’s was explicit propaganda, made for the National Socialist Party, while Griffith – a Southerner who grew up with assumptions that we would consider very illiberal today – was possibly making an honest effort to capture the realities of a particular time. But their ability to sway audiences, to make violence and intolerance seem appealing, can’t be denied; think of Birth of a Nation audiences in 1915 watching new techniques such as fast-paced cross-cutting, which made the climactic action more rousing.
What films like To Be or Not to Be do is to provide a counterpoint by puncturing that balloon, and I’m thankful for them every time I see how fashionable it is for a certain demographic of Indian youngster (this includes a lot of management students, incidentally) to posture and claim fondness for Hitler’s Mein Kampf – a book that has long been a bestseller in India – or to express admiration for his “leadership qualities”.
That said, good comedy can have morally ambiguous consequences too, as can be seen in the viral popularity of the “Downfall spoofs” on the internet. Using a scene from the 2004 film Downfall – a serious treatment of Hitler’s final days – where the dictator becomes unhinged as he realises defeat is at hand, these videos rewrite the English subtitles to make it seem like Hitler is ranting about sundry inconveniences and oddities of the modern world: thus, “Hitler finds out that Twitter is down again” and “Hitler discovers that Oasis have split up”. Many of the results 
are hysterically funny, but you might wonder about the implications: what does it say about us when a mass-murderer becomes a fellow pilgrim in expressing rage at relatively minor things? Empathy can be a tricky thing: these videos make Hitler one of us, and remind me of another exchange in To Be or Not to Be, when the director of the play expresses doubt about the effectiveness of the actor playing the dictator: “It’s not convincing. To me he’s just a man with a little moustache.” The actor replies: “But so is Hitler.”
[Did a version of this for my DNA column]
In the 2003 film Baghban, there’s a scene where Amitabh Bachchan and Hema Malini – playing an aging couple mistreated by their children – find themselves outside a car showroom. An oily salesman (Gajendra Chauhan, who was Dharmaraj Yudhisthira in another lifetime) practically forces the protesting duo into test-driving a fancy car, and then gets abusive and even violent when it turns out they don’t have the money to buy it. This pat, emotionally manipulative scene provides a pretext for good son Salman Khan to show up and lay some of the old dhishum-dhishum across the sales guy’s noggin, as Damon Runyon might have put it – viewer catharsis is easily achieved.
Now flashback to six-and-a-half decades earlier, and a similar scene in Leo McCarey’s Make Way for Tomorrow – also about an old couple on the verge of being abandoned, or at least separated. Barkley (Victor Moore) and Lucy (the magnificent Beulah Bondi) are still deeply in love, and spending what will likely be their last few hours together – the result of circumstances that make it difficult for any of their children to take them both in. A car salesman sees them through a window, figures they look the “type” to make an impulse purchase, and takes them on a joy-ride, listening with amusement to their reminiscences. But when he discovers that they aren’t potential customers, he tips his hat and puts them at ease – he just wanted to show off his new car, he says. Having dropped them at the hotel where they had spent their honeymoon 50 years earlier, he leaves.
Comparisons can be misleading, and you might argue that the Make Way for Tomorrow scene is idealistic in its own way. (A separate argument might be that the film’s superb final half-hour isn’t meant to be realistic anyway – it’s more like the realisation of a dream where two 
helpless, dependent people reclaim themselves and enter a kinder world.) However, the contrast in the two car scenes does clarify the very different methods of the films. Baghban wants to make it as easy as possible for the viewer, clearly delineating the people we should root against (evil children, evil salesman, etc). All that’s missing from many of its scenes is a subtitle telling us how we are supposed to respond. But the Make Way for Tomorrow worldview can’t accommodate clean divisions: it opens with the revelation that Barkley and Lucy (who can be lovable, vulnerable and exasperating all at once) are partly to blame for their predicament – they put their children in a tight spot by waiting until the last possible moment to drop the bombshell that their house has been taken over by the bank (this is the Depression Era).
What follows as the old couple try out various staying arrangements, occasionally making a nuisance of themselves, is a morally complex story about the generation gap – one that is more concerned with giving viewers (of all ages) shudders of recognition than in demanding judgement. As a pre-credit title puts it, “There is no magic that will draw together in perfect understanding the aged and the young. There is a canyon between us.” (I thought the use of “us” as opposed to “them” was significant; it’s as if the film is placing itself and its viewers right in the spectrum of human experience rather than watching from a safe distance.)
None of this should be surprising if you’re familiar with Leo McCarey’s work. He was one of a band of directors – among them Ernst Lubitsch, Yasujiro Ozu, Krzysztof Kieslowski and Satyajit Ray – whose films are remarkably free of villainous “types”; people whose wicked actions set a plot in motion, giving us emotional cues and allowing us to feel that unfathomable injustices could be explained and dealt with; that by surgically removing those who were responsible for bad things, we could make the world a better place. And Make Way for Tomorrow is one of his most mature works. Though made years before Hollywood began its full-fledged dalliance with gritty “psychological realism”, it contains scenes that anticipate the age of Method actors. It was rare, for instance, to see half-completed sentences and unexpected pauses in speech in 1930s Hollywood movies, but watch the early scene where the couple’s eldest son George (the always-wonderful Thomas Mitchell) enters the family home and says hello to his parents and siblings in turn. Addressing a sister whom he hasn’t seen in a long while, he tries to say the right thing – “I don’t know, we plan and plan...” but then trails off abruptly, almost as if realising how hollow his words are; everyone is leading their own lives, might as well fess up to it instead of pretending that tremendous efforts are being made.
Something similar is achieved in the exchange where George tries to build up the courage to tell his mother that he needs to send her to an old persons’ home, but she anticipates his discomfort and takes the responsibility on herself. On view here is a perfectly performed duet of little gestures and glances, where first we see that she knows, and then realise that he knows that she knows. There are other wonderful little moments, a few of which teeter on the brink of being too cute. But the final passage, with Bark and Lucy in the city together, is among the most graceful and uncompromising I’ve seen in any film – it manages somehow to have the texture of both a personal fantasy and a social documentary.
All this adds up to an emotionally demanding movie, and little wonder that McCarey (who directed the wonderful comedy The Awful Truth that same year) was under studio pressure to make it more upbeat. But he resisted and Make Way for Tomorrow was a commercial dud, with some reviewers of the time even warning viewers to stay away because it was so sad! (Of course, the promotional machinery chugged on unhindered: one gobsmacking theatrical poster shows a scene that isn’t even in the film – Bark dancing gaily with a young woman, presumably his granddaughter.)
When one thinks of Hollywood movies of the 30s, 40s and 50s that broke away from studio executives’ notions of what was good for the box-office, one usually thinks of dark, deeply cynical visions of human nature. (Billy Wilder’s Ace in the Hole comes to mind.) Make Way for Tomorrow can be seen as a pessimistic film too, but it arrives at its pessimism from an almost opposite direction – by taking a positive view of most people and suggesting that personal circumstances (along with unbridgeable gulfs in personalities and needs) are what cause much of the world’s misery.
At one point, Lucy’s granddaughter Rhoda tells her to stop dreaming and face facts. “When you’re 17 and the world is beautiful,” Lucy replies, “facing facts is just slick fun, like dancing or going to parties. But when you’re seventy... well, you don’t care about dancing, you don’t think about parties anymore, and about the only fun you have left is pretending that there ain’t any facts to face. So would you mind if I just went on pretending?” Well, McCarey's film itself turns 75 this month (it was released in May 1937) but there is little pretence in its treatment of the old and the young. And it only occasionally shows its age.
...or, why you don't always have to use a long spoon while supping with Satan. My latest Yahoo! column is about some of the cooler movie Devils.
Update: here's the full piece
A depressive, hung-over actor named Toby Dammit is being asked a string of banal questions at a press conference. He answers them crabbily; he looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks.
“Do you believe in God?” asks a reporter with shiny white teeth. “No,” sighs the actor, terribly bored and distracted.
“And in the Devil?”
Now, for the first time, Dammit looks animated. He leans forward, says “Yes. In the Devil, yes.”
“How exciting!” exclaims the questioner, delighted to have hit home, “Have you seen Him? What does He look like? A black cat, a goat, a bat?”
“Oh no,” says Dammit, a faraway look coming into his eyes, “To me the Devil is cheerful, agile…”
Cut to an shot of a girl, her pale face occupying the left half of the screen, leering at the camera
“He looks like a little girl.”
I’ll leave you to discover the rest of Federico Fellini’s atmospheric short film “Toby Dammit” (or “Never Bet the Devil Your Head”) for yourself. But the scene is a reminder that Satan, or Beelzebub, or the Prince of Darkness, is the most adventurous of screen characters. He comes in many forms, and He’s a lot more willing to show Himself than his opposite number – you know, that guy in the Other Place – is.
God, as a snarling Al Pacino reminds us in The Devil’s Advocate, “is an absentee landlord” – aloof, unwilling to have much to do with mortal affairs. But Devils are always around, always willing to listen, and the most genteel and hospitable of them all has to be the one in Ernst Lubitsch’s Heaven Can Wait. This witty 1943 film begins with the deceased protagonist Henry presenting himself to Hell of his own accord, for as a title card tells us:
“As Henry van Cleve’s soul passed over the Great Divide, he realised it was extremely unlikely that his next stop could be Heaven. And so, philosophically, he presented himself where innumerable people had so often told him to go.”
The appointment chamber of Hell is a spacious room lined with bookshelves, which suggests that the Devil (referred to here as His Excellency) is a well-read gentleman. Dressed in a tuxedo and sporting a somewhat pointy beard as a small nod to tradition, he greets Henry courteously and enquires if he had a peaceful demise. His Excellency is patient and solicitous. (He does lapse into a sly smile once in a while, but then nearly all of Lubitsch’s characters have a bit of devilry in them!) After listening to Henry’s story – the story of a life marked not by any major crime but rather a “continuous series of misdemeanours” – he weighs things and shakes his head. “Sorry Mr Van Cleve, but we don’t cater to your class of people here,” he says, instructing the elevator boy to take Henry “upstairs”.
Like every other Lubitsch movie, Heaven Can Wait is elegant and packed with clever dialogue. But it also has perceptive things to say about the human tendency to deal in polarities – in this case, the idea of a Heaven for do-gooders vs an eternal hellfire for sinners. As the Devil gently reminds us at the end, things usually aren’t so cut-and-dried. Even if Henry’s peccadilloes and philandering ways earned him some red marks, it’s just possible that Heaven has “a small, not-so-comfortable room vacant in the annex”, where he might be permitted to stay for a few hundred years before they let him into the main building. Why not give it a try? Why be so hard on yourself?
****
Other screen Satans are less urbane and less understanding, but they have a sense of humour and know how to have a good time. A great rascally portrayal of the Devil is in Benjamin Christensen’s silent movie Häxan. This is, believe it or not, a rationalist film (remarkably so for the time it was made in) about witch-hunts, but Christensen uses the Devil sequences to illustrate the delusions that superstitious or credulous people suffer from. In one scene, an old woman recalls her acts of witchery, including riding on broomsticks through the night and participating in a devil’s feast. But then the poor thing is being tortured by the priests of the Inquisition; under those circumstances, I suspect I would have similar “recollections”.
Satan’s superb first appearance in this film has him leaping out at a plump monk who’s studying the Bible. (If you watched MTV in the mid-1990s, you’ve probably seen this delightful shot already, without knowing it.) He’s repulsive to look at, bare-chested, pot-bellied and lumpy, waggling his forked tongue, knocking on boudoir doors and enticing young women into his hairy arms even as their husbands doze nearby. He’s also played by the director, and I suspect Christensen had fun in the role.
[If you see Haxan, try to catch the 1968 “remix” titled Witchcraft Through the Ages, set to a jazz score (!) and with narration by William Burroughs, who tells us in his brilliantly deadpan, gravelly voice, that “belief in the Devil was so steadfast that many people gave incredible descriptions of this horrid individual”, and that witches had to show their respect for Satan “by kissing his ass”.]
However, if I had to pick a single favourite screen Devil, it would be Walter Huston as the grizzled Mr Scratch in The Devil and Daniel Webster. This adaptation of the Faust legend shifts the tale to rural America in the mid-19th century, where Mr Scratch, with his little black book and self-combusting visiting card, makes a misfortune-plagued farmer an offer he can’t refuse: a hoard of gold coins in exchange for his soul, contract to be renewed in seven years. “And why should that worry you?” Scratch says persuasively. “What is a soul? A soul is nothing. Can you see it, smell it, touch it? No.”
Huston’s Devil is diabolical and charming at the same time, but in a folksy, Midwestern sort of way. He isn’t a supernatural figure arbitrarily thrust into the story – it’s possible to see him in realist terms as a roguish tramp sitting about on the sidelines, stirring people up – but the viewer can never have the slightest doubt about who He really is; this is exactly what old Lucifer would look and behave like in the 1800s if he tucked his pointy tail away, whisked off his horns and visited a farmstead. Best of all, this isn’t a Devil who turns sullen when his plans are foiled at the end: Scratch’s maniacal grin only becomes wider and he departs with a polite nod, as if he knows this is a temporary setback and many more triumphs lie ahead of him. After all, he has eternity.
The film’s unforgettable last shot has Scratch flipping through his black book, then looking up, staring straight into the camera, grinning and pointing at us, as if to say “You’re next!” The message is clear. In cinema’s early days, puritans would denounce the bioscope and the movie camera as being “the devil's instruments”, and in a sense that’s still true. Few other movie characters are this hypnotic.
I’m very pleased with my DVD of Ernst Lubitsch’s 1932 classic Trouble in Paradise. Apart from the main feature – a lovely, elegant romantic comedy that provides immediate evidence of the fabled “Lubitsch touch” – the disc includes a silent film directed by him in Germany in 1917, long before he crossed the Atlantic to grace Hollywood with his distinct sensibilities. This older film, titled The Merry Jail and adapted from a Strauss operetta, is very much a product of its era – a jerky, broad comedy with hammy acting – but as a comedy of manners, mutual deceit and misunderstandings it provides glimpses of themes that would run through Lubitsch’s more mature work. The early films of great directors can be very revealing that way.
Lubitsch is often credited with bringing modernity to American cinema, taking Hollywood into its next phase after the D W Griffith era. He must have been a huge presence from the late 1920s to the early 1940s: whenever I’ve seen a reference to him in a memoir of a movie personality from that period, it’s obvious that he was among the most respected filmmakers of the time. Fellow directors envied his seemingly effortless, fluid touch and stars of the time queued up to be cast in his films. [Coincidentally there's a riff on this in another excellent film I watched recently, Preston Sturges' Sullivan's Travels, in which the starlet played by Veronica Lake wants only to be introduced to Mr Lubitsch.] His name is synonymous with sophistication, but what tends not to be mentioned so much is that there is always warmth and affection beneath the stylishness of his work. On the surface, Lubitsch films are full of impeccably well-dressed and well-spoken high-society types tossing bon mots at each other, but the people in his cinema never reach for cleverness at the expense of humanity; they are essentially likable and reveal unexpected depths just when you think you’ve got them marked down as stereotypes.
The very charismatic performances of Herbert Marshall, Miriam Hopkins and Kay Francis in Trouble in Paradise exemplify this. The quietly suave Marshall plays gentleman thief Gaston Monescu and the spirited Hopkins (one of the most underrated actresses of the time and a personal favourite) is a small-time pickpocket named Lily. As the film opens in a Venice hotel, each is posing as a member of nobility and during the course of a superbly performed dinner scene-cum-seduction, it transpires that they are aware of each other’s masquerade. Thus they realise that they are kindred spirits.
Lily: When I came here, it was for a little adventure, a little game which you play tonight and forget tomorrow. Something's changed me; and it isn't the champagne. Oh, the whole thing's so new to me. I have a confession to make to you. Baron, you are a crook. You robbed the gentleman in 253, 5, 7, and 9. May I have the salt.
Gaston: (passing the salt) Please.
Lily: Thank you.
Gaston: The pepper too?
Lily: No thank you.
Gaston: You're very welcome. Countess, believe me, before you left this room I would have told you everything. And let me say this with love in my heart: Countess, you are a thief. The wallet of the gentleman in 253, 5, 7, and 9 is in your possession. I knew it very well when you took it out of my pocket. In fact, you tickled me. But your embrace was so sweet.
On reflection, it isn’t enough to simply read this exchange: you have to watch Marshall and Hopkins act it out – to see how they transcend the slickness of the dialogue by showing the characters’ growing admiration for each other, the childlike delight they take in their misdemeanors, the affection that soon turns to love.
A year or so later, the scene having shifted to Paris, they decide to con a wealthy heiress named Mariette Colet (Kay Francis): Gaston contrives a meeting with her, passes himself off as a member of the “nouvelle poor” (the world’s financial markets are in a bad state) and gets hired as her secretary – which gives him control over her daily affairs and proximity to her riches. But then Gaston and Mariette become close and this sets up the romantic triangle.
Lubitsch was, by all accounts, not just a great filmmaker but an affable, bighearted man. In his delightful book Bring on the Empty Horses, David Niven has a chapter on his experience as a nervous young greenhorn playing a supporting role in Lubitsch’s Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife. Excerpts:
...he sat me down on a sofa and proceeded to act out all my scenes – giggling and hugging himself as he explained the visual “business” he was intending to incorporate into them...he put his arm around my waist (because he could not reach my shoulders) and led me to the door. “Everyone will be nervous on the first day,” he said, “even the electricians in case they set fire to the studio – but we’re all going to be together for many weeks and I promise you, it’ll be fun! You’re a member of the family now!”
When Lubitsch described us as his “family”, it was no understatement and we all had complete respect for the father figure. I never once heard him raise his voice and he loved to be given suggestions, listened patiently to them and then just as patiently explained why they wouldn’t work.
I think this kindliness comes across in his work. Watching Trouble in Paradise, you get a sense of how the gentle, all-encompassing humanity of a Satyajit Ray or a Kieslowski might be accommodated in a sparkling Hollywood romantic comedy. For starters, the film is completely non-judgemental about its protagonists (who are, after all, crooks) and their sexual mores. The critic David Thomson pointed out that it was a rare example of a truly amoral film made in Hollywood, and it’s worth noting that it could only have been made before the Hollywood Production Code was enforced in 1934. Under the strictures of the Code, there’s no way Gaston and Lily would have been allowed to carry on blithely without getting their comeuppance, and some of the sexual innuendo – notably a dialogue about spanking – would have had to be toned down. 
Incidentally, there's an almost orgasmic quality to the moment when Lily, obviously aroused by the realisation that Gaston is a master thief (he stole her garter without her noticing it!), jumps up, sits on his lap and breathlessly demands that he tell her everything about himself. This is followed by their first tryst, with her reclining on a couch, his bending over to kiss her (“My little shoplifter. My sweet little pickpocket. My darling”), and the two of them simply fading from the shot, leaving the empty couch behind – a subtle visual suggestion that they’ve moved somewhere more comfortable; perhaps to the bed shown in the film’s opening credits.
It’s all too easy for a film with a witty screenplay to get tripped up by its own cleverness, but Trouble in Paradise never does; it’s considerate about its characters and their feelings. Gaston, Lily and Mariette have a fatalistic sincerity – an ability to shrug their shoulders, cut their losses and move on – which makes this “lightweight comedy” poignant in a way that many dramatic films can never be. It’s also very mature in its treatment of the love triangle: Mariette is neither a simpering victim nor a cold-hearted society lady who deserves to be robbed. She’s a pragmatic woman, capable of her own brand of tenderness, but with a firm head on her shoulders, and when she and Gaston part ways, there is a dignity to the moment that makes the scene very effective.
There's no mean-mindedness even when it comes to the treatment of such characters as the befuddled Monsieur Filiba, one of Mariette’s suitors who, in most other films of this type, would have existed only so the audience could get some cheap laughs at his expense. (The supporting cast is superb: Edward Everett Horton, Charlie Ruggles and C Aubrey Smith – who, by the by, was the founder of the Hollywood Cricket Club! – are just three among the dozens of fine performers who played stock supporting roles in 1930s Hollywood.)
The features on my DVD include a 10-minute introduction by the director/film historian Peter Bogdanovich and a feature-length commentary by biographer Scott Eyman. Taken together, these provide many insights into Lubitsch’s work and life: for example, that he had a lot of sympathy for actors doing bit roles as butlers or valets, which probably came out of his own experience playing such parts when he was an actor. This resulted in his giving these bit-players a few extra seconds of screen time when the spotlight was on them – it creates delightful little touches such as the scene in Trouble in Paradise where Mariette keeps changing her mind about whether or not she’s going to a dinner and her corpulent butler murmurs inaudibly to himself each time he has to descend the staircase with a fresh set of instructions. It's a wonderfully spontaneous moment.
Lubitsch’s acting experience also led him to perform each scene – right down to the most insignificant roles – while directing his actors. Bogdanovich speculates that this probably led to the idea of the “pure Lubitsch performance” to describe why actors were notably different while performing for Lubitsch than for other directors. From Niven’s recollections:
We started the comedy scene and I noticed that Lubitsch was crying. “Cut!” he sobbed helplessly at the end. “That was wonderful! You made me laugh so much I nearly choked. Now, just a couple of little suggestions...”
We probably played the scene a dozen times, each time our efforts were saluted by paroxysms of mirth by the master director and each time he managed to blurt out a “couple of little suggestions” before climbing back on to his perch. By the time we had performed the scene to his complete satisfaction we had, of course, like many before us, given performances of “pure Lubitsch”, and as Claudette Colbert pointed out, “And why not? He’s better than any of us!”
There’s no better introduction to the stylish 1930s Hollywood comedy than Trouble in Paradise – the only hitch being that nearly everything else in the genre will seem anti-climactic by comparison. Other Lubitsch films I recommend highly: The Student Prince, To Be or Not to Be, The Shop Around the Corner, Design for Living.
[A few earlier posts on Old Hollywood: Swing Time, Duck Soup, The Talk of the Town]