A New Year, a New Gatsby

As a new year dawns, I look forward to many things. To seeing new places, to meeting new people, and of course, to seeing many more movies. And one of those movies is Baz Luhrmann's much-anticipated and much-delayed The Great Gatsby. Odd considering I don't really expect it to be a success. While I admit to a weakness for Moulin Rouge, I feel like Luhrmann's bombastic, all-or-nothing style is more likely to smother Fitzgerald's story than to lift it up. But the truth is that I am a Gatsby junkie, I have been since high school, I've seen the 1949, 1974, and 2000 movie adaptations, and I will no doubt go to the Luhrmann film still hoping for the best. The Great Gatsby is a story that feels so cinematic in its concept and yet it's never found a solid footing onscreen. Why?

Because my fascination with all things Gatsby extends to the films, I decided to examine the 1949 and 1974 films and how they went wrong. If you choose to read further, be warned that I assume you've read the book and know all these characters already.

The 1949 Film

 

(directed by Elliot Nugent, starring Alan Ladd and Betty Field)

This movie's been out of circulation for a long time due to copyright issues but a new print came out last year and a fuzzy but passable version is floating around online. It's definitely worth a look for just how strange it is. I say strange because its makers don't treat Gatsby like the great enshrined classic it would become. They appropriate the basic plot and turn it into, of all things, a film noir. It becomes the tale of a noble-hearted gangster and the woman who betrayed him. The writers and director play fast and loose with the story, spending a great deal of time on Gatsby's rise to power and subtly altering Daisy and Tom from callous aristocrats into treacherous and calculating plotters. Their final betrayal of Gatsby becomes a typical noir frame-up, with Daisy agreeing to make her lover into the patsy as Gatsby overhears. It is utterly unreal to see a Gatsby that actually wises up to Daisy's true nature in the end. Perhaps these alterations, bizarre as they feel to a lover of the book, could have worked. But the filmmakers don't fully commit to such a dark reinvention. Instead they put a white picket fence around it by making it a morality tale of lawlessness punished and bland goodness rewarded. You get the sense that this film was constructed from the scraps of other '40s films rather than being carefully crafted as its own story. So it's pretty much a failure as both a film and as an adaptation. And yet there is something interesting about seeing The Great Gatsby treated as just another story. It's something that would never happen again.

 The 1974 Film

(directed by Jack Clayton, starring Robert Redford and Mia Farrow)

The 1974 movie is every inch the prestige production, including a respected director, the screenwriting talents of Francis Ford Coppola, popular stars, and an all-out, sumptuous recreation of the Jazz Age. Everything in this movie shimmers. The fashions are to die for. The parties are lavish. Unlike the sloppier 1949 version, the 1974 film dutifully repeats most of the original dialogue from the book. It also excises a fair amount of Nick Carraway's narration, instead focusing on the tragic romance of Daisy and Gatsby. You can tell that people were expecting this to be the definitive version, a dreamy, star-studded example of the best Hollywood craftsmanship. And yet this film also fails. Like Gatsby, it tries too hard. Jack Clayon opts for dramatic zooming and high-pitched melodrama so that moments that worked on the page become laughably overdone on film. Everything is categorized so that all love scenes have soft focus and slow music while the sleazy scenes all have a dyspeptic saxophone. And, as if to cap it all off, the film cuts off Nick's final testament to American dreamers for a kicky rendition of "Ain't We Got Fun?" over the credits. It's like a cake made only of stale icing, nothing underneath at all.

And now we move on to the most interesting part of these two faulty films: the casting. 

Jay Gatsby

(Alan Ladd in 1949, Robert Redford in 1974) 

The best reason to watch the 1949 film is because Alan Ladd is really, surprisingly very good as Jay Gatsby. In his day, Ladd was acclaimed more for his style than his depth (Where Danger Lives has a fascinating essay on the star and the tortuous insecurity he felt over his acting) but this film proves that assumption wrong. Ladd feels like a very natural Gatsby, the boyishness of his looks and manner contrasting with the cool confidence that Gatsby the character (and Ladd the actor) had learned how to fake. Ladd is able to utter even the absurdest bits of Gatsby's backstory with utter conviction. It's a great shame that the role never got Ladd the respect he so deeply wanted.

There's an old story Mike Nichols would tell about Robert Redford and the day he was almost cast as Benjamin Braddock in The Graduate. Nichols asked Redford to describe a time when he had struck out with a girl. Redford didn't understand the question. Whether the story is true or not, it does hit on an essential weakness of Redford the star. You could never buy him as a loser. That supernal golden-haired beauty and distant manner put him on a different plane. And that feeds into his portrayal of Gatsby since Redford never seems fully keyed into the desperation under Gatsby's dreaming or the eager, searching nature of a reinvented man. He is a more melancholy and thoughtful Gatsby than Ladd even while the script keeps trying to cast him as the earnest romantic hero. Overall, a noble failure. He does make for quite the iconic image though, as he stares at that green light.

Daisy Buchanan

(Betty Field in 1949, Mia Farrow in 1974)

The wide-eyed, plaintive Betty Field just feels like she's batting out of her league with Daisy. It's a flat, distracted performance, as if the main star of the show had been delayed and Field was a harried usher sent to distract us, all while keeping one eye on the fire exits. If the intent was to turn the '49 Gatsby into a film noir, then they failed utterly in giving their femme fatale any of the original Daisy's seductiveness, charm, or survival tactics.

If Field's performance is lackluster, Mia Farrow's portrayal has luster by the barrelful, enough to choke you with. At one point, director Jack Clayton literally films her with stars in her eyes. Unlike Elliot Nugent, who rushed through a lot of his Daisy's scenes, Clayton's camera bathes Farrow in shimmering light and loving close-ups. But he also indulges her in a performance that's so neurotic and silly that even the cutest and rootin-tootin-est of the Jazz Babies would have wanted to take an axe to this Daisy. In high school, my English teacher couldn't resist rewinding Farrow's final breakdown for us, calling it one of his favorite bits of bad acting ever. But then, Farrow was so painfully miscast. Daisy's voice should sound like money and Farrow, even at 29, had the cracked, mournful voice of an old woman. Daisy's meant to be the illusive lovely idol of Gatsby's dreams and Farrow, well... it's hard not to think of David O. Selznick's ungallant slap to Katharine Hepburn: "I can't imagine Rhett Butler chasing you around for twelve years."

 Tom Buchanan

(Barry Sullivan in 1949, Bruce Dern in 1974)

Barry Sullivan wins an extra point from me for being the actor who physically looks the most like how I envisioned his character. Handsome and polished but with a lurking coldness in the eyes. It's a performance that emphasizes the menace of Tom's character. He barks orders more like a gangster than a polo player. Going along with the noir-like feel of the film, Sullivan is no golden boy. He's every bit the tough guy.

Bruce Dern is a very different interpretation of the rich, entitled Tom. Instead of emphasizing his violence, the later film emphasizes his comical nature. Dern delivers Tom's rambling comments on the superiority of Nordics and the social order in a reedy, petulant whine. This Tom is weak, childish, and unlovable, his ratty little mustache and irritable manner held up against Robert Redford's golden superiority as if to say, "Creeps like him can still get it all." Again, it gives an interesting angle on the character but as with the Sullivan version, you never get the sense that this Tom is a true aristocrat. The kind of man who can make Gatsby shrivel inside because no matter how idiotic he sounds, he was born to the purple. And Gatbsy is not.

Nick Carraway

(Macdonald Carey in 1949, Sam Waterston in 1974)

When I didn't like Macdonald Carey in Shadow of a Doubt, I told myself it was the contrived nature of his character, the police detective who falls instantly in love with the heroine. When I didn't like Macdonald Carey in The Damned, I said it was just the awkwardness of seeing a man in craggy middle age seduce the sexy young Shirley Ann Field. But it's three strikes now and I have to face the truth. Carey is smarmy. He's bland. There's nothing under the surface with him. And sadly, the '49 Gatsby decided that Nick Carraway should be the voice of the Hays Code so we have to endure Carey's stiff, lecturing presence telling us, "There is a way which seemeth right unto a man but the end thereof are the ways of death." This Nick is so upright and moral, he even reforms Jordan Baker!

Of all the Nick Carraways (including Tobey Maguire), Sam Waterston is the only one whose voice you might actually want for your narrator. He's a soothing, thoughtful presence onscreen but with enough rootless amiability to make his friendship with these people believable. The only problem is, the '74 version decided it didn't really need Nick after all. A lot of his character moments, including his crucial last speech, are pared down and instead we're treated to more Gatsby and Daisy interplay. So Fitzgerald's "boats against the current, borne ceaselessly back into the past" was cut but Daisy wittering about how she wants to push Gatsby around in "a big pink cloud" was left in. Nick is a difficult if not impossible character to succesfully integrate into a film adaptation because he functions more as a gateway than a character in his own right. But the '74 version leaves him stranded betwixt and between, still present but too remote to fully connect with anybody. His growing friendship with Gatsby is excised for more Daisy. It makes the heartbreaking moment when he tells Gatbsy that he's "worth the whole damn bunch put together" into an odd little throwaway moment. Did this Nick ever really care that much?

Jordan Baker

(Ruth Hussey in 1949, Lois Chiles in 1974)

Just as the '49 version of Nick was retooled into the voice of sober respectability, Ruth Hussey's turn as the amoral golfer Jordan Baker was also given a coat of suburban varnish. She vacillates between wanting to be part of her scheming coterie and wanting to be Nick Carraway's love. In the '49 film, we also get to see Jordan's future: she ends up as Nick's loving, gray-haired wife. Because that makes so much sense. Hussey is a fine actress and her specialty was the wisecracking and sensible side character. But she's a little too smart and down-to-earth for either of the roles the script wants to put her in. You get the sense that this Jordan could have a fine busy life elsewhere if she had the sense to get away from these people. 

Lois Chiles isn't nearly as good an actress as Hussey but her silver-tongued and sultry Jordan is still a pleasure. While her predecessor was tart and sensible, Chiles comes across more as a person so utterly devoid of inner doubt that she will continue to glide serenely across the surface for the rest of her days. And man does she rock those Jazz Age fashions (The Fashionéaste has an excellent run-through of the '74 film's glorious costume designs). The only problem with Chiles is that her husky purr and seductive smile were given to the wrong character--her voice sounds more like money than Farrow's does.

Myrtle Wilson

(Shelley Winters in 1949, Karen Black in 1974) 

The only surprise in Shelley Winters' casting as Tom Buchanan's doomed mistress Myrtle is that it happened before Winters had gotten a permanent lock on all "blowsy, unwanted female" roles. She doesn't really get much of a chance to shine in the part and the '49 version doesn't do much to glamorize Myrtle. Thankfully, it doesn't try to belittle her either.

Karen Black might tie with Mia Farrow for being the performer most unpleasantly indulged by her director. We get lots of closeups of Black either laughing or weeping, her emotions practically dripping off the screen. It's a relief when she moves away. Granted, Myrtle is never meant to be a femme fatale or a delicate flower, but it also means that the tragedy of her death is swallowed up by the film's goofy stylizations. And did they have to play that stereotypical "sleazy jazz" over her scenes?

And what about the 2013 movie?

I really don't know if we will ever have a Gatsby film that works. Maybe the book truly does begin and end with the beauty of Fitzgerald's writing, as some critics say. Maybe Fitzgerald is having a subtle revenge on the Hollywood he hated and he watches from beyond the grave while these films only scratch the surface of what he wrote. It could be that Baz Luhrmann will succeed. As a Gatsbyphile, I know I'll still be watching, for better or for worse.

 
Note: The still of Betty Field is taken from Classic Cinema Gold and the image of Lois Chiles is credited to Cult Queens.

Tentpole Characters

In his review of Sunset Boulevard, Roger Ebert spends nearly half of it talking about Erich von Stroheim's character Max. It's my favorite kind of Ebert review, the kind where he just throws out trying to sum up a film classic and instead just follows his own interests.

"The performance that holds the film together, that gives it emotional resonance and makes it real in spite of its gothic flamboyance, is by Erich von Stroheim, as Norma's faithful butler Max...We might not take (Norma) seriously. That's where Max comes in. Because he believes, because he has devoted his life to her shrine, we believe. His love convinces us there must be something worth loving in Norma."

His description of Max always fascinated me because I think it nails down a very important concept. The idea that a film can rise or fall, not just on the protagonist, but also on a supporting character, shoring up the film's foundations without calling attention to the fact. Without Max, Norma Desmond could so easily have been a campy parody, despite Swanson's superb performance. Without Alida Valli's haunted devotion, would Harry Lime be nearly as memorable a villain? Well, I got to thinking about the subject and just had to make a short, by-no-means-conclusive list. For the sake of a title, let's call them "tentpole" characters.
 
1. Lew Ayres in Holiday

In Holiday, Katharine Hepburn plays the upscale but troubled Linda Seton, a free spirit who's been stifled all her life by her controlling father. Now, when it comes to fiction, I'm usually quite willing to sympathize with rich, beautiful people, but man does Linda test that limit. And I say that as someone who loves this film. This is a wealthy woman in 1938 with the gall to say this: "Compared to the life I lead, the last man on a chain gang thoroughly enjoys himself." It's all I can do not to yell, "Oh cry me a river, rich girl!" This is where Lew Ayres comes in. He plays Linda's brother Ned, a melancholy alcoholic who has given up his musical ambitions to grind his soul to death in his father's office. He is Linda's confidante as she slowly comes to realize her love for Johnny Case (Cary Grant), her sister's fiancee. Ayres plays this witty, unhappy man to perfection. Without once even raising his voice for sympathy, Ayres shows us how this man has been worn down by convention and family duty. He has no fight in him, except when it comes to Linda. He shows us everything Linda stands to lose. And because of that, we're on their side.

2. Patricia Neal in The Day the Earth Stood Still

The Day the Earth Stood Still cuts its way through the overheated, pulpy jungles of '50s science fiction like some vast, frozen iceberg. It's a smart, suspenseful movie, but so cold. Even the scenes of Klautu bonding with the little boy carry that feeling of unease. We are faced with the unhappy prospect that these advanced aliens will come down and intone, in the wise voice of Michael Rennie, that humanity better get with the program or else. But the humanity personified in scenes of generals barking orders or by the furrowed brow of Hugh Marlowe doesn't really put up much of a show for itself. Thank God then, for Patrica Neal. She's the only fully realized human character in this film; it's her warmth, confusion, and courage that we cling to. Neal had the great gift for creating characters who feel lived-in, from the practical but yearning Alma in Hud to the coolly cynical lover in Breakfast at Tiffany's. Her characters never feel like they started existing the moment the director yelled "Action." Would "Gort, Klaatu barada nikto" have been half so memorable without that tremor of mingled fear and determination in Neal's voice? Klaatu may be Space Jesus but Helen is our true savior.

3. Gladys Cooper in Now, Voyager

People like to cite Now, Voyager as one of the definitive romantic films. But for my money, the real force behind the story isn't the swoony love story of Bette Davis and Paul Henreid, it's the battle of wills between Davis and Gladys Cooper. Cooper is one of the bitchiest mothers ever put on screen, a woman so ruthless she would throw her rickety body down the stairs just to make her own daughter feel guilty. She torments poor Bette Davis (how often do you get to say that?) into a nervous breakdown, simply by refusing to give any kind of affection or freedom to her offspring. Cooper's performance in such a juicy role is understated. She delivers Mrs. Vale's constant stream of complaints in the kind of everyday, distracted tone you might expect from someone who's been speaking poison so long they've forgotten how to talk any other way. Now, Voyager tells a pretty old story: the ugly duckling who finds love and beauty. It's wish fulfillment. But it would all collapse into a soggy mess without Cooper, who shows us how much heft and emotion there can be in these kind of stories. Especially when the freedom of a human soul is at stake.

4. Ann Sheridan in Kings Row

This selection might be a little biased due to the fact that I love Ann Sheridan and wish she'd gotten more roles like this. Warner Brothers liked to advertise Sheridan as the "Oomph Girl," branding the gorgeous Texan redhead like she was a flavor of bubble gum. But when she got the chance, Sheridan proved she was plenty more than that. She had energy and humor and an irrepressible down-to-earth attitude. There's always a normalcy peeking out from under her performances. In Kings Row, she plays Randy Monaghan, the tomboy from the wrong side of the tracks who grows up into the loving, courageous wife of Ronald Reagan's character. Sheridan gives Randy an overlying pragmatism and intelligence that grounds the romance perfectly. She's the kind of woman who would always be a friend first, a lover second. As the spiritual predecessor to films like Peyton Place and Picnic, Kings Row is the kind of "small-town, dark secrets" melodrama that risks becoming too overblown. Lucky for us that Ann Sheridan is there to remind us that loving people can also just be good common sense.

5. Thomas Mitchell in Only Angels Have Wings

Only Angels Have Wings might go neck and neck with To Have and Have Not for the title of most Hawksian Howard Hawks film. A wisecracking and sexy woman (Jean Arthur) falls in with a group of daredevil men and quickly becomes fascinated by their tough and emotionally distant leader (Cary Grant). The leader is quick with the quips but slow to open his heart. Lucky for poor Jean Arthur, she has Grant's loyal number 2 on her side, "Kid" Dabb (Thomas Mitchell). Mitchell would have had my everlasting gratitude just by virtue of not being Walter Brennan ranting about dead bees but his portrayal of Kid is worth more than that. Mitchell had a way of watching his fellow actors that always gets to me. There's kindness there and understanding, but he never tries to draw too much attention. He bides his time. His gentle regard for Arthur is such a relief after seeing her get constantly embarrassed and berated by Grant. And of course, his character here is a powerful reminder that Grant really is a great guy. He'd have to be to win the loyalty of such a man.

6. Rita Moreno in West Side Story

It's funny how growing older has flipped my perception of West Side Story. As a kid, I was dazzled by Natalie Wood and couldn't understand why Rita Moreno and George Chakiris got all the attention. Now, I get it. In the original Romeo and Juliet, the tragedy isn't just about two lovers who can never be together. The tragedy is also about two families who have mindlessly destroyed all their best, brightest, and most cherished children for an empty rivalry. This is soft-pedaled in the musical by turning it into a very '50s style story of teenagers and grownups who just can't understand. We never see the parents, only ineffectual police officers and a head-shaking storekeeper ("You kids make the world lousy!").  When you take out the family aspect of the story and replace it with street gangs, it muddles everything. Why would street gangs react with such outsized horror at the thought of actually killing each other? It makes characters like Tony and Riff and Maria seem a little like suburban kids who've been teleported into the wrong story. This is where Rita Moreno is so essential as Anita. She's the only one who seems to truly feel the passion and pain of the situation. The near-rape she suffers at the hands of the Jets is still the only part of the film where I want to cringe and look away. But it's more than just one scene. Without Moreno's sexy, vibrant presence at the beginning (I love her back-and-forth with Chakiris), the film would lose a lot of its charm. Just as it would lose so much of the tragedy without her. If we hold onto the Romeo and Juliet connection, then Anita is clearly Mercutio.  A plague on both your houses, all right.

7. Julie Harris in East of Eden

I have an ingrained resistance to love triangles and the way they cause presumably intelligent characters to flutter around as indecisively as little kids choosing snow cone flavors. It's even harder when one character stands at the apex, wittering over the hardships of life. In East of Eden however, Julie Harris manages the incredibly tricky feat of convincing us that she really is as sensitive, intelligent, and loving as the other characters think she is. Even as she flirts and falls in love with her brother's troubled boyfriend, Harris never seems truly petty. Offscreen, Elia Kazan would credit Julie Harris for giving James Dean invaluable support, adjusting her acting rhythm to his and calming her shaky costar with long car rides and talks. East of Eden may be a tale of fathers and sons, but Harris is the film's heroine.

8. Diana Lynn in The Major and the Minor

Billy Wilder's The Major and the Minor belongs to that rarefied class of romantic comedy where you never know whether to laugh or to be disturbed. Ginger Rogers pretends to be twelve years old so that she can afford a train ticket. In the process, she falls in with Ray Milland, who's charmed by her but believes she's only an innocent kid. Through one of those comedy contrivances, she ends up at Ray Milland's military academy, having to dodge amorous cadets while falling in love with Milland herself. Thankfully Rogers doesn't look even remotely twelve, so watching her prance around as baby-voiced "Su-Su," cooing and smiling and calling Milland "Uncle Phil" isn't nearly as unbearable as it could have been. But the true saving grace of the film is Diana Lynn, as the smart and snarky kid sister of Milland's fiancee. She takes one look at Rogers' Baby Snooks routine and tells her, "Oh stop that baby talk, you're not twelve. " The way Lynn's eyes light up with pure glee as she then offers Rogers a cigarette is unforgettable. Lynn is a blessed dash of cold water in all the movie's silliness; as all the other characters are falling for Rogers' machinations like cartoon lemmings, Lynn sees through it. She forges an alliance with Rogers that is undoubtedly the film's only healthy relationship. And because of that, she becomes the film's greatest ally as well.

The Fascination Films

On my list of Indispensable Bloggers, there would be a place of honor for Greg Ferrara, who always manages to stir up the most thought-provoking film discussions. Just a casual glance at his posts for Movie Morlocks and I guarantee you'll find something to jolt your movie-lover's brain. Anyway, Greg's latest topic for Movie Morlocks is "I Half-Heartedly Recommend This Movie," about the films we sorta-kinda-maybe want our friends to see except for the fact that the good is matched with just enough bad to make it a little embarrassing. We all have movies like that.

But Greg's post got me thinking, not so much about mediocre films, but about what I think of as my "fascination films." Have you ever had that moment of walking down a street and suddenly swiveling your head to stare at someone, thinking, "Huh, they're not my type, maybe they're not even that attractive, but there's something there?" Some films I don't consider great, hell maybe I don't even like them all that much, but they fascinate me.

I'm not talking about the feeling of guilty pleasure as in, "Holy shit, guys, I'm starting to find myself actually invested in the love story of Samson and Delilah. Hold me." Nor am I talking about the nostalgia you feel for much-flawed, much-loved films of your childhood (which is where I'd put something like Desiree). I'm talking about the films that I find myself thinking about, weeks, even years afterward, possibly more than I think about genuinely better films. For example, The Ox-Bow Incident is a fantastic film, but I don't think I've given it half the mental space I've given to the muddled, murky Pursued.

What is it about these films that intrigues me? Do they hit some kind of emotional trigger? Am I drawn by their tantalizing possibilities or by their grating flaws? Well, before this post is lost in a sea of rhetorical questions, here's a look at some films I can't help but find...fascinating.

The Collector (1965)

I'll be tackling this one for an upcoming blogathon. The Collector is William Wyler's adaptation of the classic John Fowles novel about an insane, working-class butterfly collector and the beautiful posh girl he captures to make his own. It's got Terence Stamp  in a frightening performance as the creepy collector (the fact that Stamp can look so genuinely repulsive while at the height of his beauty is a feat in and of itself) and Samantha Eggar was never better. And of course it has Wyler, probably one of the greatest "actor's directors" that ever lived. But somehow, The Collector ends up stranded somewhere between a polished but airless film translation and a brilliant, gripping thriller. It's got far more subtlety and nuance than your average thriller yet, watching it, I can't help thinking that the film needed a director with more willingness to be lurid and animalistic and sexual. More like Nicholas Ray or Samuel Fuller. Something in Fowles' harsh, class-conscious novel doesn't translate to Wyler's reasoned, reserved style. And Maurice Jarre's goofy score just tears a gaping hole through the film's mood. And yet, I find this movie so compulsively watchable. If it only took that one step forward into being truly twisted, it would be a genuine classic.

Pursued (1947)

It's not every day you get to watch a Freudian Western noir. Not to mention one with Robert Mitchum as an amnesiac hero, Teresa Wright as his semi-incestuous love interest, and Judith Anderson as the stoic homesteader who adopts Mitchum. Hell, just trying to wrap your head around the idea of Judith Anderson in a Western is hard enough. The film's plot is so bizarre I don't dare summarize it (go watch it yourselves), but it is an oddly enjoyable film. Give credit to director Raoul Walsh and cinematographer James Wong Howe for making such an incredible mishmash of ideas into a coherent film. Howe's cinematography in particular; he manages to make the wide open vistas of New Mexico into a space as dark and cramped as any film noir alleyway. And I have to admit, I'm a sucker for Teresa Wright and watching my favorite cinematic good girl get all vengeful and seductive is a real treat. True, the Niven Busch script stumbles pretty badly at times, as if Busch really, really wanted to make this another Duel in the Sun and had to be forcibly restrained. But man, this film is a trip. If nothing else, it proves my theory that film noir and Westerns have always really been two sides of the same coin.

Stella Dallas (1937)

Ah, Stella Dallas. The film that's essentially required watching for any Barbara Stanwyck fan. I have to admit though, even as a Stanwyck fan, that this movie pisses me off. I don't like how ridiculously manipulative it is. I don't like the Jekyll-and-Hyde nature of Stanwyck's Stella (who is poised and attractive enough to charm a rich man into marrying her, but suddenly displays the taste and subtlety of a circus clown whenever the film wants her to be embarrassing). I don't like the way the film asks me to believe in the beauty and selflessness of the love between Stella and her daughter Laurel and then tries to tell me that Laurel could be so easily tricked into believing that her mother doesn't love her. Even Laurel's actress, Anne Shirley, said this was a load of crock and she had no sympathy for this ninny she was playing.

However, and I hate to admit it, there is a great deal of truth in Stella Dallas. There's Stella's anguish as she slowly comes to see herself as a burden. There's Laurel's teenage desperation as she practically hurls her long limbs off a stool in an attempt to keep her mother away from the boy she likes. There's the brittle condescension and forced "understanding" of the upper classes, when faced with their raucous inferiors. Unlike many critics, I don't think the film agrees with Stella's decision to abandon her daughter to a better life. I don't think this film even likes rich people that much. The movie looks at the American cultural divide of the time and sees it as a self-perpetuating tragedy. When it focuses on that and Stanwyck's performance, it's a sharp and heartbreaking film. If only the film didn't take such ham-handed methods to get us there.

Peter Ibbetson (1935)

Peter Ibbetson is that rarest of cinematic unicorns, a unique film. Peter Ibbetson (Gary Cooper) fell hopelessly in love with Mary (Ann Harding) when they were children and when they reunite, circumstances force them apart. Yet, through some kind of miracle, they find that they can meet together in each other's dreams, living out their pure, deathless love in their minds even as their bodies age. There was a flood of romantic fantasy film in the 40s (The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, Portrait of Jennie, A Matter of Life and Death, etc) that handled this kind of material with humor and longing and sophistication. But Peter Ibbetson, especially compared to other 30s films, is like a Victorian aunt that suddenly wandered out into a crowd of wisecracking showgirls. Mary becomes Peter's spiritual guide,  the symbol of absolute purity and devotion, essentially the Beatrice to his Dante. It's the kind of romantic ideal that's been pretty much killed stone-dead for the past century or so; nowadays we like our romances a little more human. And I can't really say I like Peter Ibbetson. Cooper and Harding are stiff as boards, the child actors are dreadful (and they call each other Gogo and Mimsey, no really) and outside of the dream sequences, the film doesn't really convey any kind of otherworldly charm. But it's the kind of film which compels me to ask people, "Have you seen it? What did you think?"

Marnie (1964)

Well, you all knew by my intro picture that this one was coming. A lot of critics like to call Vertigo Hitchcock's most personal film. But for me, this is the one that feels like it sprang fully forth from somebody's Id. All of the Hitchcock obsessions are here: blondes, Tippi Hedren, sadism, rape, traumatic memories, flashing colors, bad matte paintings, and a suspense plot that's more about attraction and repulsion than whether anyone actually commits evil. It's like Hitchcock had so much he wanted to say that he no longer cared whether his audience would follow his lead. The first time I saw Marnie, as a middle-schooler speeding my way through every Hitchcock film, I thought it was okay but a little off. The next time, I saw Marnie, I thought it was dreadful. And then the next time I saw it, I was completely enthralled. It's just that kind of film. Half the time I don't know whether I should be giggling or shuddering.

Robin Wood's famous salvo ("If you don't love Marnie, you don't love cinema") doesn't do the film any favors and my opinion of Hedren's performance sways with every passing breeze. And all that "red is the color of blood" imagery is even worse than the matte paintings. But even so, the film's incoherent passion and darkness and cruelty still give it the power to draw you in. The relationship between Marnie and Mark is one of the most fascinating in all of Hitchcock. And the character of Marnie herself, childish, sarcastic, cold and tormented, is compelling enough to defy any schlock psychology about frigid females. She's more interesting perhaps, than even Hitchcock knew.

While writing this post, I struck up a conversation with one of my co-workers and, hoping to get some inspiration from her, asked her if there were any films she found, not just good, not just bad, but fascinating. With a puzzled smile, she told me, "I don't feel that way about moves." To which I can only respond, like Barbara Stanwyck, "What a life!"

Dior J'adore: Reliving Hollywood Glamor

So, I've watched the new Dior ad about five times now and I'm still not sure what to think about it. For those who haven't seen it, Dior's ad for J'adore perfume features not only the actress Charlize Theron, stalking proudly through the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, but the images of Grace Kelly, Marlene Dietrich, and Marilyn Monroe, brought to life through CGI. The living actress kisses Kelly on the cheek, glances over at the tuxedo-ed Dietrich, and, in the ad's most surreal moment, hands Monroe a bottle of perfume, as Marilyn whispers in a breathlessly worshipful tone, "Dior...J'adore." The ad ends on an image of Theron strutting down the catwalk, her sparkling gold figure turning into the Dior bottle.

My first reaction was a full-body shudder of, "Oh God, they're using dead women to hawk their perfume." Somehow, the thought of CGi-ed, reanimated actresses giving their seal of approval to a current product is frightening. The ad even seems to acknowledge this by hitting a "scare chord" at the moment when Grace Kelly first turns around. But I have to admit, there was an element of pleasure to the ad as well, in seeing these iconic legends again. When I showed the ad to my mom, she had fun picking out the actresses and told me afterward, "It's much more respectful than I thought it would be."

And she has a point. Except for the deeply jarring moment when Marilyn speaks (and wasn't she a Chanel woman anyway?), the ad can be taken as a simple homage to old-style Hollywood glamor. Which is a pretty clever choice for an ad campaign and a perfect association for a perfume. Scent evokes memory, after all. A great perfume can do more than attract a mate or match an outfit, it can trigger something deeply personal in our minds. Because of the way the ad is staged, the sense I got from it was not so much "Wear our perfume and be like Marilyn," but "The glamor of the past gives way to the glamor of the future."

 Of course, just because the ad has a good thesis doesn't mean it's a successful one. Charlize Theron is a stunning woman who, on the basis of her looks alone, could go toe to toe with any of these actresses. But in terms of iconic glamor and star power? They leave her completely in the dust. This isn't Theron's fault. I think it would be the same problem whether the ad featured Anne Hathaway, Halle Berry, or Mary-Kate Olsen. The star system is gone and with it, the idea that actresses could be goddesses. This ad doesn't just remind us of classic Hollywood glamor, it reminds us of how completely it's gone extinct.

The ad raises interesting questions for me. How far is it acceptable to go in using these iconic images? Can loving nostalgia co-exist with such an eerie use of our current technology? And why, in an ode to the past, did they choose a song with the lyrics, "If it's already been done, undo it?"