jjgittes Blog

Under discussion:

Guys and Dolls  (1955)

What many people don’t know is that I started in musical theater before I got into filmmaking, so my familiarity with Guys and Dolls, in all its incarnations, goes back a long way.  (Fun fact:  Did you know that Damon Runyan’s character of Sky Masterson was actually based on famed Western lawman Bat Masterson, who actually lived the last part of his life in NYC?).  And the plain fact remains:  I’ve never liked the show to begin with so director Joseph L. Mankiewicz (All About Eve) and his creative team had their work cut out for them if they were going to change my mind.

There is one key improvement the film makes over the show and that relates to the character of Sarah Brown.  As written in the show, Brown is a flat, uninteresting character, but here Jean Simmons, with the help of some fine rewriting by Mankiewicz elevates the character to a new level and gives her much-needed depth.  I have already expounded upon the wonders of Jean Simmons in the blog for The Robe and her legend increases here.  Apparently, she even used her own voice for the songs, which is noble, even though she struggled on some of them (as did co-star Brando).  Her version of “If I Were a Bell”, though, is even better than the original from the show, especially given the change in orchestration from a soprano ballad to an upbeat alto song.  As a matter of fact, the best scenes in the whole film are the snappy dialogue scenes between Brando and Simmons, those scenes in which they really get to act.  It seems that Mankiewicz really took his time to work on these scenes – especially as a writer – and improve on a part of the show that came off as trite.

Conversely, he seems to have de-emphasized the most memorable character from the show, Adelaide, played in both versions by Vivian Blaine.  One of her key songs (“A Bushel and a Peck”) was cut (or actually replaced with something less memorable), the balance of screen time severely shifted toward the other couple and her more famous punch lines that would draw guffaws in a live audience seem to flounder and die on the screen.  The film is really long as it is, so I guess something had to go – it’s just odd that Mank (Mr. Mankiewicz’s nickname throughout his career) would trifle with one of the keys to the success of the show.

The biggest disappointment in the film version of G&D are the musical numbers themselves and as you can imagine, in a movie musical, that’s a big problem to have.  Too much screen time was given to choreographer Michael Kidd to play with – his dancers are often acrobatic, but rarely are they (and their blocking) interesting enough to warrant the time spent on them (Kidd does a much better job in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers).  The opening sequence is a perfect example – Kidd seems to be doing an homage to the final sequence in 42^nd Street with his dancers/performers doing little vignettes to give the flavor of the Times Square life at the time.  But Kidd is no Busby Berkley.  First of all, Berkley was less than a choreographer with dancers than he was with the camera.  Secondly, Berkley was a better storyteller.  Kidd’s vignettes are lifeless and boring – Berkley managed to weave tap dancing, comedy, fun, high drama, sex and political commentary all into the six or seven minute sequence.  Kidd barely manages a laugh here.  I’m surprised Mankiewicz gave him that much of a leash – it seems a much better opening would have been a long track through the streets (sans vignettes) into a tight shot of the racing forms.  The racing horn starts.  Pull out to reveal out three singers and start the fugue.  There’s your opening – efficient, cinematic and effective…

You can certainly argue that I had a predisposition against Guys and Dolls to begin with and that explains my negativity.  And there’s something to that – I only like two or three of the songs, I don’t like the stylized way in which the gamblers talk and worst of all, the story just isn’t that good.  I heartily commend Mankiewicz for his efforts to shore up the screenplay, but it seems even some of Hollywood’s greatest can’t turn water into wine.

Under discussion:

The Bad and the Beautiful  (1952)

Believe it or not, I had not seen this film before and therefore, it was probably my most anticipated Reel 13 film yet.  After all, it’s a film I supposed was right up my alley – behind the scenes of old Hollywood, it had some actors I was excited about (Dick Powell and Gloria Grahame) and for some reason I was under the impression that it was directed by Douglas Sirk, whom I love.  As the opening credits rolled, I was embarrassed to learn that it was actually a Vincente Minnelli film (I don’t know where I got the crazy idea that it came from Sirk – maybe the melodramatic title…), which didn’t dampen my spirits at all.  Minnelli, probably best known for his musicals, is a very capable filmmaker and has handled some good drama in his time, namely Lust for Life.  However, as the film started to unspool on my television set – that’s when my spirits got dampened.

I can’t label The Bad and the Beautiful as anything but a disappointment.  Sure, my expectations were high, but I still say the film underachieves.  While there are a few really good scenes (I like the scene in which Kirk Douglas is waiting for Lana Turner in her bedroom and the scene when her character films the final scene of her first movie and all the crew stops in their tracks and watches proudly), I think the film’s downfall is its narrative structure, which features three separate film professionals (Barry Sullivan, Turner and Powell) sitting in the office of a movie magnate and recollecting how producer Jonathan Shields (Douglas) came into and affected each of their lives.  Does that sound familiar?  It should if you have ever seen Citizen Kane, made 11 years earlier.  Kane makes the device work by sending the faceless reporter from person to person to interview them.  Here, all the narrators are gathered in one place under the auspices of being offered another chance to work with Shields and they each just vomit up their individual sagas as if it were a daily ritual.  It’s all so unfortunately contrived.  You might argue that some of the devices of older films like this that seem awkward today need to be accepted and looked at within the historical context of the film – an argument that I find myself making often.  However, I don’t think that’s the case here.  I think this was lazy storytelling then, just as it would be now. 

On the flip side, Kirk Douglas and Lana Turner, more well-known for being movie stars than actors (in the most esoteric sense of the word), deliver outstanding, layered and nuanced performances.  With the exception of an unfortunate car scene (which I blame more on Minnelli), Turner avoids the histrionics that are normally associated with films like this (a trap she will fall into later in her career).  She also manages to look stunningly gorgeous while at the same time, making her character’s vulnerability very real and believable.  Douglas is best when either playing smarmy confidence (20,000 Leagues Under the Sea) or righteous indignation (Spartacus).  Here, in a way, he gets to do both and as a result, he ignites the film whenever he is on-screen.  It is easy to see why the three lost souls in the magnate’s office were so drawn to him in the first place.

In spite of these fine performances and also some additional good supporting work from Walter Pidgeon and Dick Powell, The Bad and the Beautiful is never able to overcome that initial hurdle of poor structure.  Why couldn’t the story be told chronologically?  Would that have been so awful?  And now that we’re discussing it, what’s the point of the story anyway?  Shields gives each of them a chance to shine and then moves on (albeit sometimes in a not-so-ethical way).  So what?  Who cares?  Where’s the beef, as they say?  Perhaps the episodic nature of the film diluted its potential impact, but even if the film were told sans flashbacks, I wonder if the film still wouldn’t feel as empty as it does.

Under discussion:

Rebel Without a Cause  (1955)

Every once and a while, a movie comes around that defines a generation.  Easy Rider, All the President’s Men and The Breakfast Club are all examples (Does anyone have a sense of a film that defines the 90’s?  I think in its own derivative and anti-linear way, Pulp Fiction was that film.  Maybe American Beauty.  Any thoughts?  Or is it still too soon to tell?).  I would argue, however, that no film better defines the generation it came from than Rebel Without a Cause, which aired last night on Reel 13.  As a matter of fact, the cultural impact of the film as well as the legend of its star, James Dean, almost seem to overshadow what I was reminded of last night – what an artfully and skillfully crafted film it is.

The first thing that struck me about Rebel upon rewatching it was the extraordinary richness of the color.  Director Nicholas Ray was shooting in “Warner Color” (at the time, each studio was working with various labs to patent their own color process), but it’s more than just the film stock or processing.  Much of the beauty of the color has to do with the choices Ray makes in terms of the wardrobe or the objects – the red of Natalie Wood’s overcoat in her first appearance, the colors in the observatory presentation, the yellow of an apron donned by Dean’s screen father, Jim Backus (a.k.a. Mr. Magoo), the mustard color of Sal Mineo’s wardrobe or the famous bright red coat Dean wears through much of the film.  They all combine to create a beautiful palette worthy of paintings in the Louvre.

The second thing that I noticed was consistently inspired framing and angles – and a lot of camera motion, which was not as prevalent in the period as it is today.  Ray knows exactly when to be wide and just when a close up is called for.  It seems as if he shot a lot more coverage than most directors of the period and used it to perfection.  The scene where Wood and Dean are alone in the mansion is notable in the sense of how tightly the two of them are framed together in such a big house – as if they are the only two people in the world.  Another example is during the first showdown at the observatory when the cool kids sit on Dean’s car while he looks on from overhead.  A few times, Ray cuts to an extreme low angle shot with the cool kids in the foreground with Dean and Sal Mineo very small and high in the way background.  An unusual shot to be sure, but effective and telling.  Other unorthodox ideas Ray sets forth in the film include the occasional Dutch angle (shots off the standard axis) that he uses in moments of extreme crisis (the scene with Dean’s parents on the stairs and at the climax of the film).  Ray has only recently been recognized as one of the era’s premiere auteurs and his ahead-of-his-time work in Rebel only cements that theory.