Born Yesterday (1950)

Just how blissful is ignorance? From day one we’re pumped full of should-be useful slogans and general guidance — knowledge is power, stay in school, graduate, get a job, make money, go back to school, make more money, change the world . . . the more knowledge we absorb, the happier we’ll become. While that may be the case, the flipside of that shiny penny reveals that, at times, with great knowledge comes great stress. If it’s true that the more you know, the more you worry, is there a happy medium for happiness? Feh, okay enough of that analytical fiddle-faddle . . . too much talking spoils the movie.

Based on the 1946 play by Garson Kanin, Born Yesterday stars Judy Holliday as Billie Dawn, the role she originated earlier on the Broadway stage. With hilarious one-liners and a killer wardrobe, Billie is straight out of the How to Make a Ditzy Blonde cookbook. In a predictable, Pygmalionesque storyline, Paul (a witty Washington, D.C. reporter played by William Holden) is brought in by Billie’s boorish boyfriend to smarten her up. “I’m stupid, and I like it,” she tells Paul with a smile. Although she gets whatever she wants (two mink coats, everything!), she has a yen for the fortuneless Paul immediately and makes no secret of it. Paul gets Billie reading books and newspapers (the front part: the not-so-funnies), takes her around D.C., and slowly introduces her to our country’s history. As her education continues, Billie and her teacher start to fall for each other. No, really they do!

It’s unfair, I know — my indirect anger towards Judy Holliday is nowhere near justified. An incredibly talented actress who perfected the art of comedic timing, she also comes with the Katharine Hepburn stamp of approval, in part due to their work together in Adam’s Rib (1949). Miss Hepburn was certainly not one to give those stamps away and became a vocal supporter of casting Holliday in Born Yesterday. That certainly paid off! The race of 1951 placed not one but two women from All About Eve in the Oscar ring, facing off against Gloria Swanson’s tour de fabulous in Sunset Boulevard, and of course, Judy Holliday. This had to be one of the most exciting and unfair competitions in history; if ever a tie were needed, it was the year Margo Channing, Eve Harrington, Norma Desmond, and Billie Dawn faced off in a battle for the gold. The lawyer part of my brain has prepared cases in which each actress deserved a win (à la Oscar ballot counting that must have occurred in Florida, that sort of thing). Despite overwhelming evidence from all parties concerned, the only decision I can arrive at is a tie that does not include the wonderful Judy Holliday.

Although I would have handed an Oscar to both Bette Davis and Gloria Swanson, I do have to gush a bit over Miss Holliday. She makes me chuckle all the way through, bringing an innocent, and often wordless, humor to something as simple as a card game. My favorite scene puts her at a table with her boyfriend (played by the husky Broderick Crawford) and involves very little dialogue as the two play a little gin rummy. The way Holliday shuffles the deck, deals, and wins every game is delightful to watch, and I’m hardly aware of how much she’s making me smile. As Billie continues to win, she also starts to hum preciously the right tune to drive her man up the wall, and eventually her sore loser of opponent explodes with a “Do you mind?!?!” Much more enjoyable than the love affair between Holliday and Holden was the chemistry between Holliday and Crawford . . . not to be missed.

To this day it’s true that many remain content as long as they have their two mink coats, but blissful ignorance didn’t work for Billie. I look around at the Billies of today who seem happy and stress-free as long as they don’t have to think or worry too much, and I begin to think too much about them, sometimes with a twinge of jealousy. But I realized that these people tend to be the very same folks who, well, talk endlessly during a movie and spoil the experience. When that dawned on me, instantly I became grateful for the mind and the life that I have. So if you need the Cliffs Notes version, Born Yesterday is one of those easy ones I start while dinner is cooking and finish off with a bowl of Oreo ice cream later that night. But remember, nothing brings out the flavor of a simple bowl of ice cream better than a good, informative hour with Rachel Maddow.

Now that’s a happy medium . . .

Academy Award for Born Yesterday (1951): Best Actress in a Leading Role

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Stormy Weather

Earlier this week the Bay Area was host to a tremendous storm. My windows flickered with flashes of lightning seconds before they rattled, while car alarms harmonized with the city’s sirens to provide the evening’s soundtrack . . . naturally I loved every moment of it. In the middle of the storm, I migrated over to the couch and found myself once again staring up at Uncle Howie’s portrait of Marilyn Monroe. I glance once, then twice, and eventually she pulls me in. As Marilyn and all the faces inside hers shook and lit up with every burst and rumble of the storm, I fell into the beauty and grotesqueness of my cherished family heirloom. Hours passed like minutes, as they tend to do, and on that couch I remained until the next morning.

Today being Saturday the 14^th (a title of one of Uncle Howie’s less-than-stellar films), I’ve been chewing on the fact that the man who wrote and directed some of the worst movies in history is the same artist who pieced together a magnificent portrait in which I continue to lose myself. I’ve spent years now with Marilyn and her hundreds of eyes staring back at me . . . accented by the lightning on this particular evening, they made aware of  a challenge that has been brewing from within. I wondered if I could ever create a piece of art that granted an audience permission to lose itself in ways that are freeing, satisfying, and frightening.

As long as we can hold its attention, we try to distract our audience from all the upsetting moments that the universe has handed or will hand them. Up for a challenge, I remain curious and terrified of what I might create next.

Happy Saturday the 14^th!

Streetcars and Waterfronts

Can your eyes sense the difference between looking and watching? Do your cone cells change the stage lighting and color sheets; do you bat your lashes for one but not the other? Our trusted friends at Merriam-Webster provide a few definition routes:

Look (verb):

• to ascertain by the use of one’s eyes

• to exercise the power of vision upon

• to have a specified outlook

Watch (verb):

• to keep vigil as a devotional exercise

• to be attentive or vigilant

• to keep someone or something under close observation

However comforting we may find it, any textbook definition is simply unsuited for the Brando experience — simultaneously correct are all and none of the above, and at times it’s unusually freeing to toss both the dictionary and thesaurus out the window. All one can do is convey a screaming-at-the-bottom-of-the-stairs happy birthday to Mr. Marlon Brando.

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Life’s candy, and the sun’s a ball of butter

Today is Mom’s birthday, a perfect opportunity to say a brief word about one of her favorite films. Funny Girl follows the rise of comedienne Fanny Brice and her early career in as a Ziegfeld girl in New York City. The film adaptation is a merry roller coaster through Barbraland, yet another one of our beloved oh-that’s-where-that-song-is-from musicals. You’ll find “Don’t Rain on My Parade” on practically every mixed CD in Mom’s car (okay yes, that’s partially my doing), and the remaining lively soundtrack is scattered throughout the labyrinth of her glove box.

To those of you who have developed an aversion to Barbra and shy away from films like Funny Girl (I’ve met more of you than I expected), here is the strongest piece of evidence I can offer in its defense. At the 1969 Academy Awards, Ingrid Bergman was stunned to find not one but two names in the envelope for Best Actress in a Leading Role. In this incredibly rare but warranted tie, Barbra Streisand was humbled to be in the regal company of Katharine Hepburn, who also won for her phenomenal performance in The Lion in Winter. Now I ask you, with a Hepburn Oscar staring you in the face, how can you resist comparing these two incomparable performances?

For once in my life, just once, I didn’t say too much, I didn’t say too little; I said just enough, then I walked . . . Happy birthday, Mom!

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Inherit the Wind (1960)

Give me that old-time religion.

Without revealing the verdict, here are the basics: Inherit the Wind follows the trial of a man accused of teaching Darwin’s theory of evolution to his high school science class. Here we have elements of McCarthyism teaming up with the Scopes Trial of 1925, which called into question a Tennessee man’s violation of the Butler Act (this prevented citizens from denying the Bible’s account of Creation). When it comes to recommending films that address what many consider to be blasphemous subjects, we run into a common problem — those who need to see it undoubtedly will refuse. It is really a shame, because as it turns out, the best (and worst) feature of Inherit the Wind is that it packs a stronger punch with every viewing.

Indulge me for a moment, and allow me to ask what brings out the child in you? Songs, smells, and especially certain foods are overwhelmingly powerful in their suggestive nature. One bite of a chocolate It’s-It, and immediately I’m back at summer camp, praying that the days would last . . . they went so fast! The last time I watched Inherit the Wind, making an appearance was not my happy, carefree child within, but rather the kid who looked up at those around him with the simplistic worldview of which only children are capable. He hasn’t visited me in quite some time, but there he sat, once again comprehending the definition of “hypocrisy” long before he learned how to spell it. To that young boy, the silent conclusion of “Gee, grown-ups are so stupid” was completely reasonable, not to mention applicable to too many adults. When I came in spitting distance of becoming an adult myself, I realized that, with little room for argument, that sassy little boy was right on the money about a few of them.

Five years before Inherit the Wind made its way to the silver screen, Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee’s play debuted on Broadway and has been revived multiple times. And why not — aside from being a wonderful script often placed in the hands of our most gifted actors, apparently its point remains lost on many Americans. Now, in this dark abyss of an election season, my child within remains utterly bumfuzzled by a deeply religious political party that fills itself with more and more hatred every day. When I pulled my dusty copy of Inherit the Wind off the shelf, the two of us sat there, that confused child and I, amazed that this absolutely brilliant film has become one of the most frustrating and agitating movie experiences.

“There’s only one man in this town who thinks at all, and he’s in jail.” The man in jail is Dick York, easily recognized as the original Darrin from the television series Bewitched. And the man who has arrived to defend him is the great Spencer Tracy. Ahh Mr. Tracy in a courtroom . . . it’s the next best thing to watching him play opposite Kate the Great. It’s easy to root for both Tracy and his character, Henry Drummond, as he defends not necessarily the validity of Darwin’s theory but the basic right to think and talk about it. On the other side of the table is prosecutor Matthew Brody, a man of God who is beloved by the pious, hateful little town, and played to perfection by Fredric March. Rounding out the cast is a steadfast Gene Kelly, who brings to the role of a liberal reporter the vocal rhythm of — you won’t believe it — a character in a musical. The chemistry between Tracy and March is spellbinding, and I love the fact that on each of their resumes is a film adaptation of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Students of literature, theatre, and film could all go to town finding parallels between Jekyll, Hyde, Drummond, and Brody, but one joy of a blog is avoiding any style of writing that starts to read like a term paper. Naturally at this point I can’t resist throwing in one little story.

For months I had been on pins and needles waiting for the Super Bowl. Admittedly I understand not a single thing about football, but this year the NFL decided not to go for second best, baby — Madonna was scheduled to perform the half-time show. For various reasons, the team members and I all had trouble sleeping the night before the game. Later that week when I called Dad to see how his Super Bowl experience was, I got an earful about a woman who was at the party he attended, and how she left the room in a huff before our sacrilegious pop star took center field. Apparently this woman is one of many who not only continue to find Madonna offensive after all these years but also can’t get enough of those athletes who have turned religion into part of their uniform. At one point in the afternoon, after he let a few devout comments slip by, finally Dad turned to her and asked, “I wonder what team is Jesus is for today?” No blood test needed . . . that’s my father!

“He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind” (Proverbs 11:29). When he’s not looking around at the nonsensical grown-ups who surround him, my child within is absolutely frightened these days and turns to me for protection. Chilling is the realization that, when viewed in the 21^st century, this fiery battle between the opposing sides of Inherit the Wind teeters on the edge of losing its entertainment value. Who could have predicted that a 1925 case challenging the right to think, later fictionalized for the stage in 1955 and then adapted for the screen in 1960, would remain astonishingly relevant in 2012? I guess that’s evolution for you . . .

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It’s heavier than I imagined.

From Joan Crawford’s anti-Bette Davis campaign to the drama of Grace Kelly’s victory over Judy Garland — maybe they don’t make Oscar fights like they used to, but heck, we’ll watch for ‘em anyway. To those who have won shampoo-bottle-shaped Oscars or rehearsed your acceptance speeches in the shower, you are not alone, and I hope you enjoy the evening!

La Dolce Vita (1960)

Ahh Fellini’s La Dolce Vita and its fountain . . .  up on a shiny, black-and-white pedestal it sat, even before Marcello and the flying Jesus statue ushered me into the prologue. This time I strayed slightly from my cherished little process — anticipating nothing less than a single-worded reaction (some version of “glorious” was the assigned expectation), I set out to gather a few opinions about the film that introduced us to the word “paparazzi.” Once again I was happily surprised by just how wrong I could be; I found that in my tiny corner of the playground, I could hopscotch from words like “masterpiece” and “unsurpassed” to “pretentious” and “overrated” with one toss of the rock.

Some viewers find this film increasingly hypnotic with every viewing; others couldn’t make it through the first time. Being a bear of very little bladder, I’ll admit I didn’t stay seated for the full two hours and 55-ish minutes; when I made it to the finish line, I just couldn’t decide on how I felt about the race. Seemingly contradictory words from that hopscotch court felt applicable at different times — a pretentious masterpiece? An overrated film unsurpassed in what it achieves? Well . . . why not all the above?

With its commentary on the lifestyles of journalists, celebrities, and the endless religious themes revolving around the number seven, we could talk ourselves in shiny, glorious circles with this one. And of course no marketing campaign will sell more tickets than good, old-fashioned censorship — who doesn’t run to a film that comes with the stamp of disapproval from the Catholic Church? Varying interpretations of La Dolce Vita and Fellini could fill the bookshelves, and perhaps one day I’ll choose to intellectualize a film that so many have before I had the opportunity. As the film faded out on that famous beach scene, I was ready to dive into those dark, analytical waters and pick apart Marcello piece by piece by piece by piece by piece by piece by piece . . . but as it turned out, all I could think of was Gilda Radner. Huh?

A woman of phenomenal talent and humor, Gilda Radner remains one of my absolute favorite humans of all time. Another comic whose performances I’d commit to memory, she dazzled audiences as a member of Saturday Night Live’s original cast. Often my family would rent The Best of Gilda Radner on VHS (are family trips to the video store lost forever?) because it truly was the best . . . except one. Now filed permanently in the vaults of my memory bank, I didn’t understand a single thing about the three-minute skit, La Dolce Gilda. Suddenly she was all fancy like, speaking to mimes and whispering  to the camera: “Dreams are like paper, they tear so easily. I love to play. Every time I play, you win.”

Now, for a nine-year-old kid determined to be letter-perfect in his recitation of Roseanne Roseannadanna’s weekend update, this was incredibly frustrating and a bit of a betrayal. How could she give me such ridiculous, incomprehensible material to work with here? I’ve made my peace with it over the years and the child within has forgiven Gilda, but I feel there may be some residual animosity towards all things dolce. Ridiculous, gorgeous, overpraised, genius, ostentatious, inexplicable . . . when it comes to La Dolce Vita, it’s always something!

Academy Award for La Dolce Vita (1962): Best Costume Design (Black-and-White)

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