movienotes: ivor the engine

Hanna and I are still digging out from under last weeks' trip to Michigan. I thought I was going to have a book review for you today, but not so! Instead, please enjoy this five-minute episode from a 1950s English children's television program called Ivor the Engine, produced by the brilliant Mr. Oliver Postgate.

movienotes: people will talk

All the feelings!

One of the perks (shall we say) of being able to afford only Netflix instant streaming is that the most random things pop up as possible viewing options when Hanna and I are looking around for something not-too-serious to watch on a weekend afternoon. Over the winter holiday we watched some doozies, a couple of which I'm going to write about here because, well, I can.

The subject of today's post is People Will Talk (1951), starring Cary Grant and Jeanne Crain. First, a brief synopsis of the plot; then a few observations. Cary Grant plays popular gynecologist Dr. Noah Praetorius who, as the film opens, is in private practice and lecturing at an un-named medical school. He is also under investigation by a colleague, Rodney Elwell (Hume Cronyn), although it's not clear what for. When a student, Deborah Higgins (Jeanne Crain), faints in anatomy class, Praetorius advises her to see a physician. She later turns up at his clinic and tests reveal she's six weeks pregnant. Distraught, Deborah reveals her lover was in the military and recently died in combat, leaving her unmarried. Dr. Praetorius encourages her to speak to her father, which she insists is impossible. Upon leaving the doctor's office, she attempts to commit suicide by shooting herself, but fails. Dr. Praetorius keeps her overnight for medical observation. In a late-night conversation he lies to her, telling her there was a mistake and she is not pregnant (seeking to forestall further suicide attempts), and Deborah reveals she has fallen in love with him. After Praetorius leaves, she escapes the clinic and disappears.

Dr. Praetorius and his mysterious sidekick, Shunderson, track Deborah down to the farm where she lives with her father and uncle. It transpires that Higgins, Sr., is a widower in financial ruin who was forced to apply to his brother for support. Mr. Higgins and Deborah live as dependents to Deborah's uncle who is revealed as a religious fundamentalist and penny-pincher whose sole occupation appears to be milking the government for agricultural subsidies under false pretenses. After Praetorius and Deborah inevitably decide to get married, Mr. Higgins, Deborah, and the farm's collie make an escape with Praetorius and Shunderson, leaving the farm behind forever.

Meanwhile, back at the university, Dr. Praetorius's suspicious colleague, Elwell, has hired private detectives to investigate Noah Praetorius's past and particularly his relationship with Shunderson who (we learn through newspaper clippings) was under suspicion for murder back in the 1910s. Two weeks later, we catch up with the Praetorius household as they are preparing to celebrate Noah's 41st birthday. Noah and Deborah are now married and when Elwell shows up on the doorstep to issue Dr. Praetorius a summons to a closed hearing in order to answer the charges against him, Deborah refuses to let Elwell see her husband, staunchly defending him against any past wrongdoing. Later, however, when she takes the sealed envelope to Noah she collapses in tears. She asks Praetorius whether it seems she's been crying more than usual lately, and in the course of the conversation it comes out that Deborah is pregnant and that Praetorius lied about the results of her pregnancy test. The two argue, with Deborah fearful that Noah will not accept the child and uncertain about her own feelings about motherhood. The argument is cut short by Deborah's father, Shunderson, and one of Praetorius's good friends who call them down to the birthday celebrations.

The final act takes place at the university, during the faculty hearing, where it transpires that Dr. Praetorius is being charged with a series of past actions which cast doubts upon his character. First, Elwell accuses him of practicing medicine in a rural village while also working as a butcher. Praetorius replies that he found the villagers were suspicious of his medical degree, and more receptive to his treatments if he positioned himself as a butcher who also happened to have medical knowledge, rather than a doctor with "book learning." After the villagers discover his medical diploma, they run him out of town. Second, Elwell raises the question of Shunderson, who appears to tell his own story. Shunderson tells a convoluted back story about a love triangle that resulted in his being hanged for murder. Praetorius, a medical student at the time, was given Shunderson's body by the hang man to practice dissection -- only to discover that Shunderson was not actually dead. The faculty committee dismiss all charges and Dr. and Mrs. Praetorius ride off into the (metaphorical) sunset with Shunderson at their side.

So, yeah. Obviously there are some issues here for a modern-day audience, beginning with Noah Praetorius's decision to lie to his patient about her pregnancy and then marry her. Even within the film this is recognized, briefly, as an unethical move by both Noah Praetorius's closest friend (also at the medical school) and by Deborah herself. Yet the story ultimately rolls this action into the larger story of Praetorius's benevolence and struggle to help people (in opposition to dehumanizing institutions). Contemporary audiences were obviously expected to sympathize with Praetorius's motives -- his impulse to protect Deborah from further attempts to take her own life -- and to see the end result of husband, wife, and future child as a positive outcome. Even Hanna and I agreed that Noah's insistence that the paternity of the child didn't matter to him, and his utter unconcern that Deborah is not a virgin, are points in his favor. Still, this doesn't mitigate the fact that the doctor/husband in this scenario essentially manipulates his patient/wife into motherhood when she all but asks him for a referral for abortion services. Obviously abortion isn't discussed in the film, but Deborah makes it clear she doesn't want to be/can't be pregnant, and fears speaking about the situation in her family. When Praetorius refuses to help her, she tries to kill herself.

The other thread in the film I found intriguing is the way Praetorius -- as a medical professional -- is positioned as a benevolent rogue whose humanizing approach to medicine is in contrast to the petty competition of the university, the faceless bureaucracy of the hospital, and even the greedy slothfulness of Deborah's uncle who thinks only of his own gain. Praetorius, on the other hand, is depicted as relentlessly thinking about the good (as he sees it) of others -- the suspicious people he treated out of his butcher shop, Deborah and her father, and the slightly brain-damaged Shunderson. The final closed faculty hearing -- with the use of private detection services, and investigation of past associations that have no bearing on Praetorius's medical practice per se -- foreshadows the loyalty hearings and persecution of non-conformity that would color the McCarthy era. While the film clearly condemns the actions of Elwell and those on the committee ready to believe him, it's unclear what motivates Elwell to investigate Praetorius's past, or what -- beyond unsuitable connections -- Praetorius is supposed to have done to jeopardize his standing in the medical community. The spurious charges the committee levels against Dr. Noah Praetorius results in a narrative that absolves the character of wrong-doing, leaving the far more morally questionable aspects of his behavior unaddressed -- the committee hasn't called him in to question his breach of ethics in lying to, or marrying, a patient after all.

Ah, adventures in vintage cinema. At least People Will Talk was less egregious -- and certainly less confused! -- then the musical Calamity Jane (1953) which I reviewed here a couple of weeks ago. Maybe. I think?

movienotes: Shadowy...at Best

So: Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows. Lets talk.

Fun factor: about 110%. If the homoerotic potential dripping off the walls doesn't get you, the sheer energy coming off the screen should catch your eye. It isn't even energy by all means -- there are weird scenes in the middle that lag badly -- but there's enough to carry you through.

As far as story goes (mild spoilers - RAYOR), well, there's not much. It's kind of a hash job of Scandal in Bohemia (so they can use Irene Adler) and mostly The Final Problem. Other than that, if you're looking for canon Holmes, look elsewhere -- possibly in the canon? There's Mycroft and Moriarty and they're both basically who they are in canon -- even in nouveau 2010 BBC canon, if you're a new fan -- but other than that, Ritchie is making it up as he goes.

Not that this is a bad thing, mind you. Conan Doyle wrote the original stories to make money. He wasn't aiming to create a deathless character and the stories are not high literature; some of them barely make sense: The Lion's Mane? Please. And lets not even talk about The Sussex Vampire. So, if you think about it, a confusing, backtracking, deus ex machina storyline is pretty much par for the course.

Apart from the bits that just flat out make no sense -- what's with that thing in the middle after the bomb at the Paris hotel where we get the same dialogue repeated between the same three or four characters at least three times? did someone hiccup while photocopying the script? -- I have one niggle niggling at me and that's sort of with the last half of the plot as a whole.

As far as I was able to tell from the back of his head, Thorston Manderlay did a fine job being shot in the temple (as Alfred Meinhard, the arms dealer being used as a cat's paw by Moriarty) but, since the character was so obviously based on the Krupp family, I'm a little confused as to why they didn't simply use an actual Krupp, since there was more than one extant at the time. Perhaps libel or slander laws? I don't know if there are any scions of the family still left alive -- I suspect so, even if the blood relation is pretty thin -- and I don't know who would be in charge of such a suit but I'm sure it would be possible.

My problem is not with Meinhard as such but -- there's something about that last half of the storyline that just makes me twitchy. Perhaps because I actually know something about it? perhaps because I don't think arms races which resulted in the deaths of millions of people are really ideal fodder for a flash-bang action movie?

Which is then odd because, if I was going to tell someone who didn't really want to watch World War I movies -- a position I could easily understand! -- but who wanted a feeling of what the war was (sort of) like, I can think of worse films to tell them to see than Shadows.

No, not the bit in the "racy" club at the beginning -- that's less sex and more about Guy Ritchie flexing his muscle as a filmer of fight scenes, something at which he excels, by the way. No, I'm thinking of the 'running through the woods escaping from the arms factory' bit. Again, a pretty direct reference to the Krupp arms factory since not only the geographic location but also the names of the guns are similar: one of Krupp's most famous productions was the gun "Big Bertha" -- anyone notice the name of the gun in the movie? Anyone? Yeah -- "Little Hansel." I'm thinkin'...

But I feel the race through the woods -- mostly quiet with explosions of noise around the shells, bits of debris flying everywhere, weird lighting, strangely hyper-real colors -- was weirdly effective as an evocation of a World War I battlefield. It made the whole thing feel oddly out of time, actually, since it was a story ostensibly taking place in 1891 or thereabouts and Holmes never got any closer to World War I than that weird-ass story about the German spy and Laurie King's The Beekeeper's Apprentice.

In any case, Shadows is excellent popcorny fun. See it for the fight scenes. See it for the slash. See it for the double -- and single! -- entendres and don't, for the love of heaven, take it at all seriously.

movienotes: calamity jane

Calamity Jane (Day) and Wild Bill Hickok (Keel)*

When Hanna and I were visiting her folks back in December, we decided to watch the old VHS copy of Calamity Jane (1953) starring Doris Day and Howard Keel that we found in their video collection. In our defense, may I point out that a) we love making fun of crap movies, and b) Seven Brides for Seven Brothers was a childhood favorite of Hanna's, and c) when I was about eight the original Broadway cast recording of Annie Get Your Gun starring Ethel Merman was where it was at as far as I was concerned. I was the proud owner of a vinyl record (my very first!) and would make my best girl friend at the time play Frank Butler to my Annie Oakley as we sang, "The Girl That I Marry" and "Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better." To this day, I feel our relationship fell apart at least partially because she wanted a girl who was "soft and pink as a nursery" while I was more of a "Doin' What Comes Natur'lly" kinda gal.

Anyway, so we decided to watch Calamity because of these things. And obviously we were anticipatory of the cringe-inducing depiction of Native Americans, the weak plot (this was no Deadwood), and to some extent the weak music and lyrics (Sammy Fain and Paul Webster are no Irving Berlin). What we didn't anticipate was the lesbian (sub)text and the total confusion in the heteroromance department.

See, here's the deal. As the film opens, Calamity Jane and Bill Hickok are pals living and working in Deadwood. They clearly see one another as besties, a situation which lasts through to the end of the film where their platonic friendship is required to morph into a romantic one in order to satisfy the demands of the marriage plot. Until the last-minute deus ex machina, however, Jane overtly professes desire for Lt. Danny Gilmarten (Philip Carey), stationed in Deadwood, and simultaneously acts out a courtship and marriage scenario with the other leading lady, Katie Brown (Allyn McLerie). Katie is a dance hall singer/stripper who Calamity Jane brings to Deadwood from Chicago to help the local saloon owner satisfy his customers. While Katie's role in the movie is very obviously scripted to teach Jane how to be feminine, their relationship plays out as a romance from the very start. When Jane goes to meet Katie backstage in Chicago, Katie first reads Jane's body language and dress as male, and reacts as if Jane is a male intruder. Even after Jane clears up the misconception, the two continue to act out a butch/femme dynamic as Jane shepherds Katie to Deadwood (protecting her from hostile Indians), defends her honor at the saloon, and invites Katie to move in with her. The two set up housekeeping and Katie invites Jane to learn how to behave like a "proper" woman. Interestingly enough, despite Jane's transformation from "one of the boys" into a feminine girl, she persists in wearing her buckskin outfit in all of the scenes not focused on her transformation -- her femininity doesn't require skirts.

The romantic cross-currents in the film are terribly confused -- in no small part because the Jane/Katie pairing follows the classic girl-civilizes-boy courtship arc, except that the two characters are both women. The two are initially at odds, but find aspects of the other to appreciate, and settle into a domestic arrangement. Obviously, however, the film-makers needed the marriage plot they'd initiated to end in heterosexual marriage. So: re-enter Hickock and Gilmarten, who come to the women's idyllic cabin in the woods to woo (you guessed it) Katie Brown. Katie, knowing Jane desires Danny, resists initial advances but accepts an invitation to a local ball on the condition that Jane be invited as Bill's date. At this point I count three romantic triangles: (1) Katie and Jane in rivalry for Danny, (2) Danny and Bill in rivalry for Katie, and (3) Bill/Danny and Jane in rivalry over Katie.

Obviously, the solution would be for them all to move to Planet O. But barring that, the scriptwriters obviously felt they needed to resolve the plot in a timely and heterosexual manner. So Katie, despite earlier protestations, takes up with Danny at the ball -- causing Jane to storm off in jealousy. Jane later confronts Katie in the midst of Katie's stage show, demanding that she leave town. Bill helps Katie make Jane look foolish (in order to teach her a lesson) and then at the eleventh hour professes his love for Jane. Jane, having resolved her jealousy by transferring her affection for Bill, rides off to collect Katie from the departing stagecoach and the two straight couples have a joint wedding just before the credits roll.

The essential confusion of the show's narrative, I feel, can be summed up in an an exchange between Bill and Jane in which Bill suggests to Jane that her rage at Katie is caused by "female thinking," which clouds her rational mind and stops her from thinking clearly. Since the ostensible thrust of the narrative to that point was to move Jane from an essentially masculine position to a feminine one (from which she can be paired with Bill), the last-minute accusation of too much femininity highlights the nonsensical nature of the plot. Only by reclaiming her active, masculine position in the narrative (riding off in her buckskin to retrieve Katie from the retreating coach), can Jane reclaim her honor and win her place by Bill's side ... even as all of the cues of the narrative put her and Katie together as a butch/femme couple.

In short, don't watch Calamity Jane for the music, the Wild West themes, or the heteroromance. Instead, watch it for the lesbian relationship hiding in plain sight. As Hanna put it, "This isn't subtext, this is just plain old text."

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*image via