A Thousand Clowns (1965)

I saw A Thousand Clowns when it was released in 1965, while I was in my second year of college.  It is one of those movies that praise nonconformity, making the case that it is wonderful to be a free spirit, defying convention, and living life to the full.  Other well-known movies in this nonconformist genre are You Can’t Take It with You (1938) and Auntie Mame (1958).  These movies make me say to myself, “Thank God for conformity!  Otherwise, life on this planet would be unbearable.”

Jason Robards plays Murray Burns, the nonconformist of this film.  His nephew Nick (Barry Gordon) lives with him in an apartment.  Murray glories in not making much sense, but the fact is, the world he lives in does not make much sense either, because it is a fake world, written to suit the purposes of the story.

When the movie opens, Murray and Nick are out on the street in New York City, early in the morning.  Murray starts hollering at the people in the apartment buildings that they need to clean their windows.  Later in the movie, Nick says that Murray hollers all the time:

He hollers.  Like, we were on Park Avenue last Sunday, and it’s very early in the morning.  There’s no one in the streets, see, just all these big, quiet apartment houses, and he hollers, “Rich people, I want to see you all out on the street for volleyball.  Let’s snap it up!”

And Nick is right.  Murray talks loud and hollers throughout the movie.  He is not content merely to be a nonconformist in his own quiet way, but feels compelled to put his nonconformity on full display for the benefit of the whole world.

Murray makes fun of the people who are going to work in the morning, which he refers to as a “horrible thing.”  He used to have a job working for a guy named Leo, writing jokes for a children’s show called Chuckles, the Chipmunk, but he quit and has been receiving unemployment checks for five months. Nick mentions that in school he wrote an essay on the benefits of living on unemployment insurance, which has precipitated an investigation to see if Murray is fit to have custody of Nick.

Let’s stop right there.  First of all, people who get laid off can receive unemployment checks, and so can those that quit for a good cause, such as a medical condition.  But you don’t qualify for unemployment benefits if you simply got tired of working and quit.  Second, social workers do not take children away from their homes because the person taking care of them is receiving unemployment checks.  The whole point of unemployment insurance is to allow people to have something to live on, which includes taking care of their children, until they find another job.

Nevertheless, two social workers, Albert Amundson (William Daniels) and Dr. Sandra Markowitz (Barbara Harris), come calling on Murray to see whether or not Nick should be taken away from him and put in a foster home.  Amundson is a typical character in a nonconformist movie, someone who is anal, who thinks everything must be in its place, and that everyone must act in strict accordance with his sense of propriety. And as the world never manages to live up to his rigid standards, he always seems to be on the verge of losing control of himself.  The movie needs such a character to convince us that conformity is bad, so nonconformity, by default, must be good.  In other words, if Amundson were your typical social worker, a fairly normal person, we would conclude that Murray was wrong to act the way he does.  By making Amundson so ridiculously uptight, the movie hopes to persuade us that Murray’s way must be the right way.  William Daniels, who plays Amundson, is perfect for this kind of role, if such a role is required, which is the case here, unfortunately.

After Murray talks loud and acts crazy in front of Amundson and Markowitz for fifteen minutes, with Nick doing the same, we eventually get the serious reason why Nick is with Murray.  When Nick was five, his mother abandoned Nick, leaving him at Murray’s apartment.  No one knows who the father was.  Normal social workers would be glad that a relative is taking care of Nick and would probably want him to have legal custody, because that is preferable to putting Nick in a foster home. But not so in this movie.

And then, just to add to the absurdity of it all, Nick does not have an official name.  The explanation given is that since Nick was a bastard, his mother decided not to give him a last name.  And since she didn’t give him a last name, she didn’t want to give him a first name either.  As I mentioned above, this is a fake world.  If an unwed mother refuses to name a child, the name will be assigned by the state, typically giving the child the mother’s maiden name, and picking a common first name to complete the process.  The only way her child could avoid having an official name would be if there were no birth certificate.  So, what did his mother do, have him under a bridge?

Dr. Markowitz is a fairly normal person and thus more like a typical social worker. However, she was engaged to Amundson, and they quarrel while at Murray’s apartment.  He leaves without her, and she becomes hysterical.  But soon it is that she and Murray fall in love.  And you know what that means.  She wants him to give up his nonconformist ways and get a job.  And the principal reason why Murray should do this, according to the movie, is emphasized over and over again, that only by getting a job can he retain custody of Nick.

Amundson returns the next day to explain the situation to Murray:

Late yesterday afternoon, the Child Welfare Board made a decision on your case. Now, uh, the decision they’ve reached is based on three months of a thorough study.

Since Murray has been receiving unemployment checks for five months, the investigation apparently started two months after he quit his job.  Boy, that Child Welfare Board is really on top of things!  Amundson continues:

Our interview yesterday was only a small part of that.  Quite thorough.  I want you to understand that I am not responsible personally for the decision they’ve reached….  Months of research by the board and reports by the Revere School show a severe domestic instability, a libertine self indulgence, a whole range of circumstances severely detrimental to the child’s welfare.

Amundson informs Murray that it is the board’s decision to remove Nick from his home and find a place for him where he can lead a normal, wholesome life, even though he admits that Murray loves Nick:

Now, I believe that you are a danger to this child.  … I wish this were not true, because it is obvious you have considerable affection for your nephew.  It shows in your face, this feeling.  Well, I admire you for your warmth, Mr. Burns, and for the affection the child feels for you.

Meanwhile, all over the city, children are being physically and sexually abused, but it appears the Child Welfare Board won’t have time to get to them.  They’re too busy worrying about Murray’s bohemian life style.

The most reasonable spokesman for conformity is Murray’s brother, Arnold (Martin Balsam).  He tries to explain to Murray the virtues of conformity, with special emphasis on the fact that the state will take Nick away from him if he does not get a job.  But while he goes on at length trying to persuade Murray to go back to work, the one argument that never seems to occur to him or anyone else in this movie is the one that is the most obvious:  eventually the unemployment checks will stop, and with no source of income, Murray will be evicted from his apartment, and he and Nick will have to live under that bridge where presumably Nick was born.  The steady drumbeat of how the state will take Nick away from Murray, if he does not get a job, is supposed to distract us from the main reason people have jobs, even if they do not have a child to take care of, which is that they need a paycheck.

The way this movie is oblivious to the need for a job, for the simple reason you need money to live on, reminds me of a guy I knew in my senior year of college.  When I mentioned something about having to find work after I graduated, he dismissed my concerns with disdain, saying, “You don’t have to work. That’s just what you’ve been brainwashed to believe by the establishment.”  He said this without irony, as if the fact that he had been sleeping on his friend’s couch for the last six months was a permanent option, and one available to us all.

Auntie Mame is similar to A Thousand Clowns in that both movies involve someone who has custody of a nephew, but at least Mame has enough money to live independently when the movie starts.  It’s a whole lot easier to be a nonconformist when you’re rich.  The family members in You Can’t Take It with You, on the other hand, are not rich, but they are contemptuous of ordinary work, just as Murray is. They have the philosophy that everyone should just do what he wants to do, and somehow enough money can be made doing whatever that is to get by.  But they are like that guy I knew who slept on his friend’s couch, for they are supported by Jean Arthur’s character, the one person in the family with a real job.

Just as Amundson is supposed to make conformity look repulsive in this movie so that we will side with Murray in his refusal to conform, so too are the jobs Murray is offered so repulsive that we are supposed to side with Murray in his refusal to go back to work. But he lives in New York, and there are more jobs in that city than those that have something to do with producing a television show. Nevertheless, Murray agrees to go back to work for Leo, writing material for Chuckles, the Chipmunk.  But Arnold warns him that he won’t be home free just because he has a job:

Now, my agency lawyer gave me all the facts.  The most the board will allow you is a probationary year with Nick, a trial period, and the board’s investigators are going to be checking up on you every week, regularly:  checking to see that you still have your job, checking with Leo on your stability, checking up on the improvements in your home environment.

They will be watching his every move!

So, there is little for Murray to do but take that job and marry Sandra, allowing him to retain custody of Nick.

In his Guide for the Film Fanatic, which was published in 1986, Danny Peary remarks that the movie, once a cult hit, no longer holds up:  “Today its sellout conclusion, in which the nonconformist lead character willingly sacrifices his way of life because of familial responsibility, doesn’t sit well.”  He suggests that the movie The Kid (1921), a Charlie Chaplin movie, had a better resolution.  But for this movie to have an ending like the one in The Kid, that would have required that Nick’s mother turn up, having become a wealthy woman somehow, ready to regain custody of Nick and, presumably, to let Murray sleep on her couch.

But more to the point, the movie is no longer the cult hit it once was, not because of the “sellout conclusion,” but because people no longer buy the premise.  I’m sure that guy I knew in college, who was contemptuous of the notion of having to work for a living, wore out his welcome, sleeping on his friend’s couch, and eventually had to face the cold, cruel world that expected him to get off his butt and get a job. Society no longer puts up with nonsense like that once you turn thirty.  He and a lot of other idealistic hippies may have loved A Thousand Clowns while being supported by their parents or managing to sponge off others, but found that it lost its charm when they ended up having to go to work to pay the bills just like everyone else.

Has No Always Meant No?

I was in high school in the early 1960s, a hopeless virgin, and thus I was always eager for any advice I could get from some of the guys who seemed to have a way with women.  A common refrain at the time was, “When a girl says No, she means Maybe, and when she says Maybe, she means Yes.”

Well, that advice did me no good.  For one thing, when a girl said No to me, she usually sounded pretty serious.  In fact, a girl could stop me with a glance.  If anything, I needed encouragement.  So, as a practical matter, No meant No to me, regardless of what I was being told by those supposedly in the know.

It was during those high school years that the movie Hud came out, 1963 to be exact.  I expect that most people have seen this movie, but in brief, the title character is played by Paul Newman.  He is a big stud in a small Texas town.  His nephew Lon (Brandon De Wilde) is a virginal teenage boy who admires Hud and wishes he could be like him.  They are both attracted to Alma (Patricia Neal), who is their housekeeper.  Alma admits to being sexually aroused by Hud, especially when he has his shirt off, but she is leery of him, because she thinks he is a “cold-blooded bastard.”  She regards Lon with affection, but she is practically a mother to him, and thus never thinks of him as a lover.

One night, when Hud is drunk and angry, he goes to Alma’s cabin, breaks open the door, and starts trying to rape her.  There is a fierce struggle as she tries to fight him off.  Suddenly, Lon bursts in and grabs Hud, pulling him off.  Hud almost bashes Lon’s face in, but stops, lets him go, and leaves the cabin.

I saw this movie with my parents at the drive-in when it first came out.  Both of them said that Alma wanted to be raped and that she was irritated that Lon stopped Hud from giving her what she wanted.  I voiced my reservations, but they dismissed me as being naïve.  I figured that was a losing argument, so I gave up.  A few years later, my girlfriend and I watched the movie, and she also said that Alma wanted to be raped.  I had always wanted to ask a girl if No meant No, but I figured that would lead to the absurdity of the Liar’s Paradox, so I never bothered.  But since this particular girlfriend had already taken my virginity, I guess she felt comfortable telling me that sometimes No means Yes.  Well, technically, Alma never said the word “No,” but her actions clearly implied it.

Having already been dismissed as naïve by my parents, I didn’t even bother expressing my doubts to my girlfriend.  But I never believed for a minute that Alma wanted to be raped.  It was different with an earlier movie that Patricia Neal had been in, The Fountainhead (1949), in which it is clear that her character Dominique wanted to be raped.  Or rather, as the novel on which it is based makes clear, it was because she had been raped that for the first time in her life she experienced sexual ecstasy.  Perhaps this role became part of Patricia Neal’s persona, making it easy for people to believe that she wanted to be raped in Hud as well. As for me, I have seen the movie many times over the years, and I always think about my parents and my girlfriend when the scene with the sexual assault takes place, but I have never seen any reason to change my mind.

But then I bought Pauline Kael’s I Lost It at the Movies.  I have read a lot of books on film criticism, but I have avoided Kael for years, because she seems to spend too much time praising weird foreign films.  Anyway, I finally broke down and bought this book, in which is included an essay on Hud, written in 1964.  In it, she maintains that Alma wanted to be raped, and she gives reasons in support of her position:

Alma obviously wants to go to bed with Hud, but she has been rejecting his propositions because she doesn’t want to be just another casual dame to him; she wants to be treated differently from the others.  If Lon hadn’t rushed in to protect his idealized view of her, chances are that the next morning Hud would have felt guilty and repentant, and Alma would have been grateful to him for having used the violence necessary to break down her resistance, thus proving that she was different.  They might have been celebrating ritual rapes annually on their anniversaries.

One of the objections to this theory is that Alma leaves the next day, but to this, Kael replies:

No doubt in Hud we’re really supposed to believe that Alma is, as Stanley Kaufmann [a film critic] says, “driven off by his [Hud’s] vicious physical assault.”  But in terms of the modernity of the settings and the characters, as well as the age of the protagonists (they’re at least in their middle thirties), it was more probable that Alma left the ranch because a frustrated rape is just too sordid and embarrassing for all concerned—for the drunken Hud who forced himself upon her, for her for defending herself so titanically, for young Lon the innocent who “saved” her.

That makes three women, my mother, my girlfriend, and Pauline Kael, who subscribed to the theory that Alma wanted to be raped.  All three women, however, voiced these opinions in the 1960s, which means their attitudes could have been the same as those who made the movie, all of them sharing what might have been a 1960s Zeitgeist of consensual rape, if you’ll pardon the expression.

In other words, even if they were right, they were right about a movie made in the 1960s.  And this raises the question as to whether there could be a remake of this movie, not that I would want to see one.  That is to say, if producers in Hollywood decided that Hud was old enough to justify a remake, inasmuch as a lot of people like their movies fresh, especially since it could be made in color this time, and if this remake followed the original, especially regarding the sexual assault, how would people react to this movie today?  Surely not the way my parents, girlfriend, and Pauline Kael once did!

Or am I just being naïve again?

Invasion of the Star Creatures (1962)

Invasion of the Star Creatures is a low-budget spoof of equally low-budget science fiction films.  Just to make sure everyone is in on the joke, the credits open with, “R.I. Diculous Presents An Impossible Picture.”  It is filled with silly situations and corny jokes, but it is rather amusing, if you are in the mood for this sort of thing.

On an army missile base, Private Philbrick and Private Penn are normally in charge of such things as washing the garbage cans, but are assigned by Colonel Awol to be part of a team investigating a cave that opened up as the result of a nuclear test explosion.  The team discovers seven-foot-tall plant-like extraterrestrials, sort of like the alien in The Thing from Another World (1951).  However, these plant creatures are just slaves, their masters being two tall, beautiful women, reminiscent of movies like Cat-Women of the Moon (1953) and Queen of Outer Space (1958).

The two privates are captured by the vegetable monsters and brought before the two women, Professor Tanga and Dr. Puna.  Philbrick wonders aloud what Space Commander Connors would do, an allusion to such radio and television characters as Captain Video and Captain Midnight, or the television show Space Patrol (1950-55).  The women tell Penn and Philbrick they plan to return to their planet, after which Earth will be invaded and conquered.  Then they show the privates the room where they grow the plant men.  We see flower pots, most of which have a hand sticking up out of them.  When they prepare to leave the room, Philbrick says goodbye to the plant hands, one of which waves bye-bye.

Although there are warrior men back on their planet, the women don’t seem to know anything about love, so Philbrick teaches Dr. Puna what “kiss” means. She swoons, allowing Penn and Philbrick to escape.  They return to base and tell Colonel Awol that he must stop the spaceship from blasting off.  Awol does not believe them and orders them to be thrown into the guardhouse, assuming them to be drunk.  But when Philbrick swears on his Space Commander Connors’ secret ring, Awol asks to see the ring.  When Philbrick shows it to him, Awol shows Philbrick his.  They utter the secret code words and do the hand signal.  Then they discover they both belong to the same stellar squadron, and it turns out that whereas that Awol is only a junior flight leader, Philbrick is a senior flight leader, which means Philbrick is now in command.

The three of them head back to the cave.  Penn says the three of them will not be enough to stop the space broads from taking off.  Just then, a bunch of Indians come along, whereupon it turns out that they also are members of Space Commander Connors’ flight squadron, only one of the Indians is General flight leader, and proves it with a badge pinned to his bare chest.  So now, the Indian is in command.

But they all have a pow wow, during which the Indians and the colonel get drunk.  Penn and Philbrick go back to the cave and manage to blast the rocket ship off into space, marooning the two women.  But Dr. Puna gets Penn to teach Professor Tanga what “kiss” means.  They all get married and live happily ever after.

I saw this movie a couple of times in the 1960s on the late show, and I liked it so much that I bought my own copy on DVD recently.  I was looking forward to one of my favorite jokes in the movie, when Penn and Philbrick try to get telepathic control of one of the plant men.  The way I remember it, Penn says, “Focus on his eye.”

But as the eyes of the plant men are spaced really far apart, Philbrick asks, “Which one?”

“The one next to the carrot,” Penn replies.

Imagine my disappointment when I found it was not on the DVD.  Then I noticed that IMDb says that the television version is ten minutes longer than the theatrical version.

I guess I’ll have to wait for the director’s cut.

No Escape (2015)

No Escape is principally a fantasy film for husbands who are failures.  A lot of men feel they have let their wives down, and in this movie, Jack Dwyer (Owen Wilson) has done so in a big way.  From the dialogue we learn that he used to be in business for himself, but he eventually had to give that up.  So, he takes a job with Cardiff, a water company, requiring that he relocate his family to some unnamed country, which would have to be either Laos or Cambodia, which means he and his family are strangers in a strange land, where they don’t speak the language and where the food being sold in the marketplace would cause you to lose your appetite.  They check into a hotel where the phone doesn’t work, some of the lights don’t come on, and there is nothing but snow on television.  And this looks like the best hotel in the whole city.  It all proves to be too much for Jack’s wife Annie (Lake Bell), and in the middle of the night he finds her sitting on the floor of the bathroom crying.  In other words, if things had proceeded normally from this point, this would have been a movie of misery, probably resulting in Annie’s taking their two children back to the United States before long and filing for divorce.

But then there is a coup, the prime minister is assassinated, everyone in the American embassy is killed, and the police are overrun by mobs of revolutionaries, whose ultimate goal is to slaughter every Caucasian foreigner in the country, especially employees of Cardiff.  As horrible as that sounds, it gives Jack a chance to redeem himself, as he leads his family this way and that through one melodramatic situation after another, even to the point of killing a man who was threatening them.  And he does this killing in full view of his wife.  And she thought her husband was a failure.  Hah!

On the plane coming over, they met Hammond (Pierce Brosnan).  Given Brosnan’s James Bond persona, we are not surprised when he turns out to be a British spy.  But he is not just a spy who is getting along in years.  He is a corrupt version of James Bond.  Now that the Cold War is over, his services are put to ends more pecuniary than patriotic.  After coming to the rescue of Jack and his family, he confesses to being the ultimate cause of the revolution.  His job is to get countries to borrow money for projects, such as waterworks, knowing that they will never be able to pay back the loans. Being hopelessly in debt, the countries have no choice but to let corporations like Cardiff come in and make big profits at the expense of the impoverished citizens.  Normally, things work out well, and the citizens don’t even realize how it all happened.  But this time, things did not work out well, and so the people have risen up to take their country back.  In other words, Hammond continues, they are trying to protect their families just as Jack is trying to protect his.

That’s cute.  But Hammond’s explanation of what is going on comes across as a little bit forced and artificial.  Even if Hammond’s explanation were true of how things work in the third world, his flippant attitude is not realistic.  Most people try to justify what they are doing.  A real life Hammond would have tried to say that he was ultimately helping the people of the country, and that the profits made by Cardiff were just one more way in which the free-enterprise system works for the greater good.  But one gets the feeling that this more nuanced approach, which would have allowed us to gradually see through his self-deceiving justification, would have taken too much time.  So, the scriptwriters had Hammond just blurt it all out with no apologies.  We get a two-minute information dump, and that’s that.  Then it’s back to kill or be killed.

Speaking of which, the unrelenting obsession on the part of the revolutionaries to kill every Caucasian foreigner they can find seems to be a little much.  And when the leader of a squad of these killers tries to force one of Jack’s daughters to pull the trigger on a revolver and shoot Jack in the head, while holding a pistol to the head of that same daughter, he reminded me of some Snidely Whiplash character tying a girl to the railroad tracks.

And then along came Jones.  Or rather, along came Annie.  You see, in times past, it was all right for the man to save the helpless woman, but that is no longer acceptable.  And so, about halfway through the movie, Annie begins doing her share, even to the point of bashing the brains out of the guy trying to force her daughter to shoot Jack.

Finally, as the ultimate irony, Annie rows a boat containing her family across a river to Vietnam, where they find sanctuary.  From there, presumably, they will go back to the United States and stay there.  And so, thanks to the revolution, they live happily ever after.  Without that, Jack would have been a failure with a miserable wife on his way to a divorce.

Made for Each Other (1939)

Movies that were popular when they were made tell us something about the culture that produced them, but sometimes it is hard know whether the movies depict things as they really were or only as the way the audience wanted them to be.  This is especially so for the movie Made for Each Other, in which one cannot help but wonder what the attitude of the audience was toward love, God, and housewives in 1939.

The movie starts off as a comedy, drifts into drama, plunges into melodrama, and then closes as a comedy, the overall result being uneven and unsatisfying, especially since the parts of the movie that count as comedy are not all that funny.  It begins by announcing in a prologue that of all the people in New York, John Mason (James Stewart) is one of the least important.  We see a hand flipping through a telephone book until it finds the name John Mason, followed by the abbreviation “atty,” indicating that he is an attorney.  Given this, it is hard to avoid the implication that the measure of a person’s importance is his occupation.  Now, this movie was made during the Great Depression when a lot of people didn’t even have a job.  And of those who did have employment, most would not have had a college education, let alone have had the luxury of obtaining an advanced degree, such as by going to law school.  In other words, most of those in the audience would have been “less important” in this sense than John Mason, and yet the people that made this movie must have assumed, perhaps rightly, that the audience would accept this evaluation of John as one of the least important people in New York are perfectly reasonable.

Anyway, he works for a law firm, and while on a brief trip to Boston to get a deposition for an upcoming case, Higgins versus Higgins, he met a woman named Jane (Carol Lombard) and married her.  It really is amazing, looking back now from the vantage point of the twenty-first century, how unthinkable that would be today.  Of course, even in 1939, when this movie was made, marrying a woman after having known her for only a few days would have been exceptional.  But people did fall in love and get married in those days far more quickly than now.  That is not surprising, considering that before the sexual revolution, a lot of people never had sex until they got married, and so couples were often in a hurry to tie the knot.

But it is not simply that people could not wait to have sex with each other.  Rather, there was a widespread belief at that time that marriages were made in Heaven.  This belief is expressed in the title of the movie.  So, once you met the person you were made for, there was no reason to hesitate.  Today, few people still believe this sort of thing.  We fall in love and have sex, not necessarily in that order, and then we fall out of love and break up.  We do this a few times with a few different people, and maybe when we find someone we really seem to get along with, we finally decide to get married, usually after living together for a while.  And then, as often as not, we end up getting divorced anyway.  And thus it is that today we look upon the notion that people are “made for each other” with a jaundiced eye.

Be that as it may, when John returns to the office, Carter, his chief rival for being made the next junior partner of the firm, suggests that senior partner Judge Doolittle (Charles Coburn) might be displeased with the news, owing to the expectation that John would marry Doolittle’s daughter Eunice.  John dismisses that as just a rumor.  But he is embarrassed and hesitant about telling Doolittle, so we have to wonder.  It is never clear what John’s relationship with Eunice really amounted to, whether they even ever went out on a date.

John and Jane prepare to go on their honeymoon by taking a ship to Europe.  In their cabin, there is a small bed, which is just barely big enough for the two of them.  They get on the bed and try it out.  A lot of people believe that in old movies, if a man and woman got on the same bed, at least one of them had to have one foot on the floor.  There is nothing about that in the Production Code, and this is one of several movies that prove that the rule never existed, such as Fallen Angel (1945) and The 39 Steps (1935), in the latter of which the couple are not even married.  The honeymoon, however, is called off when John has to go back to the office, because the continuance he thought he had for Higgins v. Higgins has been rescinded, with the trial scheduled for the next Monday.  He gets no sympathy from Doolittle, who is contemptuous of honeymoons.

Somewhat later, with John’s mother Harriet living with him and Jane, they have Doolittle, Carter, and Eunice over for dinner.  John thought he was being groomed for being made a partner, but Doolittle announces that the new partner will be Carter, owing to the recommendation made by Eunice, presumably because she is a woman scorned.  Having your boss over for dinner, who then picks that time to let you know, in front of your wife and other guests, that you have been passed over for the promotion you were hoping for would certainly make you feel as though you were one of the least important people in New York.

Jane has a baby, after which there follows a lot of helpless-husband and interfering mother-in-law routines that are supposed to be funny.  Maybe they were funny in 1939.  As I noted above, things were very different back then from the way they are now.  And one way in which they are different apparently is in the status of a housewife.  For some time now, it has been deemed inappropriate to ask a married woman if she works.  The implication of such a question is that housewives do not work, when in fact they do a lot of work, raising children, cleaning house, cooking, and so forth.  Well, that may be the way things are today, but judging by this movie, one has to wonder how things were back then.

From the beginning of their marriage, John and Jane have had a cook.  That is breathtaking all by itself.  How many people do you know have a full-time cook?  Anyway, the cook tells Jane that her job is to prepare meals, and that Jane can wash the diapers herself.  Jane is devastated.  She tells the cook she is fired.  Of course, she immediately hires another one, presumably someone who will wash the diapers as well as cook the meals (Ew!), and from what we can glean later in the movie, someone who will clean house as well.  In other words, this apartment has two women in it, John’s wife and mother, neither of whom has a job, and between the two of them, they cannot cook their own meals, wash the baby’s diapers, or keep house in general.  Well, maybe housewives today “work,” but I am not so sure about the ones in the 1930s, if this movie is any indication.  However, this may be a piece with the notion that a lawyer could be one of the least important people in New York.  That is, if the audience could believe this about John, perhaps the audience could accept the idea that it was perfectly appropriate for Jane to have a cook, even if those in the audience were doing good just to put food on the table.

John despairs about the fact that he was not promoted and given a raise, making it a bit of a struggle to pay the bills.  Jane tells John he should just barge into Doolittle’s office and demand a raise, saying Doolittle cannot do without him.  That makes me cringe.  One should never ask for a raise with that attitude.  One should always assume that the boss will say no, and be prepared for that.  Anyway, Jane pumps John up enough to do it, but before John can demand his raise, Doolittle tells him that business is off and everyone will have to take a twenty-five percent cut in pay, and that he himself will be making a substantial reduction in his drawing account.  As John leaves the office, we hear Doolittle talking to a commissioner on the phone, saying that he wants to buy that house on Park Avenue.

John goes out and gets drunk, coming home at two in the morning.  He drops a bottle of milk, waking up the new cook Lily (Louise Beavers).  All right, just a darn minute.  Now they have a live-in cook?  Well, maybe cooks have to live in the house for which they prepare the meals.  How would I know?  In any event, as we see in the next scene, she is also a nanny, because she is taking care of the baby in the park.  This is the fifteenth woman that Jane has hired, although it is the first one we have seen that is African American.  Perhaps it is on account of Lily’s black wisdom that Jane values her so much, as when Lily says, “Never let the seeds stop you from enjoying the watermelon.”

Because of the cut in pay, the Mason family starts going into debt, even to the point of having collection agencies being sicced on them.  Jane looks for a job, but cannot find one.  Finally, she is so desperate, she has to let go of Lily.  Now she will have to work in the home, just like a modern housewife.  In fact, John gets so depressed that he has turned his wife into a “household drudge” that he decides that they should get a divorce so that she won’t be married to a failure.  In other words, whereas today, a housewife may take umbrage at the suggestion that she does not work, back when this movie was made, if a housewife actually had to do housework, that was something to be ashamed of.

In the course of lamenting their marriage, John even says that maybe they should not have had the baby.  Uh-oh!  You know what that means.  It’s punishment time.  While they are at a night club being miserable with each other on New Year’s Eve, Jane calls home and finds out that the baby is sick.  He is rushed to the hospital, where he is diagnosed with an infection so severe that unless they can obtain some of the new, experimental serum, the baby will die.  John goes to Doolittle’s house, wakes him up in the middle of the night, and makes him put on his hearing aid.  Presumably, this hearing aid represents the fact that Doolittle often does not listen, figuratively speaking, to the needs of others.  John tells him that on account of the cut in pay, his baby has had to sleep in the dining room, causing him to get pneumonia.  Doolittle agrees to pay for the cost to get the serum.  Unfortunately, it will have to be flown in from another state during a blizzard.  Chances are, the pilot will not make it.  Communication with the pilot is lost, and it is beginning to look hopeless.

While watching over the baby, Jane bemoans the fact that there is nothing she can do.  The nurse, who is also a nun, is standing behind her with a knowing, almost smug look on her face.  She tells Jane there is one more thing she can do.  She leads her to the chapel, where Jane prays to a statue of Jesus.  I would have given anything for that scene to be followed by one in which we see the plane crash into the side of a mountain.  Well, that didn’t happen, of course.  The pilot bails out of the plane and crawls to a farmhouse, and the farmer calls the hospital.  The serum gets there on time, and the baby is saved.

It is interesting to note that we no longer see scenes like this in mainstream movies.  They still make religious movies, of course, in which people pray and God answers those prayers.  But if no mention is made of religion for most of a movie, a scene right at the end where somebody prays, bringing about a miracle, never happens any more.  It is a scene like that which spoils Alfred Hitchcock’s The Wrong Man (1956), at least for those of us watching it today.  But people must have been more open to the idea of divine intervention back in those days, accepting it casually as something that happens all the time.

After the baby is saved, we see the pilot and Doolittle having drinks in the bar.  Four rounds were bought, none paid for by Doolittle.  When the pilot comments on this, Doolittle indicates that he can’t hear him on account of his hearing aid.  This scene is followed by one in which John has been made a junior partner, with no reason given whatsoever.  From the juxtaposition of these scenes, we can only conclude that the one is the cause of the other, that John was made a partner because Doolittle has suddenly become all sentimental about the baby.  Either that, or because he was impressed by John’s nerve when John barged into his house the night the baby got sick.  Right after getting his promotion, John gives an angry lecture to all the other partners, from Carter on up to Doolittle, loudly asserting that there will have to be changes made at the law firm, and demanding that these changes be implemented immediately.  All the partners listen submissively.  Apparently John is now one of the most important people in New York.

What does it all mean?  A fair amount of emphasis was given to the scene where Jane prays to God to save the baby, so perhaps the idea is this.  John tells Jane they should get divorced, and he wishes that they had not had the baby.  God punishes John by making the baby sick.  Jane prays to God, who then relents and allows the baby to be saved.  Through this miracle, John and Jane are reconciled, and Doolittle’s heart is melted, leading him to give John a promotion.  And this is all in accordance with God’s plan.

Or maybe not.  Even in the old days, movies did not require divine intervention for there to be a narrative rupture arising out of an unbelievable change in character in the final reel.  How much the audience of 1939 would have seen the hand of God in all this is hard to say from our present, less credulous perspective.

In any event, given this promotion, there can be little doubt that Jane has hired Lily back to be a live-in cook, maid, and nanny again.  Now she doesn’t have to work in any sense of the word.

Insignificance (1985)

Insignificance imagines how four cultural icons, referred to as the Professor (Michael Emil), the Actress (Theresa Russell), the Senator (Tony Curtis), and the Ballplayer (Gary Busey), obviously corresponding to Albert Einstein, Marilyn Monroe, Joseph McCarthy, and Joe DiMaggio, might have met and interacted.

Early in the movie, Einstein and Marilyn are in the same hotel room together, and by using a bunch of props that happen to be available, like balloons and flashlights, she gives a lively demonstration of her understanding of relativity theory, much to Einstein’s delight.  Presumably, this scene is supposed to warm our hearts that Marilyn, whose screen persona was that of a dumb blonde, was actually smart enough to grasp the essentials of Einstein’s theory.  And, by extension, it is supposed to make us feel smart in the bargain, for what Marilyn is saying is easy to understand, so those watching the movie who have little familiarity with the theory are flattered into thinking they understand it too.

Unfortunately, Marilyn has it all wrong.  That is to say, Terry Johnson, who wrote the script for the play and the screenplay for the movie, got it all wrong.  Johnson, by way of Marilyn, makes a mistake not uncommon for someone making his first attempt to understand the idea that a clock moving at a high rate of speed will run slow, according to Einstein’s special theory of relativity.  If, as a clock on a spaceship moves away from the Earth, it sends a signal back to Earth every second, it will appear to be running slow, because each successive signal has farther to travel.  But it doesn’t take a genius like Einstein to realize that you have to take into account the spaceship’s speed and distance from the Earth.  In fact, allowing for that speed and distance in recording the signals coming from the clock is something any second-rate physicist would know to do.  Actually, it is probably something that would occur to a liberal arts major.  The time dilation predicted by Einstein’s theory, however, is an actual slowing down of a clock that can be observed even after you allow for the extra time it takes for each signal to reach the Earth.

As a result, the movie’s attempt to show how smart Marilyn is completely fails.  It reminds me of the gaffe in The Wizard of Oz (1939), when the Scarecrow tries to show how smart he has become once the Wizard has given him a diploma.  He supposedly enunciates the Pythagorean Theorem, but he botches it so badly that he enunciates a formula that is not true of any triangle that has ever existed.

In the case of The Wizard of Oz, however, one’s enjoyment of the movie is not impaired by the Scarecrow’s mistake even for those who are aware of it.  Insignificance, however, would not have been much of a movie even if Marilyn had gotten Einstein’s theory right, and the fact that she didn’t only makes things worse.

Excalibur (1981)

There have been many movies based on the legend of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table.  Of those I have seen, Excalibur is my favorite.  Except for “O Fortuna” and some original compositions for this movie, most of the music for Excalibur comes from Richard Wagner’s operas, about which a few preliminary remarks are in order.

The Music of Richard Wagner

Those who regularly attend the opera are probably appalled at the way Wagner’s music has been appropriated for a mere movie.  But from my lowbrow perspective, Wagner’s music has never before been put to such good use.

It is not surprising that much of Wagner’s music is dark and heavy.  He was, after all, influenced by Arthur Schopenhauer, who is known for his pessimistic philosophy. Wagner, in turn, influenced Friedrich Nietzsche, who praised Wagner in his The Birth of Tragedy, but became critical of him in his subsequent writings.  Both Wagner and Nietzsche were appropriated by the Nazis.  In the case of Nietzsche, his philosophy of the will to power undoubtedly appealed to the Third Reich, while Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen glorifies the Teutonic warrior gods and heroes of Norse mythology, with whom the Nazis readily identified.  It also helped that Wagner was an anti-Semite.

As a result, if you are watching a movie in which a character is associated with Wagner, he is probably evil. In Brute Force (1947), for example, Hume Cronyn is Captain Munsey, Chief of Security in a prison. During a conversation he has with the prison doctor, it is clear that Munsey is a fascist. He says kindness is weakness, and weakness makes a man a follower instead of a leader.  When the doctor quotes Jesus about the meek inheriting the earth, Munsey says that is contradicted by science, which says the weak must die so that the strong may live.  The doctor says Munsey enjoys inflicting pain.  Munsey inflicts some of that pain on the doctor.  In a subsequent scene, Munsey, while wearing a wife beater, repeatedly hits one of the inmates with a rubber hose while we hear the overture from Tannhäuser in the background.  It is not background music, however.  When the prisoner is first brought into Munsey’s office, we see that the music is coming from Munsey’s record player.  It helps put Munsey is the proper mood.  After hitting the prisoner with that rubber hose several times, and finding that he still won’t talk about the prison break Munsey knows is being planned, he walks over to the record player, turns the music from that Wagnerian opera up twice as loud, and then really starts whipping that prisoner.  The actor playing the part of the prisoner Munsey is torturing is Sam Levene, who was a Jew.

On a lighter note, in Annie Hall (1977), Woody Allen tells his friend about the tall, blond guy looking at him in the record store while saying they were having a sale this week on Wagner.  He is sure that he did this because Allen is a Jew.

In The Stranger (1946), Orson Welles plays a man who was a high-ranking Nazi during the war, but now is in America, hiding under the name of Charles Rankin, employed as a professor of German history.  He pretends to despise the Nazis in particular, and Germans in general, all the better to deflect any suspicion as to his past.  When asked for his opinion, as an objective historian, as to whether Germany would ever want to go to war again, he replies that a psychiatrist is needed more than a historian, giving us insight into just why there is such a fit between Wagner’s music and the Nazis, especially regarding his Der Ring des Nibelungen:

The German sees himself as the innocent victim of world envy and hatred. Conspired against, set upon by inferior peoples, inferior nations.  He cannot admit to error, much less to wrongdoing.  Not the German.  We chose to ignore Ethiopia and Spain. But we learned from our casualty lists the price of looking the other way.  Men of truth everywhere have come to know for whom the bell tolled, but not the German. No, he still follows his warrior gods, marching to Wagnerian strains, his eyes still fixed upon the fiery sword of Siegfried. And in those subterranean meeting places that you don’t believe in, the German’s dream world comes alive, and he takes his place in shining armor beneath the banners of the Teutonic Knights.  Mankind is waiting for the messiah, but for the German the messiah is not the prince of peace. No, he’s…  He’s another Barbarossa, another Hitler.

At this point, he is asked about the reforms being effected in Germany.  Rankin continues:

I can’t believe that people can be reformed except from within.  The basic principles of equality and freedom never have and never will take root in Germany.  The will to freedom has been voiced in every other tongue. All men are created equal, liberté, egalité, fraternité, but in German….

His brother-in-law points out that Karl Marx was an advocate for freedom, but Rankin dismisses the objection, saying that Marx was a Jew.  His father-in-law says in that case, there is no solution.  But Rankin disagrees, suggesting there is a final solution, so to speak:  “Annihilation.  Right down to the last babe in arms.”  When his wife expresses surprise that he is advocating a Carthaginian peace, he replies that the world hasn’t had trouble from Carthage for two thousand years.  In this way, one of the architects of the holocaust hides the role he played in that by pretending to be in favor of a genocidal elimination of all Germans.

And who can forget the way the “Ride of the Valkyries” was used diegetically in Apocalypse Now (1979) to accompany the attack of the helicopters on a North Vietnamese village.  “Yeah, I use Wagner,” says Robert Duval, who plays a psychopathic colonel.  “Scares hell out of the slopes.  My boys love it.”  Just before the attack, we see a school teacher bringing young children outside to play, but scrambling to get them back inside as the first notes of this music reaches their ears.

The inverse is also true, in a way.  In any movie set in World War II, showing a Nazi listening to Wagner or hearing him praise his music, as in The Night of the Generals (1967), is to be expected. However, if a German in such a movie ostentatiously avoids Wagner’s music, then we know he is basically a good German. The movie Das Boot (1981), for example, is set on a German submarine during World War II. When the crew enthusiastically sings “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,” a marching song associated with British soldiers in World War I, we know we are supposed to like these Germans.

I noted above that purists object to using music from an opera as background music for a movie. Beyond that general complaint, many are bothered by the fact that Excalibur is based on the British legend of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, while Wagner’s music is German. The fact that Tristan und Isolde and Parsifal are Wagnerian operas based on Arthurian stories is still not enough to appease their sense of propriety.  Worse, the prelude to Tristan und Isolde is used as background music for the story of Lancelot and Guenevere, not for Tristan and Iseult proper.  The fact that both are stories of a love triangle is no excuse.  The music from Götterdämmerung is unquestionably associated with Siegfried, a Teutonic knight, rather than a British one.  The fact that Siegfried, like Arthur, has a magical sword worthy of having its own name, which was stuck in a tree, which only someone special could remove, suggesting an affinity between the two legends, is not thought to be sufficient justification for using that music in this movie. Finally, there are those that object to the fact that the music associated with the title sword in Excalibur is from “Siegfried’s Funeral March,” their complaint being that funereal music is inappropriate as a leitmotif for a weapon; although they might begrudgingly concede that this grim music, which we hear at the very beginning of the movie, foretells the tragic end toward which the events of this story move.

But enough of this.  Suffice it to say that there are those who prefer the opera, and there are those who would rather watch a movie.  As for this movie in particular, given what has been noted above regarding movies where characters associated with Wagner are understood to be evil, does this not mean that using Wagner’s music for Excalibur implies that King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table are evil?  It does not, for a simple reason.  It is only after Wagner became associated with Nazi Germany that Wagner’s music acquired that evil connotation, and then only for movies set during or after World War II.  Even Wagner’s anti-Semitism would probably have been overlooked as a nineteenth-century commonplace had it not been for the holocaust.  I am sure that those who attend the opera never regard Tristan, Isolde, Parsifal, or Siegfried as evil.  For similar reasons, Wagner’s music could be used for Excalibur without fear of putting the legend of King Arthur in a bad light.

As a final note of irony, although The Birth of a Nation (1915) was a silent film, music was scored for it, intended to by played by an accompanying orchestra.  This music has been added as a soundtrack for subsequent viewing.  When the Ku Klux Klan is riding to the rescue of a white family as they are besieged by a mob of black men who are intent on killing the men of the family and raping the women, we hear the “Ride of the Valkyries” in the background. Because the movie was made before World War II, the music was intended to glorify the Klan and make the audience thrill to their heroism. The evil connotation this music had in Apocalypse Now does not apply to The Birth of a Nation, even though we might think it should.

The Movie

In discussing any story about King Arthur, one first must distinguish between the historical King Arthur and the King Arthur of legend:  of what we know of the historical King Arthur, there is too little on which to base a movie; of what we know of the legendary King Arthur, there is too much. Therefore, when one sets out to tell a story about the legendary Arthur, it is not merely that the author is likely to take liberties with the source material.  He must do so, or else the result will be a ponderous mess.

The Sword

Mostly, it is a matter of simplification, which involves eliminating many of the characters and stories about them.  In Excalibur, the title tells us that the unifying principle of this movie about King Arthur (Nigel Terry) will be a sword.  Its purpose is to unite the various warring tribes of England into a single kingdom.  In many versions of the Arthurian legend, Arthur becomes king by pulling a sword out of a stone; then, somewhat later, he receives Excalibur, a completely different sword, from the Lady of the Lake.  That is one magical sword too many.  But it gets worse.  In Le Morte d’Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory, the basic source material for this movie, there is another story about another sword sticking out of another stone.  And then there is still another story about a sword in a scabbard that only someone special could remove.  Apparently, the idea of a sword sticking out of something that can be removed only by one person was so fascinating that it ended up being used a couple more times; but the effect is to make it seem rather commonplace, as if there were swords sticking out of this or that all over England, and every other Tuesday some knight would run across one and try to pull it out.

Less is more, and so later versions of the Arthurian legend tend to have only one sword sticking out of one stone, the one Arthur pulls out, and it is the same sword Excalibur that comes from the Lady of the Lake. So it is with the movie Excalibur.

Merlin (Nicol Williamson) secures Excalibur from the Lady of the Lake for Uther Pendragon (Gabriel Byrne) to help him wage war against the Duke of Cornwall and become ruler of all England.  It is Merlin’s hope that the truce will result in a permanent peace, enforced by this enchanted sword.

Rape

And so it would have been were it not for a disruptive force that recurs throughout this movie, brought about by women.  At a party at Cornwall’s castle celebrating the truce, Cornwall has his wife Igrayne (Katrine Boorman) entertain the guests by dancing.  As soon as Uther sees her, he knows that he must have her, and says so openly in earshot of her husband.  Needless to say, the truce is broken.

Uther’s army lays siege to Cornwall’s castle and tries to batter down the gate, but to no avail.  And so, Uther makes a pact with Merlin that if he can gain access to the castle and possess Igrayne, whatever issues from his lust will be Merlin’s.  What follows is a great scene in which the beautiful, naked Igrayne is being ravished by Uther in a full suit of armor.  (And I knew a woman who complained just because her husband didn’t shave first.)  Nine months later, Igrayne gives birth to Arthur, and Merlin shows up to collect.  Uther gives up the baby, but then changes his mind and chases after Merlin to get him back. However, as Uther is no longer trusted on account of his having betrayed Cornwall, he is ambushed by men intent on killing him and gaining possession of Excalibur.  Mortally wounded, Uther denies them possession of the sword by plunging it into a stone.  Seeing this, Merlin makes the pronouncement that only the future king of England will be able to draw it out.  It is in this way that the movie fuses Excalibur and the sword in the stone into just one sword.

Igrayne cannot be blamed for cheating on her husband when Uther has sex with her. Instead, she is effectively raped, because Merlin’s magic allowed Uther to take on the appearance of Cornwall, thereby deceiving her.  And so, while Cornwall was getting himself impaled by a lance, Igrayne was getting impaled by Uther, who gives her his seed just as Cornwall expels his last breath of air.

There are those, however, who might say she was just asking to be raped, what with her voluptuous dancing, all scantily clad in front of Uther and his men, purposely teasing their passion.  In all seriousness, in this and what follows, there is a suggestion that it is the women who are at fault for all the disruption they cause.  This shouldn’t surprise us.  Men have been blaming women for causing trouble ever since Adam blamed Eve for what happened in the Garden of Eden.

Adultery

Years later, Arthur pulls the sword out of the stone, proving that he is to be king, but many knights have doubts, and another civil war breaks out, in some ways paralleling the first one.  Once again, the man who wields Excalibur wins, the opposing sides are reconciled, and there is a celebration, this time at the castle of Leondegrance (Patrick Stewart).  And once again, there is a woman who dances and who will prove to be a disruptive force, but not quite in the same way.  This time the woman is Guenevere (Cherie Lunghi), but at least she is only the daughter of Leondegrance and not his wife.  As she dances, she is more modestly attired, and Arthur does not merely lust after her as Uther did Igrayne, but has fallen in love. And this time, instead of Uther betraying Cornwall to possess his wife, it is Guenevere who betrays Arthur when she has sex with Sir Lancelot (Nicholas Clay).

Another excellent movie based on the Arthurian legend is Camelot (1967), which is different in tone and style.  For one thing, it is a musical; for another, it is lighthearted, at least in part.  The unifying theme of this movie is also indicated by its title:  Camelot as an ideal place and time.  Arthur (Richard Harris) has ideas about the law and courts that should replace the barbaric notion that disputes were to be settled by force of arms.  There is something almost pathetic about this Arthur, however. When the movie begins, he comes across as timid and fearful.  Admittedly, he is anxious about meeting Guenevere (Vanessa Redgrave), the woman he is to marry, but most of the movie is about his relationship with her.  And from the song she sings, we find that she wants the exciting life of a maiden, in which men fight over her, and not have to enter into an arranged marriage.  She and Arthur meet by accident, and she finds she likes him.  But liking a man and loving him are two different things, so we are not surprised when she falls in love with Lancelot.  As a result, Arthur becomes a cuckold, and that of the worst kind, a wittol.  I don’t mean to go full Nietzsche, but I can’t help thinking that Arthur’s avowed preference for right over might is an expression of weakness. Presumably, we are supposed to admire him for rising above his feelings of jealously, for having an inner strength, but when a man knows his wife is cheating on him and allows it to continue without protest, it is hard not to harbor feelings of contempt.  Eventually, thanks to conniving on the part of Mordred, Arthur is forced to condemn Guenevere to be burned at the stake for her adultery, but she is saved by Lancelot, and the two of them escape to France, soon followed there by Arthur. Too bad Arthur didn’t think of no-fault divorce when he was musing about more civilized ways of behaving. In any event, regarding this rescue of Guenevere by Lancelot, Camelot follows the story as told by Malory in Le Morte d’Arthur and T.H. White in The Once and Future King; but though it is for many a favorite part of the legend, yet it is omitted in Excalibur, perhaps because it would have made the movie too long.

As for Excalibur, there is only suspicion at first, voiced by Sir Gawain at the Round Table, that Guenevere is in love with Sir Lancelot, and that is why he absents himself from their fellowship, which is true.  But while Lancelot nobly tries to resist Guenevere, she proves too much even for him when she seeks him out in the forest and overcomes him with her love.   Later that night, Arthur discovers them together, naked and sleeping in each other’s arms.  Unlike the Arthur of Camelot, this one isn’t putting up with any of that. He plunges the sword Excalibur into the ground between them, thus marking the end of his marriage to Guenevere.

Incest

Another difference between Camelot and Excalibur is this:  in the basic legend, which Camelot mostly follows, Mordred is a man at the time when Guenevere is condemned to die, whereas he has not yet been born when Arthur learns of Guenevere’s infidelity in Excalibur.  And this brings us to a simplification that may actually be the elimination of a complication that arose out of a desire to conceal a story that was originally quite simple.  In Bulfinch’s Mythology, Mordred is simply referred to as Arthur’s nephew. However, in the movie Camelot, we learn that Mordred is Arthur’s bastard son.  In The Once and Future King, White makes it clear that Mordred was both nephew and illegitimate son of Arthur, the result of an incestuous union between Arthur and Morgause, his half-sister. Presumably, the producers of Camelot wished to avoid the notion of incest and mentioned only that Mordred was Arthur’s illegitimate son, just as Thomas Bulfinch avoided the topic by referring to Mordred only as Arthur’s nephew. True, Morgause is said to be Mordred’s mother in this movie, but her being Arthur’s sister is not mentioned.  Excalibur returns to the original story and makes it clear that Mordred was both nephew and son of Arthur.

Continuing the Theme of Incest in Le Morte d’Arthur

While not in this movie, there are a couple of stories in Le Morte d’Arthur that intensify the dread of incest.

The May-Day Massacre.  First, because Arthur had sex with his sister, the offspring of that incestuous union, Mordred, is destined to kill Arthur, ending the kingdom, and bringing ruin upon the land.  Merlin is aware of this, and he tells Arthur that a child born on May Day will be the cause of Arthur’s death.  So, Arthur rounds up all the male babies in England who were apparently born around that time, loads them all on a ship, and sends them to sea where they die in a shipwreck. But wouldn’t you know it!  Mordred is the one baby that survives.  A stranger finds him and raises him until he is fourteen years old.  Well, that trick of killing a bunch of babies didn’t work for Herod either.

Once again, however, it is all the woman’s fault.  Arthur did not know Morgause was his sister, so he was blameless.  Well, almost blameless.  He knew she was married.  But as far as the incest is concerned, Morgause knew what she was doing when she seduced Arthur.

An Oedipal Tease.  Second, when at one point, Mordred became ruler of England in Arthur’s absence, he forged some letters purporting to tell of Arthur’s death while fighting Lancelot.  He called a parliament and asked them to make him king, intending to clinch the deal by marrying Guenevere.  In other words, Mordred, the bastard son of the incestuous union of Arthur and his sister Morgause, intended to marry Arthur’s wife, who is practically his stepmother.  However, the plan fell through and the marriage never took place.

Back to the Movie

Speaking of Morgause, another simplification in Excalibur is that of Morgana (Helen Mirren), the third and most disruptive woman in this movie, a composite character consisting of Morgause and her sisters Morgan le Fay and Nimue, a woman whom Merlin fell in love with and to whom he revealed many secrets of necromancy.  Nimue is sometimes identified with Viviane, the Lady of the Lake.  The Lady of the Lake, by the way, is not the woman whose hand reaches above the water holding Excalibur.  In Le Morte d’Arthur, the Lady of the Lake and Arthur have a conversation about that hand sticking out of the water holding a sword, and she tells him to go get it.

The movie has its own way of blaming the woman for Arthur’s incest.  Morgana makes herself appear to be Guenevere, and Arthur allows her to make love to him, distraught as he is for having just lost the real Guenevere.  And so, if we may rightly say that Uther raped Igrayne by magically taking on the appearance of Cornwall, so too may we say that Morgana raped Arthur by magically taking on the appearance of Guenevere.

Morgana wants Mordred to become king of England.  Over the years, she uses much of her magic to keep herself looking young, but she is tricked by Merlin, at which point she becomes old and ugly. Now that she is no longer sexy and beautiful, Mordred has no more use for her, so he strangles her. This, along with the kisses she gave him on the lips, earlier in the movie when he was growing up, is a contribution by John Boorman, the director, adding a hint of incest between mother and son.

The Holy Grail

Being the offspring of an evil union, Mordred is naturally evil himself.  His birth, in combination with Guenevere’s adultery, and the loss of the sword Excalibur, causes England to go into decline, beset by famine and pestilence; and Arthur, who is one with the land, also goes into decline, coming close to death. He sends his knights off to find the Holy Grail, which will restore England to peace and prosperity. Perceval finds the Grail, restoring Arthur to his former strength when he drinks from it. Arthur calls his remaining knights to arms to fight a third civil war against Mordred.  Knowing that Guenevere has become a nun, he first goes to the convent to forgive her and say that, perhaps in the hereafter, they may be together again.  She agrees.  She then returns Excalibur to him, which has been in her care all this time.

The Death of Arthur

Almost everyone dies in the final battle.  In Le Morte d’Arthur, Arthur thrusts his spear into Mordred, who then forces himself forward on that spear until he can strike Arthur with his sword.  In Excalibur, this is reversed, which is an improvement:  Mordred impales Arthur with his spear, and it is Arthur who pushes forward on that spear until he can use Excalibur to kill Mordred.

Only Percival remains, taking on the role of Sir Bedivere as another simplification. Before Arthur is taken away by three queens to the vale of Avalon, he tells Percival to return Excalibur to the Lady in the Lake. Percival is reluctant to give up the sword, but Arthur says that some day another king will come, and the sword will be there for him when he does.  But that future king is Arthur himself, the king that was once and will be again.

The Phenomenology of Guns

The debate over handguns centers on the question as to whether a given individual is better off owning, and perhaps carrying, a handgun than not; and whether we as a nation are better off allowing our citizens to own, and perhaps carry, such guns.  To that end, arguments are advanced on both sides, supported with statistics of various sorts.  And yet, the issue remains unsettled, each side remaining as firm in its convictions after the arguments and evidence have been presented as they were before.  From this we must conclude that either the reasons given for or against these weapons are insufficient to the case, or we are not as rational as we would like to suppose.

By this point, readers less patient than yourself have already begun skipping down the page to see where I stand in this debate, in order that they may assume the appropriate posture, lest they be lulled into approving my early remarks only to discover later that they should have been despising them all along.  It is not my purpose, however, to argue the point one way or the other, but rather to bring to light an element that often goes unnoticed.  It is a delicate matter which, if not handled properly, may appear to be a veiled insult, instead of the objective analysis I intend.

The matter, understood in its broadest terms, is that of feeling.  Merely possessing a gun will induce a feeling of power in a man, and if that same man wears the gun on his person when he leaves the house, he carries that feeling with him as well.  I say “man” for two reasons.  First, as a matter of grammar, I always use the masculine gender when the sex of the individual is either unknown or indeterminate; and second, as a matter of fact, far more men have guns than women. Nevertheless, women own and carry guns too, and I can only assume that what they feel in this matter is no different from that of the men.  To return to the point, this feeling of power stems, obviously enough, from the fact that guns are dangerous.  And it is that same dangerous quality that will often produce a feeling of dread as well.  I do not wish to oversimplify the issue, but I suspect that whether one owns or carries a gun has more to do with the preponderance of one feeling over the other, of power or dread, than it does with the arguments or statistics alluded to above.

Feelings are much despised, except for recreational purposes.  In serious matters, we are expected to eschew mere emotion and allow reason to prevail. And when it is a matter of life and death, as guns often are, it is unseemly to suggest that whether one carries a gun or not is based on something as frivolous as a mere passion.  Nevertheless, let us consider two situations, in which feeling is allowed to prevail over reason, one for each side of the debate.

We shall begin by assuming that the gun enthusiasts are right, that the individual is safer if he has a gun to protect himself, and that we would be safer as a society if more law-abiding citizens carried a gun.  What then should we say of the timid man, who, though reason urges him to carry a gun, yet his fear of guns keeps him from even owning one?  Is there any doubt that, owing to his apprehension regarding handguns, he would be better off not having one?  A certain amount of confidence and determination is needed to prevail in a gunfight, and lacking that, the timid man might only make things worse for himself if he tried to be something he is not. Complying with a robber by giving him your wallet is a strategy that often costs no more than a few dollars, plus the nuisance of canceling credit cards. If the object is to survive, it is often better to yield than to fight.  So even in the face of the evidence, the timid man might be well-advised to go unarmed. Thus we see that at least in this case, it is proper that feeling should prevail over reason.

Suppose, now, that those who favor strict gun control laws are right, that the individual is far more likely to harm himself and his loved ones by owning a gun, and that we as a nation are not safer but less so, owing to the prevalence of guns in our society.  What then shall we say of the man who, notwithstanding the evidence, persists in owning a gun and carrying it on his person? Clearly, such a man believes that the feeling he derives from owning a gun is worth the increased risk of carrying it.  This man of honor, let us call him, is undeterred by statistics regarding his safety, because it is not his safety he cares about.  He counts his life cheap and his honor dear. More than anything else, the man of honor dreads being a victim.  The idea of suffering the humiliation of being robbed or assaulted fills him with horror, even if his monetary losses are small and his injuries slight.  The idea of going out in a blaze of glory, on the other hand, taking a few punks with him in the process, fills him with a sense of peace.  The woman who believes that rape is a fate worse than death is similarly motivated.

Dueling is no longer a custom in western society, but the human nature that gave rise to it has not changed.  In those days, a man might purposely provoke a duel, if by so doing he could establish his worth as a man.  Except in the military, where the expression “death before dishonor” is an attitude encouraged, honor is today thought of as something quaint, and thus is seldom admitted as a motive, though it often is one nevertheless.

So we say to ourselves, granted the assumption above, if a man is willing to put his own life at risk for the sake of honor, who are we to question his choice?  But, per that same assumption, the man of honor also puts others at risk by carrying a gun, considering the numerous cases of accidental shootings we hear about.  It is not my purpose to moralize, but only to understand.  And it seems clear that if the man of honor is careless of his own life, we should not expect him to be especially concerned with the lives of others.

If this analysis is correct, it may help to decide the question whether the laws concerning the carrying of handguns should require concealment or allow for open-carry.  The problem with allowing people to carry guns openly is not merely that it is disturbing, though it certainly is that, but rather that it leads to an unfortunate need to prove oneself.  A man who goes around with a gun strapped to his hip may look as though he is playing dress-up, and may even invite snickers to that effect.  In such cases, redemption can only come when the gun is fired in anger.  In Roughing It, Mark Twain noted that in Virginia City, in order to have status, it was not enough merely to carry a gun.  One had to have “killed his man.”  Only then did one advance to the rank of desperado. And the man one killed could not be some unarmed store clerk, but rather had to be someone who also carried a gun.  In the following chapter, Mark Twain casually noted that he quit wearing a gun.  He obviously did not want to become someone else’s means of social advancement.  From this we may conclude that if citizens are to be allowed to carry guns, the law should require their concealment, thereby avoiding the need of the man of honor to prove that he is not just a desperado wannabe.

In any event, it is not to be expected that many minds will be changed by all the arguments and evidence concerning guns, for it is more a matter of the heart than the head.  When strong passions are at play, reason must quit the field.   Less still must we expect of reason when she is a servant of two masters, lending her support first to one side and then to the other.

The Razor’s Edge (1946 and 1984)

The Razor’s Edge is a novel by W. Somerset Maugham, written in 1944.  It is about a man that is shocked by his experience during the Great War, which changes him forever and sets him off on a quest to try to understand whether life has any sense to it, or whether it is just a stupid blunder.  It was made into a movie in 1946 and remade in 1984.

The 1946 Movie

The movie begins in Chicago just after the end of the war, with Maugham (Herbert Marshall) finding himself at a party for the upper class, where we meet most of the characters who will figure significantly in the rest of the movie.  One in particular is Elliott Templeton (Clifton Webb), who is exasperated that his niece Isabel (Gene Tierney) is engaged to Larry Darrell (Tyrone Power), because “he hasn’t any money,” and “he doesn’t want a job.”

“That must shock a man like you who’s never earned a penny in his life,” Maugham notes with amusement.

“It may have escaped your notice, my dear fellow,” Elliott replies, “but I am not an ordinary man.  For the run of mankind, industry is essential.  I see no reason why this young man, who my niece has got herself engaged to, should not conform to the customs of his country.”

Elliott says “his” country, because he does not himself regard America as his home, preferring Europe instead, especially Paris.  He says he is in “this benighted city” only to visit his sister, the hostess of the event, and his niece Isabel.  In those days, Europe had snob appeal, what with its royalty and class consciousness, as opposed to America, where no one is born with a title or cares about having a coat of arms.

In fact, as we quickly find out, Larry has turned down a job selling bonds, offered to him by Gray Maturin (John Payne), who comes from a rich family.  Isabel is perplexed by this.  When she asks Larry what he wants to do, he answers, “I don’t know.  Loaf, maybe.”  This confirms Elliot’s characterization of him as “bone idle.”

Isabel makes the observation that many of us watching the movie have been thinking about for several minutes running, which is that you can’t live without money.  Larry replies that he has a little, which gives him the opportunity to do what he wants.  As we find out later, he has an income of $3,000 per year.   The story begins in 1919, so, adjusted for inflation, that would be the equivalent of over $47,000 today.  It was a peculiarity of a previous era that wealth was often expressed in terms of income rather than net worth.  In the novel, after the passage of over ten years, Larry says he was not affected by the stock market crash of 1929 because all his money was in government bonds.  During the years when this story was set, twenty-year Treasury bonds paid an average of 4%.  So, in order to generate an income-equivalent of $47,000 today at this interest rate, Larry’s bonds would have to be worth over $1,175,000.  That is what Larry apparently means when he says he has a “little” money.

In Larry’s situation, I would not have wanted a job either.  The difference, however, is that whereas I really would have loved to spend my life loafing and being bone idle, Larry is bothered by the fact that during the war, a man gave up his life saving him, and he wants to know why, to understand what it all means.

I have no doubt that participating in a war would be a most disturbing experience.  And to come very close to death, only to have another man give up his life saving yours—that would have a profound effect on you.  But Larry’s perplexity seems to go beyond that, as if the event has challenged certain preconceptions he had.  I shall take the liberty of speculating on what those preconceptions were.

There is an idea that shows up periodically in the history of philosophy that man is basically selfish, and any appearance to the contrary can be explained away as selfishness in a less obvious form, sometimes referred to as enlightened egoism.  But a genuine sacrifice of one man’s life for that of another would be hard to explain in that way.  From this it would follow that there must be a transcendent principle that allows man to rise above his animal selfishness, setting aside his self-interest for the benefit of others.  That seems to be what underlies Larry’s need to understand that sacrifice, to find that transcendent principle.

Upon hearing about Larry’s intentions, Isabel decides to put their engagement on hold.  In part, she does not want to try to live on Larry’s income, but she is also bothered by Larry’s lack of ambition, saying that he should get a job as a matter of “self-respect.”  They agree to wait, and Larry goes to Paris, where he believes he will be better able to see things clearly.  In general, the characters in this movie flow from America to Europe, and in Larry’s case, all the way to India, only to return to America as the story ends.

Isabel and her mother come to Paris a year later.  She finds that Larry intends to persist in his existential quest, but he thinks there is no reason why they could not get married anyway.  “Remember how we used to talk about traveling all over the world together?” he asks.

“Of course I want to travel,” she replies, “but not like that:  cheap restaurants, third-rate hotels.  Besides, I want to have babies, Larry.”

“All right, darling,” he says.  “We’ll take them along with us.”

That is utterly unrealistic, and Isabel knows it.  As she has no intention of living the bohemian life that would entail, even without babies, she breaks off the engagement.  Just before she returns to America, Isabel and Larry go out for a multicultural night on the town, after which she intends to seduce him, get pregnant, and force him to return to America, where he will have to marry her, settle down, and get a respectable job.  But she changes her mind.  Elliott, who was wise to her game, asks her why she did not go through with it.  She said she could not bring herself to play such a dirty trick on him, but Elliott says she was just being realistic, knowing the marriage would never have worked.  We all act from mixed motives, and probably her decision not to go through with it was a combination of the two.

Isabel returns to America and eventually marries Gray, which is what Elliott wanted for her all along.  Gray has been quite successful selling bonds, and is now worth $20,000,000.  (Adjusted for inflation, that would be like $270,000,000 today.)  Also at their wedding is Sophie (Anne Baxter), who has been Larry’s best friend since they were children, and her husband Bob.  Sophie and Bob, a couple of modest means, were also at the earlier party with which the movie began.  At that time, she declined a drink when offered, saying that Bob didn’t like her to drink because she was “too fond of it.”  In other words, she is an alcoholic.

The scene shifts back to Europe, where Larry is working as a coal miner.  Now, it was one thing for him to lie around, taking it easy, reflecting on the meaning of life, made possible by his income of $3,000 per year; but if he was going to work anyway, why not get himself a job selling bonds for Gray’s company?  The reason, of course, is the supposedly purifying nature of manual labor.  Working with your hands always seems to be more honest and conducive to a spiritual life than working with your mouth or with your mind, which some people regard as having a corruptive influence on the soul.  That’s why it was important that Jesus had been a carpenter rather than a money lender, for example.

Larry has made friends with Kosti, a nihilistic, defrocked Polish priest, who says that Larry sounds like a religious man who does not believe in God.  Larry says he doesn’t believe in anything.  Kosti suggests that Larry go to India and meet a man that many have found inspirational.  This Larry does, putting himself under the tutelage of the Indian guru.  Whereas Western religions tend to see God as presiding over man and nature, the religious view to which Larry is now exposed thinks of God as one with these things.  The holy man tells him, “There is in every one of us a spark of the infinite goodness which created us.  And when we leave this earth, we are reunited with it as a raindrop falling from Heaven is at last reunited with the sea which gave it birth.”  The movie reinforces this simile comparing God to the sea by beginning and ending with scenes of the ocean, not to mention the many times we see the ocean in the background throughout the movie.  After studying for a while with the holy man, it becomes time for Larry to ascend the mountain and live in solitude.  It is there, seeing the sun come up one morning, that he feels himself to be one with God.  This is the transcendent principle Larry has been seeking, the one he believes is needed to overcome man’s basic selfishness:  if we are all one with God, then altruism is just one part of God helping out another part of God.

Just as manual labor is presented as spiritually preferable to office work, so too is nature presented as more conducive to the experience of revelation than the artificial constructions of civilization.  As it was important for Jesus to go into the wilderness, where he fasted for over a month, so too was it important for Larry to seek solitude on a mountain top, enduring the bitter cold.  By way of contrast, Elliott says he detests the countryside, and Maugham observes at another point in the movie that Elliott looks upon “nature as an impediment to social intercourse.”  In any event, having had this revelation on the mountain top, Larry is advised by the holy man that it is time for him to return to his world.

That world, it turns out, has not been doing so well.  First, Sophie survives an automobile accident in which Bob and her baby are killed.  Somewhat later comes the stock market crash of 1929, in which Gray’s firm is wiped out.  (This was not on account of the bonds his firm had been selling.  In the novel, Gray and his father got caught up in the stock market frenzy and started speculating in securities on the margin.)  In a conversation with Maugham, Isabel notes with irony that she and Gray and their two children are living all right on her income, which is about the same as Larry had when she refused to marry him.  Actually, they are doing better than that.  It seems that Elliott not only got out of the stock market just before the crash, but actually sold short, making a killing.  He has taken a place on the Riviera, where he can hobnob with royalty, while allowing Isabel’s family to live in his posh apartment in Paris, and also providing them with a maid and a governess for the children.

At least, they are all right financially.  Gray, however, has not only been unable to find work, but has suffered a nervous breakdown as well, afflicting him with terrible headaches.  Just as manual labor and communing with nature on a mountain top has given Larry peace of mind, so the fall from high society and the world of finance has given Gray a head full of pain.

When Kosti told Larry about the holy man, he said it was not so much the man’s teachings that affected people, but the man himself.  This recalls what Maugham said at the beginning of the movie, that the man about whom he was writing was not famous, and that he may be entirely forgotten after he has died.  That is, there is something about Larry himself that impresses Maugham, not in anything that he has done.  In fact, Larry does remarkably little.

The first thing he does on his return to Paris, where he becomes reacquainted with Gray and Isabel, is to cure Gray’s headache through hypnosis or the power of suggestion, which he learned in India.  This is not farfetched, for Gray’s headaches are clearly psychosomatic.  As Larry puts it, there is nothing miraculous about what he did; he only put an idea in Gray’s head, and Gray did the rest himself.  It was necessary that Larry explicitly deny that what he did was a miracle, for left unsaid, we might think him a fraud.  (In the novel, Gray says, “It’s a miracle.”  And later, Isabel says the same thing.  But as in the movie, Larry denies it.)  However, it functions as a miracle substitute.  On the one hand, something like a miracle was required.  Suppose Jesus had never performed any miracles.  If all he had done was preach, no religion would have formed around him, no matter how wise and good he may have been.  By the same token, in order for us to be convinced of Larry’s spirituality, he had to do something that at least bordered on the miraculous.  On the other hand, this story is set in the twentieth century.  Had Larry walked on water, we would have thought that to be ridiculous.  And so, as a compromise, Larry does something marvelous, something neither Maugham, Isabel, nor Gray had ever seen before; while at the same time, what he does can be understood rationally, not requiring a supernatural explanation.

Once the headache is gone, they all decide to go out to a nightclub, where Isabel confides in Maugham that she still loves Larry and has never loved anyone else, including her husband, though she says she is too fond of Gray to ever hurt him.  After they spend some time at a respectable nightclub, they decide to go slumming and end up at a dive, a place where people dance the tango, of course.  It is in that seedy place that they run into Sophie.  When I first watched the movie, I figured she worked there.  But in the novel, her in-laws were so scandalized by her drunkenness and promiscuity after Bob and her baby died that they promised her an allowance if she left America.  And now that she is in Paris, she has acquired a taste for opium as well. She also has a man who treats her rough, just the way she likes it.

It is only on the way home that Larry finds out about Sophie’s tragedy.  He gets out of the car and heads back to that nightclub.  Somewhat later, we hear that he has gotten Sophie to quit drinking, and they are going to be married.  Upon receiving that news, Isabel becomes furious.  She tries to get Maugham to tell Larry not to marry Sophie, saying that Sophie is no good.  “The fool thinks he’s cured her,” she says.  Maugham notes that Larry cured Gray, but Isabel replies, “Gray wanted to be cured.  She doesn’t.”  When asked how she knows that, she says, “Because I know women. Do you think she’ll stick to Larry? No. She’ll break out. It’s in her blood. It’s a brute she wants. That excites her. It’s a brute she’ll go after. She’ll lead Larry to Hell.”  Maugham agrees with her, but he doesn’t think there is anything they can do about it.

“Do you think I’ve sacrificed myself,” she asks, “only to let Larry fall into the hands of a woman like that?”  Isabel claims that she gave Larry up so as not to stand in his way.  Maugham sneers at her characterization of what she did as a sacrifice, saying, “You gave him up for a square-cut diamond and a sable coat.”

Maugham gives the usual reasons for not interfering with Larry’s plans to marry Sophie, essentially saying that it is none of their business.  But then he goes a step further. “There’s only one thing you can do,” he says.  “Make the best of a bad job.  Larry’s gripped by the most powerful emotion that can beset the breast of man: self-sacrifice. He’s got to save the soul of the wretched woman whom he had known as an innocent child. And there’s nothing you or I or anyone can do to prevent it.”

While Isabel’s self-serving talk of her sacrifice stands in contrast to the sort that Maugham attributes to Larry, Maugham has a low regard for self-sacrifice, even when it is genuine.  In the novel, he makes it clear that it is a temptation to be avoided, even comparing it with the sacrifice Jesus made, for which he has contempt:

D’you remember how Jesus was led into the wilderness and fasted forty days? Then, when he was a-hungered, the devil came to him and said: If thou be the son of God, command that these stones be made bread. But Jesus resisted the temptation. Then the devil set him on a pinnacle of the temple and said to him: If thou be the son of God, cast thyself down. For angels had charge of him and would bear him up. But again Jesus resisted. Then the devil took him into a high mountain and showed him the kingdoms of the world and said that he would give them to him if he would fall down and worship him. But Jesus said: Get thee hence, Satan. That’s the end of the story according to the good simple Matthew. But it wasn’t. The devil was sly and he came to Jesus once more and said: If thou wilt accept shame and disgrace, scourging, a crown of thorns and death on the cross thou shalt save the human race, for greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. Jesus fell. The devil laughed till his sides ached, for he knew the evil men would commit in the name of their redeemer.

In any event, he advises Isabel to be nice to Sophie, and she seems to agree, but like Maugham, we are suspicious of her motives.

On the pretense of buying Sophie her wedding dress, Isabel connives to get Sophie alone with her.  Isabel praises the vodka Elliott recommended, saying it must be tough giving up alcohol all at once.  Sophie admits that it is a desperate struggle for her to not take a drink, especially when Larry is not around.  Isabel then leaves Sophie alone with the bottle of vodka, saying she has to pick her daughter up at the dentist, knowing Sophie won’t be able to resist the temptation.  Sure enough, Sophie drinks a glass and then another, leading her back to her old ways.  Larry manages to track her down to an opium den, but she refuses to go with him, running away when a fight breaks out.  No one knows anything about her until a year later, when her body is fished out of the harbor, her throat slit.

In the novel, Maugham runs into Sophie in Toulon between the time she ran out on Larry and when she was murdered.  She seems to be much happier than previously.  When the whole group met at lunch just before the wedding was to take place, Maugham described her as looking pitiful:

Sophie hardly spoke except when she was spoken to and then it seemed an effort to her. The spirit had gone out of her. You would have said that something had died in her and I asked myself if Larry wasn’t putting her to a strain greater than she could support.

But now she is in much better spirits.  Not being sure if Maugham knew, Sophie tells him she didn’t marry Larry after all.  Maugham says he knew that, and then asks her why not.  “Darling,” she says, “when it came to the point I couldn’t see myself being Mary Magdalen to his Jesus Christ.”  She tells Maugham about drinking the vodka at Isabel’s apartment, which made her feel “like a million dollars.”  She says she plans to stay in Toulon, where she can get all the opium she wants from the sailors she sleeps with.

One sailor in particular shows up, her boyfriend, whom she says is a jealous Corsican, so Maugham had better leave after buying him a drink.  After introducing them to each other, Sophie and Maugham exchange the following remarks in English:

“Dumb but beautiful,” she said to me.

“You like ’em tough, don’t you?”

“The tougher the better.”

“One of these days you’ll get your throat cut.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she grinned. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

Back to the movie:  Though it was villainous of Isabel to tempt Sophie with the vodka, would it really have made any difference in the long run?  If Sophie could not be left alone for five minutes without drinking down an entire bottle of vodka, and then heading for an opium den, she was doomed anyway.  We all know how people make an extra effort to please the person they are soon to marry, but then revert to their old ways within months of the nuptials.  Isabel was only making manifest before the wedding what was bound to happen after it.

Even if the marriage would have worked, it was essential that Sophie die instead.  Consider the case of Jesus again.  He was able to move from place to place, cleansing the leper, giving sight to a man that was blind, enabling a man that was lame to walk again; after which he would move on to the next town.  In short, Jesus never got tied down to any one person or any one place.  But let Jesus get married and have children, and no matter how wise and good a man he was, we would never have heard of him.  He may have sacrificed himself taking care of a wife who contracted leprosy, while also caring for a son that was blind or a daughter that was lame, working long hours to support them, and yet there would be no religion based on his life.  By the same token, had Larry and Sophie gotten married and made a go of it, it would not have been long before she started having babies.  They would have returned to America, where Larry would have had to take that job selling bonds.  There is nothing like getting married and having a couple of children to put the quietus on your wanderlust.  Maugham would never have written a book about him.

Maugham and Larry make arrangements for Sophie’s funeral, after which Maugham tells Larry that Elliott has had a relapse. Elliott has not gotten on well with Princess Novemali, an American widow who parleyed her fortune for a title by marrying a Roman prince, and who is now a major socialite in France. It seems that Elliott helped spread some rumor about Princess Novemali and her chauffeur, which happened to be true. She is throwing a party to which she has invited everyone of note on the Riviera, except Elliott.  It is going to be the greatest party of the season, and Elliott, though he is on his death bed, yet is devastated that he has not been invited, a deliberate insult, which brings him to tears.  It is the culmination of many such insults, as those who once ate his food and drank his liquor no longer have use for him.  He says he wishes he had never left America.

The bishop that gives Elliott the last rites says, correctly, that he was a good man whose faults were on the surface.  Larry, being good friends with Novemali’s secretary (Elsa Lanchester), manages to obtain an invitation card and fill it out himself, making it look as though Elliott has been invited to the party after all.  His vanity satisfied, Elliott dies a happy man, after instructing Maugham to send his regrets about not being able to attend, and then cursing Princess Novemali with his dying breath.  He leaves his fortune to Isabel, which will allow Gray to get his company out of receivership.

Let us review the deeds of Larry’s life since his return from India.  First, he performed that trick of hypnosis that cured Gray’s headache.  But that means that any psychiatrist skilled in the art of hypnosis might easily have done the same.  Second, taking pity on the woman that was his best friend from childhood, Larry helps her with her alcoholism and decides to marry her.  Marriage is indeed an undertaking not to be entered into lightly, but it is not beyond the pale that you or I, in the same situation, might do the same for a woman who has been our best friend since childhood.  I’m not saying it would be a wise thing to do, mind you, for the reasons already given, but only that we might be foolish enough to try.  Finally, given how easily Larry was able to obtain an invitation card and forge it to make a dying man happy, I dare say that most people would not hesitate to do the like as well.  In the novel, however, it is not Larry that purloins the invitation and forges it, but Maugham.  So Larry doesn’t even get credit for that.  In fact, unlike in the movie, Larry is not present when Elliott dies.

In other words, Larry does not perform miracles, does not become the spiritual leader of a great religious movement, and does not dedicate his life to ministering to the suffering of mankind.  In fact, there is no reason to think that Larry would not have done precisely the same things had he gone to work for Gray selling bonds instead of going to India, save for the fact that he might not have learned that hypnosis trick.  Of course, as Larry reminds us in his final scene with Isabel, recalling what he told her at the beginning of the movie, the really great change in his life came when another man gave up his life saving him, and we never saw what he was like before the war. In any event, Maugham sums up what is special about Larry, saying to Isabel, “My dear, Larry has found what we all want and very few of us ever get. I don’t think anyone can fail to be better and nobler, kinder, for knowing him. You see, my dear, goodness is, after all, the greatest force in the world. And he’s got it.”

Just before the final scene with Larry, Isabel tells Maugham that she intends to see Larry as much as she wants when they all get back to America, saying, “All my life, I’ve done the things other people have wanted me to do. From now on, I intend to do the things I want to do.”  However, it is too late, and in her final scene with Larry, she realizes she has lost him forever, especially when she realizes that he knows that she was responsible for getting Sophie to start drinking again, which ultimately led to Sophie’s death. This scene was not in the novel, where it is Maugham, not Larry, who knows the truth about what Isabel did to Sophie.  It is just one of the ways in which the movie is more effective and satisfying than the novel.

In that last scene with Isabel, Larry tells her of his intention to work in a factory or a garage, because while working with his hands, his mind is free, and yet he is accomplishing something.  He says he may eventually buy a taxicab, where he can always be on the go and meet lots of people.  Once again, the point is that manual labor is the only occupation suitable for a man of his spiritual nature; and once again, the peripatetic life is the only one suitable for him as well.  In the last scene, we see Larry working on a tramp steamer on his way back to America, thus combining the ennobling nature of physical work and movement from one place to another with the spiritual simile of the sea.

When I set out to review a movie that is based on a novel or short story, the question arises as to how much the original source should be taken into account.  It is perfectly reasonable to evaluate a movie on its own terms, as if the novel or short story did not exist.  In some cases, the two are so different that one must ignore the original source material completely.  In other cases, as in this one, the novel and the movie are similar enough so that the former can help shed light on the latter.  And so it is that I have referred to the one in reviewing the other.

But now I must add one more item that was left out of the movie that is of such nature that, had it been included in the movie, I suspect the audience would have lost their admiration of Larry and regarded him a fool, leaving the theater in disgust.

It is one thing, when reading the novel, to hear Larry go on about all that he learned in India, as well as the problems that still puzzle him:  the existence of evil, the nature of God, the karma of reincarnation, and the meaning of life.  And we are not terribly surprised when we read that Larry seldom eats meat, and that he has decided to abstain from sex from now on.

But then he gives away all his money!  He does so because, though his income has made it possible for him to study philosophy and religion, yet he now believes that financial independence would be a burden to him going forward, because it would hinder his quest for the spirituality he seeks.  And he gives away that money, even though it is his plan, upon returning to America, to save up his money until he can buy a taxicab.  I need not tell you how appalled Maugham is when Larry tells him this, or what he says against such a decision, for it is the same reaction that most of us would have.  A man may embrace any number of religious views and then drop them as the years go by when they no longer suit his fancy.  He may become a vegetarian, only to give that up and have himself a thick steak.  He may decide to be celibate, and then give in to his lust should the occasion warrant.  But once he gives away all his money, it is gone for good.

In delving into philosophy, Larry should have read Aristotle, who said that while money cannot buy happiness, a certain minimum level of material wellbeing is necessary for it, for no one can be happy who is cold and hungry, which may be Larry’s fate someday, when poor health and old age eventually come upon him.

The 1984 Remake

The 1946 version of The Razor’s Edge is about as good as one could want, but it was remade in 1984 anyway.  Some people do not like old movies, especially when they are in black and white, so that may have been the thinking behind the production of this second version.  But there are differences far more significant than that.

One in particular is what Larry did during the war.  In the novel, he was a fighter pilot.  Before I had read the novel, I always assumed, when watching the 1946 movie, that Larry had been in the infantry.  In the 1984 version, however, the story begins as Larry, played by Bill Murray, has volunteered to become an ambulance driver in Europe at a time when America had not yet entered the war.  But if at this point in the story, Larry is willing to risk his life to save others, why should he be so shocked that someone lost his life saving him?

The scene in which Larry’s life is saved is perplexing.  Larry says of the man who died saving his life:

He was a slob. Did you ever see him eat? Starving children could fill their bellies on the food that ended up in his beard and on his clothes. Dogs would gather to watch him eat. I’ve never understood gluttony, but I hate it. I hated that about you. He enjoyed disgusting people, being disgusting, the thrill of offending people and making them uncomfortable. It was despicable. You will not be missed.

Well, that’s quite a eulogy.  I know we’re all supposed to understand that this is Larry’s way of expressing his gratitude and affection for the man that saved his life.  But we know this only because it’s a movie, and because Gray and another man give each other knowing looks, indicating that they understand, so we are supposed to understand too.  In real life, however, no one would ever say such things over a dead man unless he had contempt for him.  I’m just glad he doesn’t say something like that when Sophie (Theresa Russell) dies.

So, what is the effect of having a man give his life to save Larry’s?  Apparently, it turns him into a jerk, even to the point of his becoming rude and violent, yelling at Isabel and later at Elliott.  The Larry of the novel and the 1946 version is good-natured and soft-spoken, but in the scene where Larry kicks an expensive piece of Elliott’s furniture, breaking it to pieces, it is Elliott who is calm and composed.  At that point, I wanted to forget about Larry and stay with Elliott.  And why does Larry yell and break furniture?  Because he isn’t getting his way.  He didn’t want to marry Isabel right after the war, as they had planned, and she was supposed to understand.  But now that it pleases him that they should marry a year later, on his terms, she is the one that doesn’t want to.  That makes him angry.

Whereas in the novel and the 1946 version, Isabel almost has sex with Larry in order to get pregnant and force him to make an honest woman out of her; in this version, because the movie was made in 1984, she has sex with Larry without getting pregnant.  I suppose this was to make the story seem up to date.  When she wakes up in the morning in Larry’s apartment, there is a disgusting bug on her pillow, and in the hallway, she sees rats.  When she goes to use the communal bathroom, it is repulsive.  But Larry’s place was not like that in the novel.  It was decent, though modest, and had its own bathroom.  But in this 1984 version, his room is a sty.

Years later, when Larry discovers Sophie in that dive and brings her to his apartment, it is a much nicer place.  It’s clean and has its own bathroom.  Maybe that’s what he learned in India.

This is just one of the ways in which this movie is over the top.  Here’s another:  In the novel, when the stock market crashes, Gray’s father dies of a heart attack.  In this 1984 version, his father blows his brains out.  And Gray becomes so upset that he cuts his hands smashing them through glass panels.

It is fine that this movie wants to extol the wisdom of India, but in so doing, it feels compelled to to take a cheap shot at Christianity.  As Sophie lies in the hospital bed, distraught that Bob and her baby have both been killed, a nun tells her it is a time for rejoicing, for her husband and the baby are now both in Heaven.  In real life, one may occasionally run into a nitwit like that, but in this movie, the nun is put forward as representative of Christianity.  In other words, Eastern religion good, Western religion bad.

In the novel and in the 1946 version, we are supposed to regard Larry’s plan to marry Sophie as an act of self-sacrifice, evidence of his spiritual transformation.  But at the end of this movie, when Larry is accusing Isabel of killing Sophie, he says, “I thought Sophie was my reward for trying to live a good life.”  A reward, not a sacrifice.  So, in this movie, he was just going to do what he wanted to do anyway, marry a woman he was in love with.  Men do that every day, and they don’t have to go to India first either.

Speaking of Sophie, instead of her and Bob being a happily married couple, in this version, Bob got her pregnant and had to marry her, after which he appears to be unhappy to have lost his freedom.  And there is no indication that Sophie is an alcoholic at this time.  It was a lot easier to believe that Sophie would descend into drink and promiscuity in the novel and the 1946 movie after the accident.  Sure, it could still happen, even so, but why make changes in the story that work against such an outcome?

Another difference between the two versions is that Maugham is not a character in the 1984 version and thus provides no narration.  Because Larry never did anything miraculous or spectacular, we needed Maugham’s commentary to tell us that Larry’s spiritual nature was such as to inspire others to be better human beings.  Without Maugham to guide our appreciation of this aspect of Larry’s personality, we are not likely to figure that out on our own.  And even if there had been a Maugham in this version, I don’t think we would have believed him.

In the end, Larry’s wisdom concerning the meaning of life is that there is no reward for being good, but nothing matters anyway.

Murray cared a lot about this movie and was disappointed when it flopped.  Little did he realize that the spiritual movie that he was perfectly suited for was a comedy, Groundhog Day (1993), which is every bit as much a classic now as the 1946 version of The Razor’s Edge.

On the Need for Society’s Approval in Matters of Love

A woman commits adultery, dies in the end.  That is the plot of Anna Karenina, a novel by Leo Tolstoy.  There is also this other story about a man named Levin, but nobody cares about him. To a certain extent, the novel is dated, or at least bound to the time and place of its setting, Russia in the middle of the nineteenth century.  It was a time when divorce was not allowed except for reasons of adultery, which for the guilty party would then preclude the possibility of remarriage and result in the loss of custody of one’s children. And everyone would be scandalized.  Today, Anna would simply get a divorce and then move in with her lover Vronsky, whom she could marry if she wanted to, but she might not bother.  Even if she committed adultery before getting divorced, she would probably get custody of her children, or at least visiting rights.  And aside from her husband, no one would care.  Thus, the story could never be set in twenty-first century America.  Nevertheless, adultery always interests us, and the particular laws and mores of the time and place merely make for variations on an ancient theme of love, deceit, and betrayal.

There is, of course, a double standard, which Tolstoy underscores by beginning his novel with an adulterous affair between Anna’s brother Stiva and the family’s governess.  Anna convinces Dolly, her sister-in-law, that Stiva loves her, that the affair with the governess was just sex, that he is miserable and truly sorry for what he has done, and that the best thing to do is to forgive him.  She does, and all is well.  No need for a long Russian novel about a cheating husband.

Like so many unfaithful spouses, Anna does a terrible job of keeping her affection for Vronsky secret, both with respect to her husband Karenin and their acquaintances.  Her husband warns her that her behavior is giving others the wrong impression.  He avers that jealousy is a degrading and humiliating feeling, which he refuses to countenance.  He emphasizes that he is not inquiring into her feelings, to which he says he has no right.  He only asks that she comport herself with a modicum of decorum.

Whew!  He’s a better man than I am.  Whenever I have become jealous as a result of the way a girlfriend is behaving with another man, it is precisely her feelings that worry me.  If I could be sure of those, she could stand in the rain with him and get wet for all I care.  There was this one girlfriend I had who was getting a little too familiar with another man, and I was none too happy about it.  She must have picked up on it, because as soon as we were alone, she began kissing me, and telling me how much she loved me. Ladies, if you want to reassure a jealous man, that is how it is done.  Don’t argue with him.  Don’t tell him he has an ego problem.  Just start kissing him as though you really mean it. As simple as that might sound, it is something an unfaithful wife will find hard to do.  And as a matter of fact, Anna does not kiss her husband, but merely says she does not know what he is talking about.  And thus she gives herself away one more time.

Things really come to a head when Vronsky falls off his horse during a race, causing Anna to display an inordinate amount of emotion.  On the way home, Karenin cautions her again about behaving in a way that is causing gossip. Fed up, she tells him she hates him and loves Vronsky.  At that point, he becomes silent.  When they get home, he tells her she still needs to keep up appearances until he can make arrangements to protect his honor, after which he gets out of the carriage, politely helps her out, and then gets back in the carriage to continue on to St. Petersburg.  Whew!  He’s a better man than I am.  It’s enough to make me wish I were thirty years younger and married to an unfaithful wife, just to see if I could pull off a class act like that.

Karenin’s admonitions to Anna to behave appropriately are disregarded.  She leaves him and begins living with Vronsky.  The climax of their struggles of living in sin occurs the night they go to the theater.  Anna is snubbed and insulted.  She becomes so wretched that she eventually commits suicide by throwing herself under the wheels of a moving train.

One of the problems with reading Anna Karenina today was alluded to above. Unless we are personally involved, we no longer condemn people for committing adultery, getting divorced, or cohabitating.  And so, when I first read this novel, my attitude was that Anna had every right to seek happiness with the man she loved, and that society was wrong for being so cruel to her, as if the question of right and wrong settled the issue.  Years later, I saw a movie version of this novel, the one with Greta Garbo made in 1935.  Perhaps owing to the much simplified narrative of that film, I realized that it did not matter that society was wrong to condemn Anna. What matters is that society’s disapproval can crush you like the wheels of a train.

When the norms of society stand between us and our happiness, we tend to underestimate the social forces we are going up against.  When we are in love, we feel we have a right to be happy, and that makes us foolish.  Sure, we might be happy if people would just leave us alone, but how much happiness can there be if they will not?

There are two types of social disapproval when it comes to sex, the aesthetic and the moral.  In the aesthetic category, I include size, age, and class, though that is not an exhaustive list. When I was in high school, I briefly dated a girl who was taller than I by about two inches.  We got along fine when it was just the two of us, but as soon as we went out in public, I became self-conscious.  No one said anything to me, but they did not have to. I simply knew how we must have looked together, and what I might have thought had I seen a couple as mismatched as we were.  Without our having to discuss it, we quit seeing each other, no hard feelings. Society won, we lost.

I ruefully reflected on the fact that had we discussed the matter, we might have agreed to keep our relationship a secret.  But that almost never happens with an aesthetic deviation from what is acceptable.  One person might be cynical enough to want to sneak around and keep it private, but the other is bound to be hurt by such a suggestion.  In fact, aesthetically inappropriate lovers are more inclined to become defiant than clandestine:  a couple in which the man is shorter is more likely to be seen holding hands than one that conforms to the norm.

In the case of an inappropriate age difference, especially where the woman is significantly older than the man, the real problem lies more in the future than the present.  If they just have a fling, all will be well.  But love is hard to control, and if instead they marry, their friends will shake their heads and calculate the cruel arithmetic of the years to come.  (Of course, when I speak of inappropriate age differences, I confine my discussion in this matter, as well as to other sexual relationships that may meet with disapproval, to consenting adults.)

As for class, there is the well-known expression, spoken by women with a sense of dread, “She married beneath her station.”  But it is also a problem when things are reversed.  A man who wishes to get ahead in the world must make sure he has a wife of suitable status.  There is an expression often heard regarding aspiring executives who have low-class wives:  “As soon as she opened her mouth, he was dead.”  Where the class difference between two lovers is significant, they would be wise to hide it from others, but such prudence is rare.  Lady Chatterley was able to have a good relationship with the gamekeeper because the affair was adulterous, thus requiring secrecy for moral reasons.  Had they both been single, they would have had no excuse for keeping their aesthetically inappropriate love private, and would likely have succumbed to the felt need to tell the world, possibly even to the point of getting married. Such a mésalliance would have opened them up to scorn and derision, and the whole thing would have been a disaster.

Where the disapproval of society is moral and rather than aesthetic, secrecy is more easily agreed to.  But even here, living a lie is a strain, and likely to give way to defiance, as in the case of Anna, with her brutal confession to her husband.  The way was open to her to continue having the affair, provided she was discreet.  But that would have required a degree of sangfroid of which Anna was not capable.  Unfaithful spouses often admit their infidelity more out of emotional exhaustion than honesty.

Many of the types of relationships for which there once was strong moral condemnation, such as fornication, homosexuality, and miscegenation, have become more accepted today.  A measure of their acceptance lies in the fact that they are no longer illegal, and they do not disqualify one for public office. Even adultery is not a disqualifier in politics, provided the affair is not ongoing.  To say that such relationships will today be met with no social resistance at all, however, would be going too far.  Couples of different religion sometimes meet with disapproval, but mostly from their families, not from American society in general.

There is one remaining type of relationship between consenting adults for which there is still strong moral disapproval, even to the point of being illegal in some states, and that is incest.  And wouldn’t you know it, it just so happens that I knew a woman once who had an incestuous affair.  In telling this story, it is necessary for me to exercise maximum discretion, so suffice it to say she fell in love with a man to whom she was closely related.

What can we say about incest between consenting adults?  There is the problem of inbreeding, of course, but she was no longer fertile, and in any event, what with the availability of birth control and abortion, that need not be a concern.  And so, when I found out about their situation, I had a tendency to shrug and say, “Who cares?”  But that was a silly question, because the answer is that lots of people care, and very much so. Interestingly enough, about three months before all this happened, she told me she had seen Anna Karenina on television, and she seemed quite fascinated by the story. Unfortunately, she must have missed the part where Anna was destroyed by the disapproval of society.

They could have kept their affair a secret, but I guess it is hard to say, “I love you, but I am ashamed of what we are doing, so let’s make sure no one finds out.”  So they went with defiance and started living together.  “I don’t care what people think,” I once heard him say, ostensibly about an unrelated matter.  But people who really don’t care what others think feel no need to say so.  In any event, when she told me what was going on, as if I had not already figured that out along with everyone else, she idealized their relationship as true love, the union of two soul mates.  Of course, they had to think of it that way in order to justify what they were doing.  And this meant that it would be difficult for them to break up, should things not work out, because that would mean admitting to themselves that instead of it being true love, it was just a sordid affair of forbidden lust.  In other words, they were going to be stuck with each other for a long time.

They moved away, but a mutual friend visited her one weekend a couple of years later, after which she called me to tell me about it.  She said they were miserable.  How much of that misery was due to what happens to people when love dies, and how much was due to the shame of violating a taboo, I cannot say.  But what I can say, what I learned from reading Anna Karenina, is that when it comes to sex, having the approval of society is one of the goods that can contribute to a happy life, and having its disapproval may preclude happiness altogether.  This is a truth we are loath to acknowledge, for we feel that such matters are nobody’s business but our own.  And yet, it is folly to pretend it isn’t so.