Summer of ’42 (1971) and The Way We Were (1973)

The Way We Were begins in 1944. Katie (Barbra Streisand) runs into Hubbell (Robert Redford), a good-looking guy she met in college and whom she had a crush on. But as she is rather homely, her love for him was hopelessly unrequited. She invites him up to her place for a cup of coffee, but he is so drunk that without realizing what he is doing when he comes out of the bathroom, he gets undressed and falls asleep in her bed. She gets naked, slides into bed with him, and encourages him. Without really knowing what he is doing, he has sex with her, and she hopes he knows it is Katie he is making love to. But by the next morning, it is clear that he has no memory of what happened, and he merely thanks her for letting him sleep there.

In evaluating this scene, we must do so from the vantage points of three different periods: the last days of World War II, when the scene took place; the early 1970s, when the movie was made; and the twenty-first century, when we watch this movie today. In other words, each of these three different periods will tend to yield three different moral judgments about that sex scene.

But first, let us reverse the sexes. By today’s standards, if a man were to have sex with a woman while she was too drunk to know what she was doing, that would be rape, for she would be in no condition to consent. However, in accordance with twenty-first century egalitarianism, we would not limit it to just a man doing that to a woman. Rather, we would say that if one person had sex with a second person when that second person was too drunk to know what he or she was doing, then the first person has raped the second person. This allows for the possibility that a woman could rape a man, a man could rape a man, and a woman could rape a woman. In other words, by today’s standards, Katie raped Hubbell.

In 1944, when the scene took place, if it had come to light what Katie had done, no one would have called it rape. Katie’s behavior would have been condemned, but not as an act of rape. Rather, she would have been regarded as a slut, in that she had sex without being married. And in no way would Hubbell have been thought of as victimized.

In 1973, when the movie was released, the people who made this movie probably did not think of it as rape either. And given the fact that it was made after the sexual revolution, what Katie did was not condemned as slutty either. In other words, the audience of the early 1970s did not condemn Katie at all.

In fact, the people who made the movie in 1973 probably had no idea that over forty years later this scene would challenge our willingness to apply a single standard to both men and women when it comes to rape. In other words, if a man who takes advantage of a drunk woman can be charged with rape and sentenced to a year in prison, should the same sentence be given to a woman who does that to a man? In particular, if The Way We Were were set in the twenty-first century, would we say that Katie should have gone to prison for what she did to Hubbell?

Some people might argue that since she and Hubbell later fell in love and got married, that made it all right. But suppose a twenty-first-century Hubbell were to realize what happened when he woke up the next morning. And let us further assume that this twenty-first-century Hubbell was outraged and felt disgusted by what happened. Under those circumstances, should Katie spend a year in prison?

Such a distinction suggests that whether such an act constitutes rape depends not merely on the circumstances leading up to and including the act of sex, but also on what happens after the fact.  To reverse the sexes again, imagine a man has sex with a woman who is drunk.  The next morning, he calls her up, tells her he really enjoyed being with her the night before, asks her out for another date for that weekend, leading eventually to their getting married.  It will never occur to that woman that she had been raped.  But suppose, instead, that he doesn’t call her, and she later hears from her friends that he has been bragging about how he got a piece of old what’s her name, she may feel violated and end up bringing charges against him.

Determining whether Katie raped Hubbell would be further complicated if Katie had been as drunk as he was.  By today’s standards, if Katie were that drunk, it would be said that she was unable to give consent; and by today’s standards, a man’s being drunk is no legal excuse for taking advantage of a woman who is too intoxicated to give her consent.  Therefore, by today’s standards, had Katie and Hubbell been equally drunk, she could claim to have been raped, and Hubbell would be in trouble.

I confess that I have a double standard concerning rape in such a circumstance. First, I would find it hard to believe that even a twenty-first-century Hubbell would be all that put out by what she did. And second, I would not want to see Katie go to prison in any event.

But my views are not important. What is important is that this scene in the movie, imagined to take place today, tests our willingness to apply a single standard to both men and women in such cases. Most people I know, after some hesitation, will admit that they would not want to see Katie do hard time.

In a way, Summer of ’42 is a companion piece with The Way We Were, only instead of challenging our attitude about rape and the double standard when it comes to having sex with someone too drunk to give consent, Summer of ’42 challenges our attitude about rape and the double standard when it comes to having sex with someone too young to give consent.

With both movies, we pretty much have the same three time periods: the 1940s, when the movies were set; the early 1970s, when the movies were made; and today, when we watch them from the perspective of the twenty-first century. In Summer of ’42, a 15-year-old boy named Hermie (Gary Grimes) falls in love with a 22-year-old woman named Dorothy (Jennifer O’Neill). One evening, she gets word that her husband’s plane has been shot down over France, and he is dead. She and Hermie have sex, and the next day she is gone.

I never really cared for this movie, but that is neither here nor there. The sense of it was that Dorothy, in her grief, turns to Hermie for affection, and that what happens is a deeply meaningful and positive experience for him. Now, I don’t know what the laws were in Massachusetts in 1942, but I am pretty sure that in most states, if a 22-year-old man had sex with a 15-year-old girl, he would be guilty of statutory rape; and if found out, he would be sent to prison, especially when the jury was told that he had sex with her on the very night he found out his wife had been killed, for that would make him seem callous. Should we condemn the man but excuse the woman? Did Dorothy deserve to go to prison for rape, just as a man would?

Once again, as with The Way We Were, we have a situation in which there is consent after the fact, in this case, when the boy becomes a man. Does that matter? And if it does, what would our attitude toward Dorothy be if the adult Hermie was psychologically harmed? And once again we have to distinguish between the attitudes existing when the movie was set, when it was made, and the attitudes we have today.

Even today, the double standard lends itself to late-night humor. Typical was when Jay Leno was discussing a story about a female teacher that had sex with one of her male students, leading Leno to ask in exasperation, “Where were these teachers when I was in Junior High?” Humor aside, could Summer of ’42 be made today? More to the point, could such a story be told in a contemporary setting? Probably not. But I wonder if that represents a genuine change in attitude on the part of the general public, or simply a fear that a handful of radicals would stir up trouble, making the film controversial. I, for one, would have a hard time condemning Dorothy, even if the story were set in the present, just as I would have a hard time condemning Katie, even if that story were set in the present.

Unforgiven (1992)

As the movie Unforgiven opens, we see a man digging a hole near a medium-sized tree, while we hear “Claudia’s Song,” a nice piece of sentimental music.  From the written prologue, we gather that the man is William Munny (Clint Eastwood), burying his wife Claudia, who died of smallpox, leaving him to raise two young children.  Munny used to be an outlaw, but Claudia got him to quit drinking and give up his wicked ways. Whenever we hear her eponymous melody, we know that Munny is still under her influence.

The scene shifts to the town of Big Whiskey, Wyoming, and to Greely’s Beer Garden and Billiard Parlor in particular, which is really just a saloon and a whorehouse.  One of the whores named Delilah giggles when she sees the small penis of one of her customers, a man named Mike, and he gets out his knife and starts trying to cut her up.  His friend Davey is in the next room, humping on Strawberry Alice, and the two of them hear Delilah’s screams and come running.  Mike yells at Davey to hold Delilah. It’s a little hard to see what is going on because the room is dark, and so, just from watching the movie, I never thought that Davey did anything.  However, in the “Original Screenplay,” it says that Davey reluctantly holds Delilah while Mike slashes her face.

The present owner of Greely’s, a guy named Skinny, breaks it up by putting a gun to Mike’s head. Someone fetches Little Bill Dagget (Gene Hackman), the sheriff.  He decides that Delilah is essentially the property of Skinny.  As a result, Little Bill merely fines Mike and Davey for cutting Delilah’s face up.  They are told to bring Skinny seven horses in compensation for the damage to his property.

The whore with a heart of gold is a Western cliché, but in this movie, we have six whores with six hearts of gold.  They are outraged by the way Little Bill let Mike and Davey off with just a fine. They put their savings together and put out the word to their customers that they are willing to pay a thousand dollars to anyone that kills the two men that cut up Delilah.

Meanwhile, back in Kansas, we see that Munny is a pig farmer, which makes me think of Shane (1953).  In that movie, Alan Ladd, as the title character, walks into a bar to get some soda pop for Joey (Brandon De Wilde), a young boy, not old enough to enter the bar himself.  Chris Calloway (Ben Johnson) is sitting at a table with some other cowpokes.  When he sees Shane, he says to the bartender, “Will!  Let’s keep the smell of pigs out from where we’re drinking.”  Chris works for Rufus Riker (Emile Meyer), who owns a ranch. We know they are real men because they herd cattle. Homesteaders, on the other hand, may have a single dairy cow, but they typically own pigs.

And so, we see that Munny has sunk pretty low.  To make matters worse, we see him falling down in the mud trying to move the pigs around, mud that is probably mixed with feces.  While this is going on, a young man rides up, calling himself the “Schofield Kid.”  He’s heard about Munny’s reputation for being a killer, and he wants him for a partner to help collect the bounty of a thousand dollars for killing the two men that cut up Delilah.  Except that the story, as he relates it, has grown some.  He says that the two men not only cut up the face of a “lady,” but they also cut her eyes out, cut off her ears, and cut off her teats. This is the first indication we have that the stories about the Old West were exaggerations, which suggests that this is a revisionist Western.

At first, Munny declines the offer to be the Schofield Kid’s partner, saying he’s not like that anymore.  However, he soon decides to go for the bounty.  He is no longer good with a pistol, but he decides he can make do with his shotgun.  And his horse is not used to be ridden on, so he has trouble mounting her.  But he eventually manages to ride over to the farm of his old partner, Ned (Morgan Freeman), and talk him into going along with him.  Ned agrees, grabs his Spencer rifle, and they set out to catch up with the Schofield Kid.

Munny keeps talking about how his wife Claudia got him to quit drinking and killing. Another Western cliché is the gunfighter with a guilty past, and he has the guiltiest past of them all.  He thinks back on some of the men he killed, men that he admits didn’t even deserve it.  Later we find out that he was responsible for setting off some dynamite that killed women and children.  But Munny keeps saying, as a kind of mantra, that Claudia changed him, that he’s not like that anymore.  It’s just that he needs the money for a new start for him and his children.

Meanwhile, another man is on a train heading to Big Whiskey to collect the bounty.  He is English Bob (Richard Harris), accompanied by W.W. Beauchamp, his biographer, who has written about English Bob’s exploits in his book The Duke of Death.  There is a discussion on the train about the recent shooting of President Garfield.  English Bob says that’s why it would be better if America were ruled by a monarch, since people are intimidated by majesty and are less likely to assassinate a king or a queen.  Not only does he have the effrontery to come over here and tell us how to run our country, but he doesn’t seem to realize that being a gunfighter is an American preserve.  We know things are not going to end well for English Bob.

As English Bob and Beauchamp arrive in Big Whiskey in a mud wagon, they pass a sign that says firearms are not allowed in town and must be deposited in the county office. When they get off the mud wagon, a deputy politely informs them that they must surrender their sidearms for the duration of their visit. Although there is a pistol in full view on English Bob’s hip, he denies that he or his companion have any sidearms.

Now, if I rode into town hoping to collect a bounty and was told that guns had to be turned in to the sheriff, I would have turned in my gun.  Then I would have looked around town, talked to the whores, and reflected on this unexpected turn of events. Once I decided what I was going to do, whether to give up on the bounty altogether or try to collect it by other means, I would have told the sheriff I was leaving, received back my gun, and ridden out of town, intent of leaving for good or executing Plan B.

Anyway, after refusing to hand the deputy his pistols, English Bob gets himself a shave. When he comes out of the barbershop, he is surrounded by Little Bill and his deputies. Little Bill takes two guns away from English Bob, and proceeds to knock him down in the street and then repeatedly kick him, to serve as a warning to anyone else who might be thinking about collecting that bounty.  He then throws both English Bob and Beauchamp in jail.

Meanwhile, Munny and Ned finally catch up with the Schofield Kid.  But just before they do, Ned gets curious about Munny’s sex life.  Ned is so needy sexually that he hated the idea of leaving his wife, an Indian named Sally Two Trees, even for just a couple of weeks.  So, he wonders if Munny ever goes to town to have sex with a whore. Munny says Claudia wouldn’t want him doing that.

And then Ned asks him if he masturbates.  That qualifies this movie as a modern Western, suitable for the 1990s.  Of course, if the movie had been made ten years later, Ned and Munny would have pulled a Brokeback Mountain (2005).  And if made ten years after that, around the time that The Shape of Water (2017) was receiving the Academy Award for Best Picture, I suppose Munny would have found a deep, meaningful relationship with one of those pigs he had.  It’s important for a movie to stay up with the times.

Back at the sheriff’s office, Little Bill is reading The Duke of Death, only he insists on calling it “The Duck of Death” instead.  He is especially interested in this one part of the book, telling how English Bob protected a lady by killing seven men with two pistols.  It turns out that Little Bill was there that night, and he proceeds to tell Beauchamp how it really was.  And how it really was turns out to be a sorry mess.

Beauchamp becomes so interested that Little Bill lets him out of his cell so that he can start writing stuff down.  Little Bill revels in his revisionism, and Beauchamp becomes more interested in that than in the romanticized stories he has been writing about English Bob.  The next day, Little Bill runs English Bob out of town, but Beauchamp stays behind.  They end up at Little Bill’s house, which he has been building himself. It’s a running joke among the deputies that Little Bill is no carpenter, one of them saying there is not one straight angle in the whole house.

That night, while Beauchamp is writing down more of Little Bill’s revisionist tales, it starts raining, and the roof starts leaking in several places.  Beauchamp jokes that Little Bill should hang the carpenter, not realizing who the carpenter was.  The joke does not go over well with Little Bill.  The house is symbolic of his revisionism, in that it is as ugly and deformed as the stories he tells.

Back out on the prairie, the Schofield Kid asks Munny if that story is true about how two deputies had rifles pointed at him, and he drew his gun and killed both of them. Munny says he doesn’t “recollect,” either because he really forgot, on account of being drunk at the time, or because he feels guilty about his past and doesn’t want to talk about it.  The Kid then claims he has killed five men, although Ned and Munny don’t believe him, and, as we later learn, it turns out he’s never killed anyone at all. Once again, the movie is saying that stories of the Old West were exaggerations, if not complete fabrications, as when men like English Bob and the Schofield Kid brag about their fictitious exploits.

But later on, Ned says to Munny that the way he remembered it, there were three deputies that had the drop on him, not just two, and Munny killed all three of them. Munny says he’s not like that anymore.  This is the opposite what we have seen up till now.  The true story about Munny killing three deputies changed over the years to just two deputies in order to make the story more believable.  And whereas English Bob and the Schofield Kid made up stories about themselves, Munny refuses to acknowledge the stories about him that really happened.  This is the first instance of anti-revisionism in this movie, a counterpoint that gets stronger as we go along.

Eventually they arrive in the town of Big Whiskey and go into Skinny’s saloon.  Munny has become ill, owing to the cold rain they have been riding in.  While the Kid and Ned go upstairs to discuss the bounty and get a little advance on it by having sex with a couple of whores, Munny remains seated at a table, shivering. Word has gotten out about their arrival, and soon Little Bill and his deputies show up, surrounding Munny, as Little Bill asks him if he or his friends are carrying any guns.  Munny says he is not armed, and his friends don’t have guns either.

Here we go again!  At first, I thought English Bob was just being foolish in denying he had a couple of pistols on him, as another way of saying that British immigrants have no business being in a Western, especially in the role of a gunslinger.  But now we have Munny doing the same thing.  And so, once again, Little Bill finds that Munny does have a pistol, and once again, he starts kicking him just as he did English Bob, after which he throws Munny out into the street.  Strawberry Alice tells the Kid and Ned where they can hide out, somewhere outside of town. They find Munny, now barely on his horse, and they head on out to the place Alice told them about.

This is exactly where they could have ended up without any trouble.  Munny could have admitted that they didn’t see the sign, apologized while handing over his gun, and admitted his friends had guns too.  Then, the next day, they could have told Little Bill they were leaving town, collected their weapons, and ridden out to the house Alice told them about. Instead, Munny has not only been beaten severely, but he no longer has his pistol anymore either.

In expressing my dismay at the way these two men, English Bob and William Munny, refuse to hand over their guns, I am not saying that this movie is being unrealistic in this regard.  It reminds me of those stories we see on the news where some guy is pulled over by the police and asked to show his drivers license, and instead of simply complying with that request, he wants to argue about it.  Some people are like that, stubbornly resistant to authority, even when it is likely to cause them grief.

The fact that some people are like that does not answer the question, why are English Bob and William Munny like that?  That is to say, the mere fact that there are people like that in real life does not, by itself, warrant their being in a movie.  It has to be justified dramatically as well.  The only thing I can figure is that having Little Bill kick Munny all around the barroom floor makes the revenge Munny gets on Little Bill later on all the sweeter.  And then, having English Bob do the same thing previously, only to get kicked around in the street, normalizes their behavior.  If Munny had been the only one to do this, we might have said to ourselves, “Boy, that guy sure is dumb!”  But having had English Bob do it as well is intended to make us believe that gunslingers in the Old West, who went around killing people on a regular basis, would have been strongly averse to handing over their firearms.

After three days, Munny recovers.  He and his two companions find out where Davey is with some other cowboys herding cattle.  Ned shoots at him with his Spencer rifle, hitting his horse instead, which falls on Davey, breaking his leg.  As he tries to crawl away, Ned can’t bring himself to finish him off.  Munny takes the rifle and finally hits Davey in the gut.  He is dying, but slowly and in much pain.

This is not the kind of kill we usually see in a classical Western, where men die immediately, unless their death is delayed for just a moment in order to allow for some final bit of dialogue.  The ugliness of Davey’s death brings us back to the revisionist mode.  After it’s over, Ned says he can’t do it anymore, and he leaves to go back home.

Later, Munny and the Kid find out where Mike, the other man with the reward on his head, is holed up. When Mike comes out of the cabin to use the outhouse, the Kid sneaks up on him, opens the outhouse door, and shoots him right in the middle of his bowel movement.  And this leads to a fundamental principle:  if you want to make a movie that the audience will regard as revisionist, it helps to have an outhouse scene. Outhouses in Westerns were frowned upon while the Production Code was still in force, and a classical Western would have eschewed them in any event.  But once the Production Code was replaced by the ratings system in 1968, outhouses started showing up regularly.  Making sure that bowel movements are given their due lends a Western an aura of authenticity.  At first, we only saw them from the outside, but in 1972, The Great Northfield Minnesota Raid moved us right into the outhouse, where we found Robert Duvall and another man sitting side by side, discussing their next robbery, while they each were taking a dump.  If only that movie had been filmed in Smell-O-Vision. That would have really have been revisionist!

So, if Davey’s death was unromantic on account of being drawn out and miserable, Mike’s death in the outhouse is downright ignominious, and the Kid can take no glory in it.  In short, the deaths of these two men seem to confirm Little Bill’s account of how messy and unpleasant things really were in the Old West.

Unfortunately for Ned, some cowboys from the same ranch where Davey and Mike worked catch up with him as he tries to make it back home.  After working him over, they bring him to Little Bill, who proceeds to interrogate him with a bullwhip, trying to find out who his friends are and where they are hiding out.  But Ned won’t talk, so Bill tortures him even more, so much so that Ned dies.

Unaware of Ned’s death, the Kid sits under a tree, drinking whiskey out of a bottle, while Munny watches Kate, one of the whores, riding up from town in the distance. The Kid admits that Mike was the first man he ever killed, and it is clear that it bothers him. At this point, Munny begins delivering some heavy lines.  “It’s a hell of thing killing a man,” he says.  “You take away all he’s got and all he’s ever going to have.”  The Kid looks for reassurance, saying they had it coming, hoping Munny will agree with him. Munny replies, “We’ve all got it coming, Kid.”  No one in a revisionist Western ever said anything like that.

They find out from Kate that Ned died, and that before he did, he told Little Bill that his partner was William Munny, the man who killed women and children when he dynamited the Rock Island and Pacific in ’69, and who killed a U.S. Marshall in ’73.  After Ned died from the beating, Skinny propped him up in an open coffin outside his saloon, and put a sign on him saying that this is what happens to assassins.  While Kate tells them this, Munny takes the whiskey bottle from the Kid and starts drinking from it.

That night, a storm comes up.  Munny gives the Kid the money to take out his cut and then see to it that the rest is split between his kids and Sally Two Trees, in case he doesn’t make it back.  He takes the Kid’s Schofield pistol, which the Kid says he is never going to use again anyway, and then Munny rides into town. Just before he reaches Greely’s, he throws the empty whiskey bottle on the ground, and we know he is now the killer he used to be.

In the saloon, plans are being made to ride after Munny and the Kid, but then Munny steps in through the door, holding a shotgun, just as we hear a crash of thunder.  It’s real wrath-of-God stuff. We see the look on Beauchamp’s face, as the camera slowly moves in on him, and it is clear that he is spellbound.  All that revisionist stuff is gone from his head, as he realizes he is about to witness something more glorious than anything he ever wrote about.

After finding out that Skinny owns the place, Munny shoots him for decorating his place with Ned’s body. He starts to shoot Little Bill, but the shotgun misfires.  He draws his pistol, and what follows is reminiscent of the story Little Bill made fun of when he was reading from The Duke of Death, only this time it’s real. Munny shoots Little Bill and then one deputy after another.  And except for Little Bill, who is still alive, the death of each of the deputies is quick and clean, not slow, painful, and ugly, like that of Davey and Mike.

In the “Original Script,” Munny says to those still in the room, “Every asshole that doesn’t want to get shot best clear out the back quick.”  But in the movie, he says, “Any man don’t want to get killed better clear on out the back.”  Now, I’m no expert on prosody, but this version strikes me as poetic, as having the kind of meter one might find in a ballad that tells a tale like this.  And it is fitting that such a line be spoken by this man at this moment, as he undoes all the revisionism that has come before.

Little Bill is still alive, and he makes a feeble effort to shoot Munny, but Munny knocks the pistol aside and points Ned’s Spencer rifle, which he retrieved from where it was in the room, at Little Bill’s head.  Little Bill says, “I don’t deserve this.  To die like this.  I was building a house.”

His reference to the house is fitting.  Munny is about to put an end to Little Bill’s life, and that will mean the end of that ugly house he was working on, which is a metaphor for the way Munny is putting an end to the ugly revisionism that Little Bill and his house represent.

Munny delivers another heavy line, saying, “Deserve’s got nothing to do with it.”  That sounds good, but I’m not sure what it means.  After all, it would seem that Little Bill does deserve to die for all that he has done. Perhaps this refers back to Munny’s earlier remark.  If “we’ve all got it coming,” then it is not a question of who deserves to be killed, but rather who it is that gets to do the killing.

Before he leaves, Munny threatens the whole town, telling them that they had better not shoot at him as he is leaving, or he’ll not only kill any man that does so, but he’ll kill his wife and burn his house down. Now we know why there has been so much emphasis on the fact that Munny once killed women and children, for the townsfolk know that he means what he says about killing wives.

Munny further threatens them, telling them to bury Ned right and not to bother the whores, or he’ll come back and kill everyone in the town.  Then he rides away, leaving behind the fearful citizens of Big Whiskey and an awestruck W.W. Beauchamp, already envisioning his next book, which will surpass everything he has ever written.

The epilogue tells us that Munny used his share of the bounty to move to San Francisco, where he became a successful dry-goods merchant.  In short, the movie has a happy ending, as every classical Western should.

The Boy with Green Hair (1948)

At the beginning of The Boy with Green Hair, the title character, Peter (Dean Stockwell), is at the police station with a bald head, refusing to give his name or say where he is from, but eventually Dr. Evans (Robert Ryan), presumably a child psychologist, gets him to tell his story in flashback.  It turns out that Peter is a war orphan because his parents died during World War II trying to help war orphans.  He was staying with his Aunt Lilian at the time of their death.  She passed him off to other relatives, who didn’t want him either and passed him off to other relatives still, one after another, until he finally ended up with someone he calls “Gramps” (Pat O’Brien), but who is not really his grandfather.

Just to make sure that we regard Aunt Lilian as being heartless for getting rid of Peter once she finds out that his parents are dead, we are shown the house that she lives in, which is large and sumptuous, implying that she could easily have afforded to take care of Peter.  But that makes us wonder what happened to the house that Peter’s parents lived in, the proceeds from the sale of which should have been inherited by Peter.  Or were Peter and his parents dependent on Aunt Lilian, living with her because they were too poor to afford their own place?  We never find out the answers to these questions because this is a movie about a child and intended for a childlike audience.  As children never concern themselves with questions of finance and inheritance, the intended audience of this movie is not supposed to be concerned about them either.

Anyway, once Peter settles in with Gramps, the school he ends up going to is having a clothing drive to help war orphans, and as part of that drive, pictures of war orphans are attached to the walls.

One day Peter’s hair turns green.  The night before, Gramps told Peter that he liked to keep a green plant around because his wife, a trapeze artist who fell to her death, used to say that green was the color of spring and represented hope and the promise of a new life.  Of course, green plants are one thing and green hair is another, and thus it is that the other children make fun of Peter at school the next day.  One kid, something of an exception from the rest, asks what is wrong with green hair.  Another kid answers, “How would you like to have your sister marry someone with green hair?” the standard retort of the bigot in response to someone who expresses a more tolerant attitude toward those who are different.  So, Peter’s green hair allows the movie to make a point about discrimination against people on the basis of color, which is just a specific form of discrimination generally.  Hostility toward people that are different leads to war, which causes war orphans.

Peter becomes so miserable about the way he is treated that he decides to run away.  He comes to a spot in the woods where the war orphans that we saw in pictures on the wall of the school have come to life.  They tell Peter his green hair is a symbol for faith and hope, that its function is to make him look different so that people will listen to what he has to say.  In speaking to Peter, the war orphans don’t use contractions.  Instead of merely saying things like, “I wouldn’t cry” and “He didn’t know,” they say, “I would not cry” and “He did not know.”  That’s how we know that what they are saying is of sublime significance.

Without contractions, then, the leader of the war orphans tells Peter:  “Everywhere you go, people will say, they will say, ‘There is the boy with the green hair.’ And then people will ask, ‘Why does he have green hair?’  So, you will tell them.  ‘Because, I am a war orphan, and my green hair is to remind you that war is very bad for children.’  You must tell all the people, the Russians, Americans, Chinese, British, French, all the people, all over the world, that there must not ever be another war.”

Funny that he singles out mostly the Allies of World War II for receiving this message.  I would have encouraged Peter to tell that to the Germans, the Italians, and the Japanese.  Anyway, the point is that since Peter has green hair, people will listen to him, and there will never be another war, which means there will be no more war orphans.

Inspired with his mission, Peter runs around telling everyone that war is bad for children.  However, the children at his school gang up on him and try to cut off his hair.  When that fails, the adults finish the job, after which a bald-headed Peter runs away again, which is how he ends up at the police station in another town.  In the end, Peter decides he will let his hair grow out again so that he can continue with his mission.

Children might have enjoyed this movie when it first came out, and adults might have enjoyed it with them vicariously. But its simplistic message, never very credible in the first place, is drained of what little plausibility it might have once had by the fact that the world has not changed: we are still fighting wars, presumably causing children to become war orphans. The idea of a little boy with green hair wandering around telling everybody that we need to stop fighting wars might have been an expression of hope in 1948 when this movie was made, but now it just seems absurd.

The worst feature of this film is that it is premised on something supposedly noble, but which is in fact quite shameful. Even if one of Peter’s parents, say, the father, felt the need to participate in the war effort, we would expect the mother to stay with her son and take care of him.  But they both figure they have more important things to do than raise their own child.  We are supposed to think of those relatives that kept passing him on to other relatives as being cold and selfish, but after all, they did not bargain on having to raise someone else’s child.

It is actually Peter’s parents who are selfish. They are that strange breed of do-gooder who becomes so enamored with the idea of saving the world that he neglects his own family.  For example, in Luke 14:26, Jesus says, “If any man come to me, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple.”  There is no indication in the movie that Peter’s parents were inspired by this passage, but they didn’t have to be. A lot of people come by this attitude naturally.  But I’ll say this much for Jesus.  At least he was a bachelor.  If he had gotten married, had a child, and then abandoned his family because he decided he was meant for better things, it would have been harder for apologists to say that Jesus merely spoke by way of hyperbole.

In any event, without pausing to be sure that Peter would be raised to maturity by a loving relative happy to take care of him if they died in the war, his parents just dumped him on his aunt and took off.  There is one moment in the movie when Peter correctly concludes that his parents cared more about other children than they did him, but the movie insists that he is wrong, and at the end Peter is seen as understanding that they really did love him and that what they did was right and good. As insistent as the movie is in this regard, it still leaves us with a feeling of revulsion for parents who would abandon their child so they could devote themselves to some higher purpose.

Early on in the flashback, Peter tells of when he was five years old, in which we only see the hands and arms of adults.  Had we seen the faces of his mother and father, they would have become real for us, and we would have begun to wonder what kind of parents would do what they did to Peter.  But because they are faceless, they remain abstract, making it less likely that we will condemn them.  Furthermore, we do not hear their voices, which means there is no dialogue in which they tell Aunt Lilian about their plans.  In particular, we do not get to see the appalled look on her face when she is told that she is going to have a five-year-old child on her hands as Peter’s parents head out through the door.

The Philadelphia Story (1940) and High Society (1956)

If you could have only one piece of information about a movie before watching it, it should be the year it was made: in part, for the historical context; and in part, for the moral context. It is the latter that is essential for The Philadelphia Story, made in 1940, for it presumes much of a moral nature that we no longer accept.

At the beginning of the movie, Dexter (Cary Grant) and Tracy (Katherine Hepburn) are a married couple who are fed up with each other and in the act of separating. After Tracy breaks one of Dexter’s golf clubs, he pushes her in the face so hard that she falls to the ground. If a man did that to a woman in a modern movie, we would dislike him, but this movie wants us to like Dexter and approve of what he did to Tracy. We are able to get past this scene, because Tracy is not seriously hurt, because the background music tells us this is supposed to be lighthearted and funny, and because we make allowances for what must have passed for humor in those days.  The movie then jumps ahead two years, and Tracy is about to get married again.

It turns out that the reason she divorced Dexter was that he was an alcoholic, which was all her fault, and that she was wrong to divorce him for that. This point is made seriously, and so it is harder to get past than the push in the face. Imagine someone getting up in front of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting and saying, “I am an alcoholic, and it’s my wife’s fault.” Today, we might blame the alcoholic for drinking too much, or we might say his alcoholism is a disease and thus is no one’s fault, but blaming the wife is outrageous. Furthermore, we might admire a woman who stays with an alcoholic husband and tries to help cure him, but we do not blame her if she gets fed up and leaves.

As to why it was Tracy’s fault that Dexter became an alcoholic, he goes on at great length about how she thought of herself as a virgin goddess, and that he was supposed to be her high priest.  And just to make sure we understand that he is right, this idea of her as a goddess is repeated by her fiancé, her father, several others, and eventually Tracy herself.  The problem is that we just don’t see it, and their saying it doesn’t make it so.  Actually, it seems to me that Tracy would be an interesting person to know, and not just later in the movie when she supposedly has a change of heart, but right from the very beginning.

Tracy’s father, Seth, has been having an affair with a showgirl, and a tabloid called Spy has the story along with pictures.  However, the man who runs the magazine agrees not to publish it provided Dexter, who works in the Buenos Aires office and who still cares about Tracy, can get a reporter and photographer into Tracy’s wedding under the false pretenses that they are friends of her brother, who works at the American embassy in Buenos Aires, and who is a friend of Dexter.  Yes, this is a contrived plot.  Moreover, it is not really believable.  If I were running a tabloid, I’d much rather publish a story about a tawdry affair between an older rich man in high society and a flashy showgirl than publish a story about his daughter’s wedding.

Tracy’s mother has separated from Seth on account of his cheating on her, in large part because Tracy urged her to do so for the sake of her self-respect, but her mother says she would rather have a husband than self-respect.  The implication is that Tracy was wrong to influence her mother in that way.  Maybe she was, but then, I don’t think Tracy’s mother would be an interesting person to know.

In any event, Tracy does not invite her father to the wedding, but he shows up anyway. He tells Tracy and his wife that a man’s philandering is not his wife’s concern, and he congratulates his wife for having the wisdom to agree with him on that point.  Furthermore, he goes on to say that his adultery is all Tracy’s fault (here we go again). He explains that when a man starts getting old, having a sweet, devoted daughter is the mainstay that he needs. But when his daughter does not live up to those expectations, the man just naturally has to go out and get a sweet, devoted young woman to have an affair with. That argument is not merely bizarre, but downright creepy. It is hard to believe that even in 1940, when this movie was made, the audience would have bought that line.

Although the reporter, “Mike” Macaulay (James Stewart), and the photographer, Elizabeth (Ruth Hussey), seem to be romantically involved, Mike nevertheless begins to fancy Tracy. The night before the wedding, they start smooching and go for a swim. George, Tracy’s fiancé, finds out about it, and we are supposed to think him stuffy when he says he regards her behavior as unacceptable and asks her to promise him it won’t happen again. The idea is that since Mike and Tracy did not actually have sex, he is making a big fuss over nothing. You see, unlike Tracy’s mother, George apparently would rather have his self-respect than a wife.

Of course, the fact that Tracy is drunk is supposed to excuse her indiscretion. At least, her intoxication is an important plot point, something to do with in vino veritas, I imagine. But there is way too much drinking in this movie in general. Half the movie involves people getting drunk, having a hangover, and then drinking some more as a cure for the hangover. This may be another difference between 1940 and now: we do not think drunk-humor is all that funny anymore.

Now, if I caught my fiancée kissing another man the night before we were to be married, that would put an end to those wedding plans for sure.  But George is apparently more broad-minded than I am, because he is still willing to go through with the wedding provided that Tracy promise never to get drunk like that again.  She refuses, and so the wedding with George is off.  In his place, Mike asks Tracy to marry him. When she rejects him, he goes back to Elizabeth, who does not seem to be disturbed by this at all.

Except for George, the men in this movie sure get a lot understanding. Tracy, on the other hand, is depicted as being wrong-headed, and is pretty much told so by Dexter, Mike, and Seth, each in his own way, and we are supposed to agree with them. Well, maybe it’s me, and maybe it’s seeing this movie from the perspective of the twenty-first century, but I think Tracy is fine just the way she is, and it is the men who are wrong-headed. She would be better off without the lot of them. Instead, she remarries Dexter. I guess the idea is that she has realized the error of her ways and will no longer drive Dexter to drink by doing her goddess thing.  Fortunately, this is a movie where a character change in the last reel can result in a happy ending.  In real life, sad to say, people don’t change that much.

In some ways, High Society, a 1956 remake of The Philadelphia Story, is an improvement. The scene in which Dexter pushes Tracy in the face so hard it knocks her down is eliminated. It may be that pushing a woman in the face was not thought as funny in 1956 as it was in 1940.  More likely, the difference in actors was the deciding factor. To have Bing Crosby push Grace Kelly in the face would have had different connotations than it did for Cary Grant to do that to Katherine Hepburn, who was not well-liked by the public at the time.

The elimination of Dexter’s alcoholism is another big improvement. Because this remake is a musical, the new reason Tracy divorces Dexter is that he composes popular jazz numbers, which are too lowbrow for her taste. She wanted him to be a diplomat or at least a composer of highbrow music. This is more acceptable than the original, because it is absurd to blame a wife for her husband’s alcoholism, and because it brings out the idea that Tracy is a bit of a snob. On the other hand, objecting to the musical compositions of one’s husband has to be the most frivolous reason for a divorce ever given, on or off the screen.  Dexter’s complaint that Tracy acts like a goddess remains, but since that is no longer the cause of his being an alcoholic, it now has a different function.  Instead of Tracy leaving Dexter because of his excessive drinking, it now appears she left him because she could no longer tolerate human imperfection, such as jazz.

Another improvement is that the musical numbers in this remake take the place of a lot of the excessive drunk-humor that went on in the original. There is still a lot of drinking, but the less of that sort of thing the better. The musical numbers also call for the elimination of a couple of plot points. In the original, Mike had written a book, which Tracy marveled over for its sensitive understanding of human nature, but that is eliminated in the remake. It is just as well. We might believe that Jimmy Stewart could write such a book, but not Frank Sinatra, who plays that role here.  And the remake eliminates the counter-blackmail scheme cooked up by Dexter and Mike.

What unfortunately does remain, in all its disgusting glory, is the scene where Seth, Tracy’s father, announces that if a husband cheats on his wife, it is none of his wife’s business, followed by his putting all the blame on Tracy: if a man does not have a devoted, loving daughter, he cannot be blamed if he has sex with a devoted, loving, young woman as a substitute.

George is still depicted as being a prig for objecting to the way Tracy carries on the night before their wedding. First he catches her and Dexter kissing, and then she goes on to do some lovey-dovey necking with Mike. If this is the way she behaves the night before her wedding, what would George be in for as the years rolled by? Maybe Tracy is just following her father’s logic: her philandering is none of her fiancé’s concern. And after she gets married, she could continue with her father’s logic, which is that if she does not have a devoted, loving son to be her mainstay as she gets older, it would only be natural for her to go out and find a younger man to give her the love she needs.

Still yet another improvement is that we are spared the scene where Mike asks Tracy to marry him, and when she declines, Elizabeth takes him back, as if he were just a little boy who still had some growing up to do.  Instead, Mike simply asks Elizabeth (Celeste Holm) to marry him, which is a little better, even if he did just get through making out with Tracy. Then Dexter and Tracy decide to retie the knot, and since she seems to have matured enough to accept his jazz compositions, we assume all will be well.

Notwithstanding all these “improvements,” however, The Philadelphia Story is still a better movie than High Society.  For all its moral anomalies, the former is lively and entertaining, whereas the latter is tedious and dull.

Sunrise (1927)

Sunrise is a silent film made in 1927.  Its longer title is Sunrise:  A Song of Two Humans.  The “song” in question is alluded to in the prologue:  “This song of the Man and his Wife is of no place and of every place; you might hear it anywhere at any time.”  The prologue goes on to say that life is pretty much the same everywhere, “sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet.”  And since the characters in this movie do not have names, but rather are referred to as the Man, the Wife, and the Woman from the City, we are supposed to understand that what we are about to see expresses a universal truth about mankind.  So what exactly are the lyrics of this song we might hear anywhere at any time?  Basically, they tell the following story.

A farmer (George O’Brien) falls in love with a woman (Margaret Livingston) from the big city. She encourages him to murder his wife (Janet Gaynor), after which he can sell the farm and live in the city with her. She figures out how he can do it, by faking a boating accident in which the wife drowns. He takes his wife out into the middle of the lake, starts to kill her, but finds he cannot do it. However, his wife saw the murderous intent in his eyes and his threatening gestures.  She flees from him as soon as they reach the other side of the lake. He keeps catching up with her, and she keeps trying to get away. Little by little, they reconcile, and she forgives him.

Now, we all know that in a lot of old movies, a woman is expected to forgive her husband’s indiscretions, and if she does not, she is regarded as foolish and wrongheaded, as in The Women (1939) or The Philadelphia Story (1940). But it is one thing for a wife to forgive adultery, and it is quite another thing for her to forgive her husband for almost carrying out a plan to murder her. That is probably something that a woman should not forgive.  And yet this movie not only has the wife forgive her husband, but it also praises her for doing so, depicting such forgiveness as an expression of the purity of her heart.

The man and his wife essentially renew their vows by watching another couple’s wedding, and then carry on like a couple of newlyweds on their honeymoon.  We see them having a lot of fun in a variety of ways, and his manner toward her is loving and caring.  As if that proved anything!  Wouldn’t it be nice if the men that abused their wives were consistently rude and brutal?  In that case, women would not even marry such men in the first place, let alone keep forgiving them and taking them back.  But such men are not so conveniently consistent.  One minute they are beating their wives, and the next minute they are bringing them flowers and begging for forgiveness.  And as often as not, it works.

Finally, it is time for them to go home, and they get back on their little boat and head across the lake. A storm suddenly appears, capsizes the boat, and he believes that she has drowned. So, in a manner reminiscent of An American Tragedy, which was made into a couple of movies, including A Place in the Sun (1951), the accident that he was planning to fake actually happens.

When the woman from the city comes looking for him, thinking that he pulled it off, he becomes furious.  She sees the same murderous look in his eyes and the same threatening gestures that his wife did earlier.  She runs away, but he chases after her.  When he catches up with her, he begins strangling her maniacally. The idea is that she is the villain of the piece. In other words, it was really her fault that he almost murdered his wife. So while his wife forgave him, he does not forgive this woman. And just as the movie would have us approve of the way the wife forgives her husband, it would also have us approve of the way the husband does not forgive the woman he was having an affair with, so that her being strangled was simply giving her what she deserved.

At the last minute, it turns out his wife has been rescued. He stops strangling the woman and returns home to be with his wife and child. The sun rises, presumably symbolic of the couple’s fresh start in having a happy marriage.  Of course, we are talking about a man who made plans to kill his wife, who pulled a knife on a man for bothering her in the barber shop, and who then almost choked his lover to death in a rage.  And yet, this movie would have us believe that the Man and his Wife will live happily ever after.

It is not surprising that the message of this movie is that a woman should forgive her husband for his sins, because it is some other woman who is really to blame.  After all, it was written and produced mostly by men.  It essentially painted a rosy picture of domestic abuse, and encouraged battered women to stay with their violent husbands.  “Even if your husband almost killed you,” the movie seems to say, “you should stay with him, because deep down he really loves you.”  It is therefore understandable that such a movie would appeal to men.

But it may be that this movie was supposed to appeal to women as well.  Women were much more dependent on men back then.  There was a great deal of economic and cultural pressure on women to get married and stay married, especially once they had a baby.  And so, stuck in a bad marriage as so many women were, they needed to believe that staying with their husbands and forgiving them for all their misdeeds was the right thing to do.  If this movie had ended with the wife leaving her husband, it would have implicitly criticized all the women in the audience who chose to stay in their unhappy marriages, making them feel weak and foolish.  But by having the wife stay with her husband, the movie applauded her forgiving nature, making a virtue out of what for many women was a necessity.

However, this movie did not do well at the box office, so maybe the women weren’t buying it.

Laura (1944)

Lydecker’s Narration to Us

“I shall never forget the weekend Laura died.”  Thus begins the narration of Waldo Lydecker (Clifton Webb), telling us how devastated he is by the horrible death of Laura (Gene Tierney), and how he is beginning to write her biography. Then he informs us that another one of those police detectives is waiting to talk to him.  That detective is Mark McPherson (Dana Andrews).  The two men could not be more different. Lydecker is soaking in his deluxe bathtub, fixed up so that he can type while he indulges in luxury. McPherson is the kind of guy who takes nothing but showers.  With a cigarette dangling out of his mouth, he smirks as he looks at all the expensive artwork that adorns Lydecker’s apartment, regarding it all as a bunch of knickknacks for the maid to dust. Lydecker was making him wait, to put him in his place, but becomes alarmed when McPherson cavalierly picks up an item that Lydecker regards as priceless, telling McPherson to be careful.

After that, Lydecker invites McPherson into the bathroom, at which point we see Lydecker’s old, scrawny body, which stands in contrast to what we imagine is McPherson’s young, muscular build. As Lydecker rises out of the tub, we see another smirk on McPherson’s face, as he notes Lydecker’s penis, which we can’t help but imagine as being little and wrinkled, as opposed to the big, swinging dick that McPherson lugs around.  McPherson asks Lydecker a few questions and then prepares to leave.  As Lydecker finishes getting dressed, he asks McPherson if he can accompany him, saying that murder is one of his favorite subjects to write about.  McPherson consents.

As they leave, we see that both men wear fedoras, but here too there is a difference. McPherson creases his hat in the teardrop style, which in the movies is characteristic of detectives, reporters, and gangsters; Lydecker’s fedora is in the center-dent style, with a crease down the middle, worn in the movies by businessmen and politicians.

Lydecker’s Narration to McPherson

Later in the movie, Lydecker’s narration is addressed to McPherson, instead of to us in the audience.  Lydecker tells him about how he met Laura and how they became good friends.  It takes the form of a flashback, as Lydecker tells how he became instrumental in advancing her career in advertising. And he tells of the men in Laura’s life.  First, she started seeing Jacoby, the artist that painted her picture.  Lydecker says he never liked the man, saying, “He was so obviously conscious of looking more like an athlete than an artist.”  Lydecker wrote a scathing column ridiculing the man and his art.  Laura had no respect for Jacoby after that.  There were other men, but her own discretion soon eliminated them.

But then she met Shelby Carpenter (Vincent Price) at a party thrown by Laura’s aunt, Ann Treadwell (Judith Anderson), a rich woman upon whom Shelby was financially dependent.  Eventually, Laura became engaged to Shelby.  Determined to put an end to their plans to be married, Lydecker proves to Laura that Shelby has been unfaithful to her, fooling around with a model named Diane Redfern, while continuing his relationship with Ann as a kept man. Laura becomes so upset that she decides to go to her house in the country for a few days to think things over.  But that was the night she was murdered.

All this can be thought of as a narration within a narration, so there is no logical difficulty with that. Eventually, the movie becomes detached completely from Lydecker’s narration, either to us or to McPherson, for we see events unfold without Lydecker’s presence and without hearing his words. However, we can suppose that Lydecker is still narrating, after a fashion, telling us about events he only learned about secondhand or filled in with his imagination.

McPherson’s Dream

One night, McPherson is alone in Laura’s apartment, going through her letters, trying to figure out who murdered her.  He gazes at a portrait of Laura that is hanging on the wall.  He falls asleep in his chair. Suddenly, Laura walks in through the door.  This exemplifies the principle that if someone in a movie falls asleep in a chair, there is a good chance that what follows is a dream. Falling asleep in a bed doesn’t count, because that is too ordinary.  Furthermore, when a person falls asleep in a chair, he is fully dressed.  As a result, we cannot be sure whether he has awakened from his catnap, or whether he is dreaming.  It would be a stretch for someone to fall asleep in bed, and then have a dream that begins with his getting out of bed, taking off his pajamas, putting on his clothes, talking to people or doing stuff, after which he puts his pajamas back on, and then gets back in bed, so that when he wakes in the morning, we are not supposed to know whether he was dreaming or not.  There are a few movies in which that happens, however, as in The Night Walker (1964), in which Barbara Stanwyck keeps being awakened in the middle of the night, when she is in bed, and when she wakes up in the morning, she is not sure whether these nocturnal events really happened, or she merely dreamt them.  But with movies like that, the possibility that the protagonist was dreaming has to be obvious.  When someone falls asleep in a chair, that alone is sufficient to suggest the possibility of a dream.

Originally, McPherson’s dream was to have been made explicit in a final scene that was filmed but eventually cut.  That was a wise decision. Short dreams in a movie are fine, but people tend to feel cheated if they find out at the end of a movie that most of it was a dream, unless the movie is a fantasy. In other words, we never minded when Alice in Wonderland turned out to be a dream at the end, because the events after Alice goes down the rabbit hole are too fantastic to take seriously, and we are charmed by the idea that it was the dream of a little girl with an active imagination. It is for the same reason that we do not mind that most of The Wizard of Oz (1939) was just a dream.

But when it happens in a movie in which we are taking things seriously, we are irked by a dream ending. In the movie Woman in the Window (1944), a married man falls asleep in a chair.  After he supposedly wakes up, he meets a beautiful woman.  They go to her apartment, where he ends up having to kill her jealous boyfriend in self-defense.  This is followed by a coverup, blackmail, and finally suicide.  But instead of dying from the poison he consumed, he wakes up to find out it was all a dream, and he is still sitting in that chair.  Presumably, those who made this movie thought a dream ending would be better than an ending in which the protagonist commits suicide, but the movie is weaker for it.  In The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (1947), a woman falls asleep in a chair, and so for the rest of the movie, we don’t know whether she was actually visited by a ghost or only dreamed him.  In this case, the movie never makes it obvious that she is only dreaming, allowing us to enjoy the story as though it really happened.  Either way, when a character in a movie falls asleep in a chair, what we see from then on is probably a dream, whether this is made explicit or not.

Because Lydecker dies, his narration, which began at the beginning of the movie, is problematic. How can he be telling us a story in which he dies in the end? It has been done, of course, notably in Sunset Blvd. (1950), but we are supposed to be amused by the absurdity of listening to William Holden tell us his story as he floats drowned in a swimming pool with that dumbfounded look on his face. In Laura, on the other hand, we just might think it was a goof to have the narrator begin a story in which he ends up dead. But if the second half of the film is only a dream, then Lydecker never dies, and his narration only applies to the first half of the film, the half that is real.

A Case of Identity

In his early discussion with Lydecker, McPherson says that Laura was killed with a shotgun loaded with buckshot, but no mention is made of what part of her body was shot. Even the second time the shotgun murder is mentioned, when McPherson is interviewing Ann, who identified the body, nothing is said in that regard. In fact, Ann is so casual about her ability to identify Laura that we would assume Laura was shot in the chest, if we thought about it at all.  It is not until almost the end of the movie, when McPherson has discovered the shotgun hidden in the clock, and he realizes that Lydecker tried to kill Laura out of jealousy over Shelby, that he mentions that the woman Lydecker thought was Laura, Diane Redfern, was shot in the face with both barrels.  (She and Shelby were using Laura’s apartment to have sex while Laura was out of town.)

This raises the question as to exactly how Ann could have identified the body. Normally, when someone is murdered, the police take the body to the morgue.  So, I figured that Ann was brought to the morgue, and she identified the body there.  But how could she have known whose body it was, when it had its face blown off?  Then Ann says of Bessie, Laura’s maid, “I’ll never forget her scream when she saw Laura lying there.”  Does that mean they were both in the morgue at the same time?  Or perhaps the idea is that the police, contrary to what is usual, brought Ann over to the apartment where Diane’s body was still lying on the floor, and that’s where she identified it as Laura. In that case, her identification was inferred:  the body was of a young woman, wearing Laura’s negligee, and lying on the floor in Laura’s apartment. And then Bessie came walking in, saw what she thought was Laura’s body, and screamed.

That would be fine, except that it was Bessie that found the body in first place.  She tells McPherson that in order to protect Laura from any scandal, she hid a bottle of cheap scotch and wiped the fingerprints off the glasses before the police arrived.  Bessie is a white Uncle Tom, a woman who wants nothing more out of life than to serve her master.  In any event, this means she was already there when Ann was brought to the apartment to identify the body that Bessie had presumably already identified, saying it was that of Laura.  But in that case, Ann would not have heard Bessie scream, her initial shock having long since passed.

Whatever the case, this delay in giving us this crucial piece of information about a shotgun blast to the face is to keep us from becoming suspicious, because whenever someone in a movie supposedly dies, but either the corpse is never found, or it has been disfigured beyond recognition, then you can give long odds that the person in question is not really dead.  An example of a missing corpse is Mr. Lucky (1943), where Cary Grant is thought to be dead because the ship he was on was torpedoed during the war, and his body was never found.  Naturally, it turns out that he survived. Another example in which the body was never found is My Favorite Wife (1940).  As an example of a disfigured corpse, there is Once Upon a Time in America (1984), in which the face of James Woods has supposedly been severely burned, so we suspect right off that he is not really dead.  But the most ludicrous example is Murder Is My Beat (1955), where a murdered man is found with his face in the fireplace.  And since his hands are in the fireplace too, he cannot be identified with fingerprints either.  The detective may not realize that the corpse is of a different man than the one he thinks, but we are under no such illusion.  Therefore, if McPherson had said early on that Laura’s face had been blown off, we would have guessed right away that the woman was really someone else. Of course, once Laura returns, right after McPherson has fallen asleep, and we realize that it was another woman who had been shot, we infer that the blast must have disfigured her face.

Necrophilia

Just before McPherson falls asleep in Laura’s apartment, he gets a visit from Lydecker, who has found out that the detective put in a bid for Laura’s portrait, and thus realizes that McPherson has fallen in love with her.  “You better watch out, McPherson,” Lydecker says to him, “or you’ll end up in a psychiatric ward. I don’t think they’ve ever had a patient who fell in love with a corpse.”

More than a few movie critics have referred to McPherson as being a necrophiliac.  To me, a necrophiliac is someone who is aroused by a corpse and wants to have sex with it, like those characters in Maniac (1934) that work in the morgue, and seem delighted when the fresh corpse of a good-looking woman is brought in.  I should think that just being aroused by a painting of a beautiful woman who happens to be dead doesn’t qualify.  And yet, I have encountered this elsewhere.  On one occasion, when I commented on how sexy I thought Maureen O’Sullivan was playing Jane in Tarzan and His Mate (1934), going about all scantily clad in her loin cloth, the guy I was talking to said, “Ew!  But she’s so old!”  A few years later, I made a similar comment, and the woman I was talking to recoiled, saying, “But she’s dead!”  They think I’m weird.  The feeling is mutual.

Anyway, Lydecker is not only amused by the idea of a McPherson’s falling in love with someone who is dead, but also by the incongruous notion that someone as refined as Laura could fall for the likes of McPherson, who is low class and crude. He contemptuously asks McPherson if he has ever dreamed that Laura was his wife, indicating how ill-matched they would have been.

This is not the first reference to dreaming, nor is it the last. Some references are minor: Lydecker refers to Shelby’s dreams, and Laura talks about her dreams of a career when she was growing up. More significantly, after McPherson figures out that Lydecker is the killer, he tells Laura to forget the whole thing like a bad dream. And during Lydecker’s radio broadcast, he quotes the poet Ernest Dowson, who speaks of life as emerging out of a dream and then closing within a dream.  The theme song to this movie later had lyrics written for it by Johnny Mercer, the last line of which says that Laura is only a dream.

Homophobia

Because McPherson has fallen in love with Laura, his dream is the fulfillment of a wish, the wish that Laura were still alive so that he could possess her.  But there might be another wish-fulfillment aspect to this dream:  homophobia.  When I first saw this movie in the late 1960s, back when I was in college, I never suspected that half the movie was a dream.  But another thing I never suspected was that anyone in the movie was a homosexual.  As far as I could see, Lydecker was in love with Laura; Shelby was engaged to marry Laura, but fooling around with Diane; and Ann was in love with Shelby—all heterosexual relationships.

I knew there was such a thing as homosexuality, of course, but I figured it was rare. And what there was of it was informally segregated.  My fraternity brothers, as part of my education as a pledge, told me about a diner and a nightclub that were strictly for homosexuals.  They didn’t call them “gay bars,” of course.  For that matter, they didn’t use the word “homosexual” either.  But the point seemed to be that the homosexuals had their world, and we had ours.

As a result, I never suspected that anyone I knew was a homosexual, unless I heard a rumor to that effect, and even then I didn’t half believe it.  More to the point, though I had seen lots of old movies on the late show, yet I never saw one where I thought to myself that one of the characters was a homosexual.  It would not be until I saw The Boys in the Band (1970) that I was aware of homosexual characters in a movie.  In that movie, a straight character is educated about the various forms of homosexuality, and I was almost as ignorant on the subject as he was.  Even now, I mostly know that old movies featured queer flashes and homosexual themes because I read about them.  In particular, I have read that Clifton Webb was a homosexual and that Vincent Price was bisexual.  As for Judith Anderson, though I have not read anywhere that she was a lesbian, yet her iconic role in Rebecca (1940) would apparently forever leave her with homosexual connotations.  Of course, just because an actor is a homosexual, that does not mean he is playing one in a movie.  But many critics seem to believe that the subtext of homosexuality in Laura is present through the characters portrayed by these three actors.

Roger Ebert even said that the movie would make more sense if Laura was a boy.  I suppose that could be the basis for a remake.  In that case, McPherson could find he is having strange thoughts while looking at the portrait of this boy, as it stirs feelings in him he doesn’t understand.  But that’s as far as I’m going to go with that.

The point of all this is that I still do not see the any homosexuality in this movie, and on my own, I would never suspect any.  But always endeavoring to have an open mind, I am willing to consider that the movie is rife with homosexual undercurrents.  So, let us assume as much and see where it takes us.

To a presumed homophobe like McPherson, it must have seemed to him that Laura lived in a world teeming with homosexuals, something he detested.  At one point during the dream phase of the movie, Shelby puts his hand on McPherson’s shoulder as he starts to walk away, and McPherson turns and punches him in the gut.  The first few times I saw this movie, I thought he disliked Shelby because he was something of a gigolo, being kept by Ann, who regularly gave him money.  But if we assume that McPherson is seething with contempt and hatred for Shelby because he is a homosexual, then his brutality makes sense that way too.  When this movie was remade for television in 1968, Shelby was played by Farley Granger, another actor known for having homosexual relationships, and who played a homosexual in Rope (1948), although I would never have guessed that about him or the role he played either.  Just something else that I would not have known had I not read about it.

Needless to say, McPherson has Lydecker killed off in his dream for the same reason. It must have been maddening to him that Laura seemed to have an affinity for homosexuals, and his dream allows him to give vent to his violent impulses.  Ann is let off easy, however, for the simple reason that heterosexual men, even those that are homophobic, never really mind lesbians, as long as they are lipstick lesbians, of course. In fact, your typical pornographic movie, intended for male heterosexuals, will usually have at least one scene in which two women have sex.  That way the men in the audience get to see two naked women instead of just one.  But such a movie will never have a scene in which two men have sex.  Those scenes belong strictly in the male homosexual subgenre of pornography.  Once again, they have their world, and we have ours.

Heterophobia

Furthermore, we might interpret Lydecker’s motive as heterophobia, disgust at the thought of men and women having sex.  We never have the impression that Lydecker wants to have sex with Laura, which is consistent with his being a homosexual.  Rather, he seems to regard her as part of his expensive collection of beautiful art objects, the epitome of which are two pendulum clocks, the only two of their kind in existence.  He gave Laura one of them while keeping the other, symbolic of the bond between them. While McPherson is snooping around in Lydecker’s apartment, it occurs to him that the clock might have a secret compartment, one in which a shotgun might be hidden.  He can’t figure out how to unlock it, however, so he just kicks it in, shattering the glass door.

This crude treatment of something beautiful is just what Lydecker imagines McPherson’s treatment of Laura will be.  When it becomes clear that Laura is in love with McPherson, he says to her, “With you, a lean, strong body is the measure of a man, and you always get hurt.”  Shortly thereafter, he says, “If McPherson weren’t muscular and handsome in a cheap sort of way, you’d see through him in a second.” When Laura tells Lydecker she doesn’t think they should see each other anymore, he says, “I hope you’ll never regret what promises to be a disgustingly earthy relationship.”

Having failed to kill Laura to keep her from marrying Shelby, Lydecker decides to kill her now to keep her from presumably marrying McPherson.  In explaining to Laura why he is going to kill her and then himself, while holding the shotgun on her, he says: “The best part of myself—that’s what you are.  Do you think I’m going to leave it to the vulgar pawing of a second-rate detective that thinks you’re a dame?  Do you think I could bear the thought of him holding you in his arms, kissing you, loving you?”  She manages to push the shotgun away and run for the door, just as McPherson and the other detectives have broken in.  One of the detectives shoots Lydecker, while a final blast from the shotgun destroys the other clock.

Conclusion

Because the explicit dream ending was cut from the film, the movie presents itself to us as a story about things that actually happen, and thus we are able to enjoy it that way.  It is only upon reflection that we may conclude that the last half of the movie was a dream.

And we can also enjoy the movie even if we think everyone is heterosexual, which is still the way I experience it.

The Ranown Cycle (1956-1960)

In the 1950s, Budd Boetticher directed seven Westerns starring Randolph Scott, often referred to as the Ranown cycle. The first of these was 7 Men from Now (1956), in which seven men rob Wells Fargo, steal a lot of gold, and kill the wife of Randolph Scott in the process. He sets out to avenge her death, and while he is at it, he retrieves the gold as well. Justice is served. But there is another injustice that has to be addressed in this movie.

When Scott first happens across Walter Reed and his wife, played by Gail Russell, we can see right off that this guy is a wimp, and we wonder how he ever got himself a wife like Russell. Even when she falls in the mud, she oozes sex appeal. In fact, that may even make it better.  Some men would love to just get down and wallow in the mud with her. Later, when they are joined by Lee Marvin and his partner, Marvin says to his friend, “It just don’t seem right to me…., why a full woman like that would settle for half a man.”  He is right. Reed just does not deserve Russell.

A man like Marvin is the sort who cannot help stepping on something little, so one night while Scott, Reed, Russell, and Marvin are inside the covered wagon, Marvin starts talking about how deliciously desirable Russell is, practically ravishing her with his words, while her husband, who is being verbally cuckolded, just sits there and takes it. Marvin also talks about how he once knew another woman like Russell, who eventually ran off with a real man, suggesting that she has a thing for Scott. And apparently she does, because later, when Scott says goodbye to her, she moves in to be kissed, although he does not avail himself of the opportunity. For one thing, he is a recent widower, and for another, he is too upright to take another man’s wife.

We know that Scott will eventually kill all the men who stole the gold and caused his wife’s death, because that is routine for a Western. It is the injustice of Reed’s being married to Russell that worries us, for there is no standard convention for handling that situation. In The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946), there is a similar injustice of Lana Turner being married to Cecil Kellaway, and so she and John Garfield kill him.  But that is simply one form of injustice being corrected at the expense of creating another. As a result, Turner and Garfield never really get to enjoy the love they deserve, because they must be punished for committing a murder.  What is needed is a way of bringing about the sexual justice we want without having it undone with the criminal injustice of murder.

When Scott discovers that Reed had been hired by the robbers to transport the gold, he takes the box of gold away from Reed and tells him and Russell to go west. We get a sinking feeling. The sexual wrong will never be righted. Fortunately, Reed decides to go south to inform the sheriff of Scott’s situation.

Before Reed can get to the sheriff’s office, the leader of the men who hired him to transport the gold shoots him down in the street. Because Reed knowingly risked his life and lost it trying to help Scott, Marvin says he was wrong, that Reed was a man after all. Well, it is nice of Marvin to say that, being generous about the husband now that he is dead, but we know better. After all, Reed was not wearing a gun, and in a Western, that is the mark of a weakling. And thus it is that when Reed is shot in the back unarmed as he walks to the sheriff’s office, we breathe a sigh of relief. Though Russell says she loves her husband, yet we know that this is for the best.

Later, after Scott has returned the gold, he tells Russell where he will be working as a deputy and indicates that he would be glad to see her, if ever she should be passing by that way. She quickly decides that after a decent interval (both have recently murdered spouses), she will take him up on that offer. This makes us feel good, because Scott is the man she has needed all along. When they finally get married, and he gives it to her the way her first husband never could, justice will finally be restored.

Boetticher was obsessed with what it meant to be a real man.  Men in his movies often explain their actions by saying a man does this or a man does that.  Not only had Boetticher been an athlete in college, but he had a lifelong fascination with bullfighting as well.  And didn’t we learn from Hemingway that bullfighting is a most manly endeavor?  As a result, he had a thing about beautiful women being married to men lacking in the proper amount of manhood, and this form of injustice is a recurring theme in most of the movies he made with Randolph Scott.  One can almost imagine Boetticher in college, wondering why a pretty coed would date some nerd when she could have a big, strapping man like himself.  Perhaps he expressed his frustration on this score through the movies he made.

Before moving on the the other movies in the Ranown cycle, let us look at four of the critical features of sexual injustice in the movie just considered:

 

The Dead Wife:  Randolph Scott’s wife has been killed by bandits.

The Unworthy Husband:   Gail Russell is a pretty woman that is married to a man that doesn’t deserve her.

The Perceptive Outlaw:  Lee Marvin is an outlaw that talks to Scott about how desirable Russell is and how she deserves better than the man she has.

The Worthy Replacement:  Russell is freed of her husband and will eventually marry Scott, a man that is appropriate for her.

 

Not every movie in the Ranown cycle has all these features.  In some cases, there are minor variations. And there is one movie that has none of the elements listed above.

In The Tall T (1957), Maureen O’Sullivan plays a middle-aged, supposedly homely woman, although we know she is better looking than some of the characters in this movie seem to think.  She was on the verge of becoming an old maid when a man married her for her money, because her father is rich.  The husband turns out to be a spineless heel. Just as Marvin, in 7 Men from Now, was an outlaw that got into a discussion with Scott about Russell, so too is Richard Boone in this movie an outlaw that gets into a discussion with Scott about O’Sullivan.  He says O’Sullivan would be more attractive if she fixed herself up, and he refers to her husband as “low grade.” So, it is clear that it is a form of sexual injustice that she is married to that man.  That husband is killed by Henry Silva, one of the outlaws in Boone’s gang, before the marriage is consummated.  But she never loved her husband anyway, so she let’s Scott kiss her passionately.  After the bad guys are killed off, Scott and O’Sullivan go off together with his arm around her.  He’ll give her the love she needs.  Sexual justice has been restored.

In this movie, the first feature is missing:  Scott does not have a wife that died for the simple reason that he has never been married.

In Decision at Sundown (1957), Scott plays a man who had been cuckolded by various men while he was off fighting the Civil War.  After his wife’s last affair with a sleazy character played by John Carroll, she committed suicide.  Scott blames Carroll for that and tracks him down, determined to get revenge.  When he finally catches up with him, Carroll is about to get married to Karen Steele. We are suspicious of Carroll because he is a dandy.  We get the sense that he is marrying Steele, not because he loves her, but because he is a social climber, something a real man would never do.  As she learns more about him, she refuses to marry him.  This is similar to the way the marriage was never consummated in The Tall T.  Carroll ends up leaving with the town whore, the one he is suited for, while Steele seems to be pairing up with the local doctor, a more suitable match.

There is a minor variation on the second feature:  the woman is not yet married to the man that is unworthy of her. The third feature is absent:  there is no perceptive outlaw to talk about Steele with Scott.

Buchanan Rides Alone (1958) is an outlier.  None of the features listed above are present.  There are maybe three women in this movie, two of whom have speaking parts, but neither is of much significance. What little we can discern of their relationships with men, there appears to be no sexual injustice.

In Westbound (1959), Andrew Duggan, a secret agent of the Confederacy, has married the woman Scott used to love, Virginia Mayo.  Scott is a captain in the Union Army.  On the stagecoach, he meets a Union soldier played by Michael Dante, who lost his left arm in the Civil War from gangrene.  He is married to Karen Steele.  This is the first of these movies in which the husband of the leading lady has a physical handicap instead of a character flaw.  Dante keeps referring to himself as being “half a man,” the same expression Marvin used in reference to Russell’s husband in 7 Men from Now.

Now, we were fine with the way three of the previous movies depicted sexual injustice by pairing a beautiful woman with a man that was not worthy of her because he was weak or effeminate.  And we were glad when these marriages were stopped or broken up.  But do we really feel it is an injustice for a man that is physically impaired to be married to a beautiful woman?  Well, maybe we don’t, but apparently that’s the way Boetticher must have felt, because he has Dante is killed off.

Somewhat later, Duggan, Mayo’s husband, is killed in a gunfight.  Mayo seems to still be in love with Scott and would like to have him back, but we see Scott saying goodbye to her as she leaves on the stage.   Then, in a manner similar to the ending of 7 Men from Now, we get the impression that Scott and Steele will end up getting married as soon as the decent interval of mourning has passed.  When that happens, she will get a whole man and not just half of one.

In this movie, there is a variation on the first feature:  Scott’s wife has not been killed for the simple reason that the woman he loved married someone else instead.  This is similar to Decision at Sundown, where an unfaithful wife committed suicide while Scott was off fighting the Civil War.  Here, the woman he loved was unfaithful and married someone else while he was off fighting the Civil War, depriving Scott of a wife in a different manner.  The third feature is absent:  there is no perceptive outlaw that talks to Scott about how desirable the woman is that is married to a man that is unworthy of her.

In Ride Lonesome (1959), Scott is a bounty hunter, bringing in a prisoner.  Pernell Roberts and James Coburn are two outlaws that want to be the ones to bring the prisoner in themselves.  If they do, they will receive an amnesty for their past crimes, allowing them to go straight and become partners running a farm on a piece of land Roberts owns but cannot return to while he is wanted by the law. When we first meet Karen Steele, she has just been made a widow by some Indians.  She and her husband had been managing a staging post out in the middle of nowhere.  Scott makes some derogatory remarks about her deceased husband, saying he should never have brought her to that isolated place, and having done so, he should never have left her alone to go chase after some horses.  So, even though we never meet the husband, we know from Scott’s assessment that he was unworthy of Steele.  We get the feeling that, sorry as she is that her husband has been killed, the love in that marriage had long since died.  Roberts, like Marvin and Boone in two of the previous movies, gets into a discussion with Scott about how nice it would be to have a woman like Steele for a wife.

The principal outlaw that Scott must contend with is Lee Van Cleef, the brother of Scott’s prisoner. Toward the end of the movie, we find out that Van Cleef once hanged Scott’s wife for revenge.  After Van Cleef has been killed, Scott lets Roberts and Coburn have his prisoner for the amnesty.  From the dialogue, we get the sense that, after the usual period of mourning, Steele will end up marrying Roberts.  We don’t know what her deceased husband had been like, but Roberts is definitely the real man she needs.

The fourth feature is unusual in that it is the perceptive outlaw that becomes the worthy replacement.

In Comanche Station (1960), Scott’s wife was captured by the Comanches ten years ago. Whenever he hears about a white woman being held by the Comanches, he goes to their camp to barter for the woman, in hopes that it will be his wife.  Upon arriving at a Comanche camp for just such a purpose, he ends up trading for Nancy Gates, a more recently captured woman.  He tells her he will take her back to Lordsburg, where her husband is.  Because all the braves have been having their way with her (we see bruises on her arms), she worries that her husband won’t want her back.  At this point, the question seems to be not so much whether her husband is unworthy of her, but whether he will think her unworthy of him.  Scott says that if he loves her, it won’t matter, which tells us more about his attitude toward his wife, if he ever finds her, than it tells us about Gates’ husband.

Claude Akins and two other men have been looking for Gates too.  Akins knows what Scott and Gates do not, that her husband offered a $5,000 reward for her return, dead or alive.  Akins says that the husband will pay even if she is returned dead so that he will know for sure what happened to her.  But we can’t help thinking of The Searchers (1956), where John Wayne wants to kill Natalie Wood because she has been raped by the Indians.  If it is like that, then the husband is unworthy of Gates.  But we don’t know.

Akins is the perceptive outlaw in this movie that talks to Scott about how desirable Gates is.  Scott once had Akins court martialed for killing peaceful Indians to get their scalps, for which a bounty was offered. Akins talks about how nice it would be to have a woman like Gates, and how her husband can’t be much of a man, or else he would have gone looking for her himself.  He talks about how he knew a man once that set out to find another man’s captive wife. He found her, but before they got back to her husband, they became lovers.  This remark is reminiscent of the remark made by Lee Marvin in 7 Men from Now, the one about a woman like Russell running off with a real man, suggesting that Scott would be that man, just as Akins does in this movie.  Akins’ assessment of the situation makes us think the husband is unworthy of Gates.

Akins plans to kill Scott so that he can collect the reward.  But since Gates would be a witness to the murder, he plans on killing her too, after which he will return her dead body to the husband.  Needless to say, Scott kills Akins on the way back to Lordsburg.

There is a scene in which Gates says that she hopes Scott will stay in Lordsburg for a while after they get there, saying it will make things easier, since she is afraid things will never be the same with her husband, now that she has been raped.  Scott says she’ll forget.  There’s no PTSD in a Boetticher Western.  But Gates may be wondering more about whether her husband will forget than whether she will.  She points out that Scott hasn’t forgotten about his wife.  He says that knowing Gates has made him forget, at least for a little while.  All this sounds familiar, like the dialogue in some of the previous movies that suggest that the woman, once freed of her unworthy husband or fiancé, will soon be getting together with a man that deserves her.

But when they arrive at Gates’ home in Lordsburg, a young child comes running out to her, calling her “Mommy!”  That changes everything.  There never were any children involved in the previous movies, and the presence of a young child confers a movie’s blessing on the marriage that produced that child.  Then her husband comes out, and we see that he is blind.  Gates and her husband embrace, and we know all will be well, that they truly love each other.

Did Boetticher have a change of heart?  Maybe.  But we meet this husband and find out about his condition only at the end of the movie.  We just barely have a moment for it to register that he is blind before Scott rides away and the movie is over.  But suppose we had been introduced to this married couple early on?  Suppose, similar to Dante in Westbound, he was a soldier that had been blinded during the war, and we see him reunited with his wife in the first twenty minutes of the movie?  And assume there was no child.  Would the husband have survived then?  I doubt it.  I don’t think Boetticher could have stood it.  He would have had to kill him off so that Scott and Gates could hint to each other that they will be getting together just as soon as it is socially acceptable for them to do so.

We suspect that the first feature is present in this movie.  That is, we figure that Scott’s wife is dead by now.  And the third element is present, in that Akins is the perceptive outlaw that talks to Scott about what an attractive woman Gates is, and how he thinks her husband is unworthy of her.  But is the second element present?  Is Gates’ husband unworthy of her by Boetticher standards, owing to the fact that he is blind? Or has she herself become less worthy on account of having been raped by all those Comanches, in which case, she and her husband are now suited for each other?  We may not think that way, but given the movies that have come before, we can’t help but wonder if this was Boetticher’s way of bringing about what for him would be sexual justice

 

The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951)

When The Day the Earth Stood Still opens, a UFO is spotted, circling the Earth at a high rate of speed. A man on the radio announces that this is not another flying saucer scare, that scientists and military men have agreed that this is something real.  Nevertheless, another radio announcer says that in the nation’s capital, there is some concern, but no sign of panic, as people are enjoying a nice spring day.

We see the familiar landmarks of Washington, D.C.  At a park, people are lying about, others having a picnic, while a bunch of children are playing baseball. Suddenly, it becomes clear that the flying saucer is going to land there, and they all scatter.

This is not realistic.  A UFO always lands in some isolated area, where only a few people see it, one of whom is taken into the flying saucer so a needle can be stuck into her navel.  And then when she tries to tell her story, no one believes her, except a few government officials, who keep it a secret because we must never know.  Landing right in the middle of the nation’s capital in broad daylight with everybody watching just isn’t the way UFOs do things.

The flying saucer is surrounded by infantry, artillery, and tanks, as well as by onlookers.  Eventually, a ramp appears, and a door opens.  An alien emerges in the shape of human being.  That’s reassuring. He starts speaking with a male voice, so men apparently run things where he comes from too.  He is wearing a space helmet, but only because every well-dressed alien from outer space is expected to have one.  Otherwise, it serves no useful function:  he wouldn’t have needed it on his flying saucer, and he has no trouble breathing when he takes it off.  When he does take it off, we see that he is white, so apparently white people run things where he comes from too.  We later find out that his name is Klaatu, played by Michael Rennie.

He is able to speak English, which he learned from listening to our radio and television broadcasts.  He says, “We have come to visit you in peace and with goodwill.”  But when he whips out what appears to be a space switchblade, one of the trigger-happy soldiers shoots him.

Then a great big robot comes out, and with rays of light beaming out of the slit in his head, he starts vaporizing all the rifles, artillery, and tanks, but without harming any soldiers.  Klaatu struggles to rise up from the ground, addressing the robot, “Gort!  Deglet ovrosco!”  Apparently, the robot’s name is Gort, and he doesn’t speak English.

As some soldiers approach, Klaatu picks up the broken device he had been holding, saying, “It was a gift for your president.  With this he could have studied life on other planets.”  Perhaps the president could also have studied the planets that used to have life on them before they were annihilated for disobedience.  But Klaatu brought only one with him, so we’ll never know.

Klaatu is brought to a hospital to treat the wound to his shoulder.  He is visited by Mr. Harley, the president’s secretary.  Klaatu tells him he has traveled 250,000,000 miles from his planet to reach Earth.  That means he could be from Mars, but it is not clear what was intended by the scriptwriters.  Later in the movie, Klaatu speaks of a confederation of planets, but we can’t be sure whether they are supposed to be within our solar system or beyond it.  At the time this movie was made, the possibility of intelligent life on other planets in our solar system and even on their moons was widely accepted in science fiction.  On the other hand, Klaatu at one point says, “The universe grows smaller every day,” not, “The solar system grows smaller every day.”  Therefore, it is more likely that Klaatu’s home planet is not in our solar system.  But that means that its distance from Earth would have to be measured in trillions of miles, not millions.

Klaatu demands that he be allowed to address the United Nations.  Mr. Harley is hesitant, saying there are problems with that, saying that “evil forces have produced tension in our world.”

Klaatu replies, in a voice that is not at all friendly, but rather threatening, “My mission here is not to solve your petty squabbles. It concerns the existence of every last creature who lives on Earth.”  So much for all that talk about “peace” and “goodwill” in his initial greeting.  Later, he refers to earthlings as being childish and stupid.  However, when he learns that he cannot get anywhere with the political leaders of the world, he decides he must mingle with ordinary people of Earth, so as to understand their “strange, unreasoning attitudes.”

He is locked in his room in the hospital, but of course he is able to escape.  He rents a room at a boardinghouse, using the name Mr. Carpenter, where he meets Helen Benson (Patricia Neal) and her son Bobby.  According to an online script, Bobby is supposed to be eleven years old, even though he is played by Billy Gray, who was thirteen at the time.  Although “Mr. Carpenter” becomes quite familiar with these two, as well as with others who live there, he never encourages anyone to call him by a first name. This is consistent with his persona, which affects an aloof, superior attitude.

The next morning, at the breakfast table of the boardinghouse, Mr. Carpenter reads in the newspaper that a Professor Barnhardt (Sam Jaffe) has invited scientists from all over the world to study the spaceship.  He seems to be getting an idea:  if he cannot get anywhere with politicians, he might do better with scientists.  That places this movie on the left, politically speaking. Conservatives don’t trust scientists the way liberals do.

Also at the breakfast table are other tenants, listening to the radio, where the announcer refers to the spaceman as a monster, who must be tracked down like a wild animal and destroyed.  However, he expresses concern that destroying him might involve retaliation.  We are supposed to disapprove of this xenophobic attitude on the part of the announcer.  This is ironic, for once we find out why Klaatu has come to Earth, we realize that the announcer was right:  Klaatu is a monster, and the only misgivings we should have about killing him is the possibility of retaliation.  Of course, the movie does not want us to think that way, not even at the end when his threat to destroy all life on this planet becomes clear.

One of the tenants, a Mr. Barley, turns off the radio in disgust, complaining about the way the government isn’t doing anything because they are Democrats. Because he comes across as dogmatic and narrowminded, this remark further establishes the leftwing orientation of this movie.

Mrs. Barley, his wife, doesn’t even think he is from another planet, but from right here on Earth. Given the year this movie was made, we may guess that she thinks the man is a Communist.  Only Helen defends the spaceman, suggesting he is not a menace at all.

Mrs. Crockett, the landlady, enters the dining room and tells Helen that Tom Stevens is here to see her. She goes into the lobby, where they kiss romantically. Apparently, they were planning a picnic, but Helen says she hasn’t been able to find a babysitter for Bobby.  She tentatively suggests taking him with them, but we can see that Tom doesn’t like that idea.  Right then, we know we aren’t supposed to like him, not surprising since he is played by Hugh Marlowe.  Furthermore, he is an insurance salesman.  In real life, an insurance salesman might be a fine fellow, but when a scriptwriter decides to make one of the characters in a movie an insurance salesman, he wants the audience to have a negative feeling about him. Tom wants to marry Helen, but she isn’t sure.

In any event, Mr. Carpenter offers to take care of Bobby, so Bobby can show him around the city. Before Helen has a chance to think about that, Tom says, “Say, that’ll be great, wouldn’t it, Helen?” Helen is hesitant, but she finally agrees.  Bobby and Mr. Carpenter begin by going to Arlington National Cemetery, where Bobby’s father is buried.  Mr. Carpenter is deeply moved by the fact that all those men died in wars. He says that they don’t have wars where he comes from.  Then they go to the Lincoln Memorial, where he reads the Gettysburg Address, which was given during the Civil War. Again, Mr. Carpenter is deeply moved.  Referring to Lincoln, he says, “That’s the kind of man I’d like to talk to.”

I hate to get ahead of this story again, but since we all know what is coming, I guess it will be all right. The whole reason Klaatu is here on Earth is that earthlings fight wars.  Since they now have atomic weapons and are experimenting with rockets, this will make them a danger to the whole universe, once they move beyond Earth and venture on to other planets.  As a result, Earth may have to be incinerated, wiping everyone out, including Bobby, I might add.  In order for this to make sense, Klaatu should be showing disgust at the way earthlings not only fight wars all the time, but also honor those who died in those wars, thereby duping future young men to fight and die too.  That he should become sentimental about those who died in wars, and that he should admire a man who presided over a war, is incongruous, given the kind of death and destruction that he threatens to inflict on all of mankind on account of the wars they are always waging.

Since Lincoln is no longer available, Mr. Carpenter asks Bobby who the greatest man in America is today, meaning the greatest philosopher, the greatest thinker. Bobby says it’s Professor Barnhardt. They go to Barnhardt’s house, but he’s not home.  Mr. Carpenter and Bobby go inside anyway, where they see a blackboard full of equations, representing an effort to solve a problem in celestial mechanics. Mr. Carpenter writes on the blackboard, essentially solving it for Barnhardt, leaving his address with the Barnhardt’s secretary when she interrupts them.

Eventually, Barnhardt and Mr. Carpenter get together, the latter revealing himself as Klaatu.  He says that the warlike earthlings are beginning to be a threat to other planets, now that they have atomic energy and rockets.  Klaatu says that if he does not get the hearing he demands, he may have to resort to violence to get one, such as by destroying all of New York City.  If he gets a hearing and fails to get the results he demands, the entire planet Earth will have to be eliminated. In the meantime, he agrees to settle for a nonviolent demonstration of some sort.

That night, Bobby follows Mr. Carpenter to the flying saucer, where he sees him interacting with Gort and then entering the spaceship.  He tells his mother what he saw, and, you guessed it, she insists he was dreaming, one of the most irritating plot devices in the movies.  How refreshing it would have been to see her immediately pick up the phone and call the police.  Instead, we have to resign ourselves to suffering through this routine until Bobby is finally believed, and then only because Mr. Carpenter tells Helen that he is Klaatu.  He admits to what happened because he found out that Bobby saw him entering the flying saucer, and he was afraid Helen would believe Bobby and call the police.  It never occurred to Klaatu that Helen would dismiss what Bobby told her as being a dream because he is from another planet and has never been in an Earth movie before.

Right after he tells her this, the demonstration he promised Barnhardt begins, when all electric power throughout the entire world is turned off, including that of automobiles.  That’s impressive, all right. Even more impressive is the fact that this is done differentially, with exceptions being made for hospitals and airplanes in flight.  Problem is, if Klaatu, all by himself, has the ability to do this, he could shut off the electricity of any rocket ships trying to leave Earth. In that case, the other planets that Klaatu represents would have nothing to fear, and Earth would not need to be destroyed.  But Klaatu doesn’t think of that.

Anyway, Tom figures out that Mr. Carpenter is the spaceman.  That’s because Klaatu carries perfect diamonds around in his pocket like loose change, a couple of which he gave to Bobby, one of which Tom accidentally found.  He and Helen start arguing about it.  He wants to report this to the Pentagon, and she wants to protect Klaatu by keeping it a secret.

Tom says, “He’s a menace to the whole world.  It’s our duty to turn him in.” He’s right, of course. Klaatu casually spoke of murdering everyone in New York City just to make a point, that point being that he is willing to murder everyone on this planet, if we don’t do what he says.  By our standards, he is a psychopath, although on the planet he comes from, he may be perfectly normal.

But the movie doesn’t want us to think that way.  For some reason, we are supposed to think Klaatu is a good person, and that Helen is right to protect him. Therefore, the movie must make Tom out to be even more unlikable than he already is.  He continues:

You realize what this’d mean for us? I’d be the biggest man in the country. I could write my own ticket….   You’ll feel different when you see my picture in the papers…. You wait and see. You’re going to marry a big hero.

It might be one thing for him to think that way, but no matter how vainglorious a man might be in his heart, he would know not to say something like, “I want to be a hero.” Rather, what we would expect is that Tom would continue to say he is turning Klaatu in because it’s the right thing to do.  Later, when surrounded by reporters, who speak of him as a hero, he would say, “Oh, no.  I just did what anyone else would do in my situation.”

In any event, after he tells Helen that he doesn’t care about the world, that he only wants to be big and important, that marriage is off.

Of course, in another sense, Tom was wrong about informing the Pentagon, as a practical matter. Even if Klaatu were to be arrested or killed, Earth would be destroyed anyway. Klaatu says that is exactly what would happen, that Gort would destroy the whole planet if anything happened to him.  Gort may end up doing that eventually, but right now it would be premature.  To prevent Gort from so doing, he tells Helen that if anything happens to him, she must go to Gort and say the words, “Klaatu barada nikto.”

Later, when Klaatu is shot down in the street by soldiers, he tells her to get that message to Gort right before he dies. Meanwhile, Gort has been sealed in a rectangular prism of plastic, which is harder than steel.  Nevertheless, he simply vaporizes it and frees himself.  A couple of soldiers approach. This time, Gort doesn’t simply vaporize their rifles. He vaporizes the soldiers too.

Then Helen shows up.  Gort is about to do the same to her, but she utters the all-important words, “Klaatu barada nikto.”  There must be a lot of meaning in those words because Gort picks up Helen and brings her inside the flying saucer.  Then he goes to the cell where the body of Klaatu has been locked up, vaporizes the wall, and brings Klaatu’s body back to the flying saucer.

When Gort brings Klaatu back to life, Helen asks, “You mean he has the power of life and death?”

Klaatu responds, “No, that power is reserved for the Almighty Spirit.”  This is the only explicit reference to God in this movie, although his use of the name “Carpenter” is intended to make us identify him with Jesus, as does his resurrection.

All the scientists that Klaatu wanted to speak to have convened around the flying saucer.  Klaatu emerges and gives a short speech.

Essentially, he says that the other planets in the universe have created a race of robots to act as policemen.  Their job is to enforce the peace. They have absolute power over those who live on those planets, and their power cannot be revoked. If the people on Earth try to extend their violent ways beyond their own planet, the entire planet will be burnt to a cinder.  Having given this ultimatum, he gets in his flying saucer and flies away.

Earlier, I noted that the political orientation of this movie is on the left, given its positive attitude toward scientists.  Furthermore, regarding those scientists now surrounding the flying saucer, we see they consist of men and women of all races and from all parts of world, suggesting an equality of the sexes and the races, which also puts this movie on the left.  In the original script, Klaatu compared the organization of the planets of which he speaks to “A sort of United Nations on the planetary level.”  Even without that line in the movie, the similarity between the organization of the planets and our United Nations is obvious. This further marks the movie as being on the left, given that liberals tend to have a more favorable attitude toward the United Nations than conservatives do.

As opposed to this, I would have expected conservative viewers of this movie to react with revulsion at the thought of having to submit to Klaatu and his robot.  I should think they would regard the loss of sovereignty of planet Earth to some interplanetary government, which in turn has given up its sovereignty to a race of robots, not as a positive thing, but as a cautionary tale as to what could happen to American sovereignty if the elitists and globalists are allowed to have their way.  Moreover, I should have thought that those on right would have been appalled at the way we are supposed to admire Klaatu and appreciate what he is doing for the people on Earth, while threatening them all with death if they don’t behave.  Finally, given the intensity with which conservatives embrace their Christian faith, I should have thought they would regard the suggestion that Klaatu was Christlike as blasphemous.

And yet, I have found none of this.  With professional critics, it is sometimes difficult to tell whether they are liberals or conservatives, but that doesn’t seem to matter.  Whatever their political orientation might be, they all seem to approve of the way Klaatu bestowed upon mankind the blessing of peace on Earth.  As for those I have known personally, their response has invariably been the same, even though I have lived in Texas most of my life and am surrounded by Republicans.  It strikes me as paradoxical that, though I am a Democrat, yet my reaction to this movie is further to the right than it is for those who actually belong there.

Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes (1984)

At screenrant.com, there is an article entitled “Every Single Tarzan Movie (in Order of Release),” with commentary provided by authors Shawn S. Lealos and Angel Shaw.  When they get to Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes, they note that this was the first Tarzan movie to receive Oscar nominations, saying, “This 1984 film is widely considered one of the best of the Tarzan movies.”

If so, I don’t share that opinion.  Although a movie should always be judged on its own merits, it is impossible to watch a Tarzan movie without comparing it to the novel or other Tarzan movies. In comparing the book with a movie version, there is the question of fidelity to the original story and fidelity to the spirit of the novel, which are not quite the same thing.  This movie fails on both counts.

At first, it appears that we may be watching a Tarzan movie that follows the story in the novel. Minor changes are to be expected, of course. But a major change is when Tarzan (Christopher Lambert) meets Jane (Andie MacDowell). In the novel, she is abducted by Terkoz, one of the great anthropoid apes, who wants to ravish her, but she is rescued by Tarzan, who wants her for himself. Although he cannot speak a human language, they fall in love. In this movie, he does not meet Jane until after he has learned to speak English and has arrived in England.

Moreover, Burroughs apparently believed in Lamarckian evolution, for he presents Tarzan as one who manages to maintain his noble bearing even though he was raised by apes in the jungle, on account of his aristocratic ancestry. In this movie, on the other hand, Tarzan runs about on all fours, oo-oo-ooing like an ape. This is bad enough while he is in the jungle, but long after he has arrived in England, he still reverts to running about on all fours and making silly ape noises.  Even on the night he has sex with Jane, he comes into her bedroom, barefoot and on all fours, and when he starts removing her clothes and sees her bare flesh, he gets so excited that he starts oo-oo-ooing again.

Compare that with the first sexual encounter between Jane and Tarzan in the novel as he fights with Terkoz to the death:

Jane—her lithe, young form flattened against the trunk of a great tree, her hands tight pressed against her rising and falling bosom, and her eyes wide with mingled horror, fascination, fear, and admiration—watched the primordial ape battle with the primeval man for possession of a woman—for her.

As the great muscles of the man’s back and shoulders knotted beneath the tension of his efforts, and the huge biceps and forearm held at bay those mighty tusks, the veil of centuries of civilization and culture was swept from the blurred vision of the Baltimore girl.

When the long knife drank deep a dozen times of Terkoz’ heart’s blood, and the great carcass rolled lifeless upon the ground, it was a primeval woman who sprang forward with outstretched arms toward the primeval man who had fought for her and won her.

And Tarzan?

He did what no red-blooded man needs lessons in doing. He took his woman in his arms and smothered her upturned, panting lips with kisses.

For a moment Jane lay there with half-closed eyes. For a moment—the first in her young life—she knew the meaning of love.

But then her civilized upbringing comes back to her, and she resists Tarzan.  He is puzzled by this, but he does not force himself on her.  As they become better acquainted, his behavior toward her was the “hallmark of his aristocratic birth, the natural outcropping of many generations of fine breeding, an hereditary instinct of graciousness which a lifetime of uncouth and savage training and environment could not eradicate.”

It might be argued that the movie is more realistic. It probably is, for the Tarzan of this movie reminds me of the title character in The Wild Child (1970), based on the true story of Victor of Aveyron, a boy who had grown up wild in the forest. But if realism is what you are after, you should watch that movie instead of a movie about Tarzan anyway.

Speaking of which, there is a worker on the Greystoke estate named Willy who is said to be “a bit soft in the head.” Both his behavior and his posture are similar to that of Tarzan. One of the unresolved questions about Victor of Aveyron is whether he was born with normal intelligence, which was impaired by his growing up without human contact, or whether he had been abandoned by his parents because he was suffering from a mental disability to begin with. Willy’s presence in this movie reinforces the similar doubts we have been having about Tarzan.

When Tarzan discovers an ape in a cage, he frees him, and they go to a park and climb a tree, just like old times.  When a guard shoots the ape, Tarzan screams, “He was my father.”  In the end, the Tarzan of this movie is so offended by the civilized world that he decides to go back to the jungle where he belongs.

There is one part of the novel that I doubt even the most devoted Burroughs’ fan would want to see in a movie because it is just too painful.  Tarzan’s parents had brought books with them for the purpose of raising a child, which Tarzan discovered long after they had died.  By means of these books, Tarzan learned to read English by associating, for example, a picture in the book of a man with the word “man” written on the same page.

He rescues a Frenchman named Paul D’Arnot, who discovers that although Tarzan is not mute, he can only read English, not speak it.  So, he decides to teach Tarzan how to speak a human language. But since D’Arnot’s English is not very good, he teaches Tarzan to speak French.  He does so by pointing to the word “man” and telling Tarzan that the word is pronounced homme.

Ugh!  Apparently, French still had some snob appeal back when Burroughs wrote this story, so he wanted his Tarzan to speak both French and English.  This movie wisely avoided all this by having D’Arnot teach Tarzan English to begin with, letting him learn French later.

Anyway, to continue with the novel, D’Arnot also teaches Tarzan the ways of civilization.  Eventually, Tarzan travels to America to find Jane, whom he rescues from a fire along with several others. Unfortunately, she is engaged to another man, Tarzan’s cousin, William Cecil Clayton, the heir apparent to the title of Lord Greystoke. Though she loves Tarzan, yet she cannot break her promise to Clayton.

Shortly after talking to her, Tarzan receives a telegram informing him that fingerprints have established that he is Greystoke.  The following lines are the end of the novel, an ending that to my knowledge has never been in any Tarzan movie ever made, but would be enough to put such a movie at the top of my list should there ever be one:

As Tarzan finished reading, Clayton entered and came toward him with extended hand.

Here was the man who had Tarzan’s title, and Tarzan’s estates, and was going to marry the woman whom Tarzan loved—the woman who loved Tarzan. A single word from Tarzan would make a great difference in this man’s life.

It would take away his title and his lands and his castles, and—it would take them away from Jane Porter also. “I say, old man,” cried Clayton, “I haven’t had a chance to thank you for all you’ve done for us. It seems as though you had your hands full saving our lives in Africa and here.

“I’m awfully glad you came on here. We must get better acquainted. I often thought about you, you know, and the remarkable circumstances of your environment.

“If it’s any of my business, how the devil did you ever get into that bally jungle?”

“I was born there,” said Tarzan, quietly. “My mother was an Ape, and of course she couldn’t tell me much about it. I never knew who my father was.”

Orpheus (1950) and Black Orpheus (1959)

Orpheus is a French film directed by Jean Cocteau.  It is based on the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, set contemporaneously in France.  The movie begins in The Poet’s Café, where a bunch of hoodlum poets hang out. Orpheus (Jean Marais) is hated by the rest of the poets in the café, because his poetry is so much better than theirs. A fight breaks out among the poets, just the way you and I might get into a fight over some poems we had written. Other poets join in, and it becomes a riot. Orpheus is almost arrested, but the policeman lets him go when he realizes who he is. In fact, the policeman is surprised he didn’t recognize Orpheus, since there are lots of pictures of him in his wife’s room (Oh, brother!).

Anyway, Orpheus is a grouch who is mean to his wife, Eurydice (Marie Déa), but we are supposed to understand that he is a genius who has his moods, and so that makes it all right. Death (María Casares), in the form of a hot babe, kills Eurydice, and down she goes to Hades.  Instead of being grief stricken, however, Orpheus falls in love with Death. But he can’t get rid of his wife that easily. The old ball-and-chain is allowed to follow Orpheus back from the underworld to the surface as long as he does not look at her. Well, he never seemed to want to look at her when she was alive, so I don’t know why he would want to look at her now, but he does. In fact, he cares so little for her that I suspect he looked at her on purpose so he could be free to make it with Death, the hot babe.

And it almost works, except that we are then treated to an outrageous narrative rupture, in which Orpheus and Eurydice live happily ever after.

As for Black Orpheus, another French movie based on the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, if you decide to watch this one, I hope you like dancing, because that is what half the movie is, and it is monotonous, repetitive dancing to monotonous, repetitive music.

In this version of the myth, set in contemporary times in Rio de Janeiro, Orfeo (Breno Mello) asks his girlfriend Mira (Lourdes de Oliveira) to marry him, and then on the same day, he meets Eurydice (Marpessa Dawn) and has sex with her. Then, instead of at least breaking off his engagement, he just dances with Eurydice at the carnival right in front of Mira. So, he’s a louse, right? Wrong. The movie wants us to like Orfeo and despise Mira. You figure it out.

Anyway, there is a guy running around with a death mask on who wants to kill Eurydice and eventually succeeds. We don’t know why, because she says she never had anything to do with him. I guess we are supposed to accept this as mythologically inevitable. Or, you can just assume the guy is wearing a hockey mask.