I'd been fiddling with the idea of entering a post in the Dueling Divas Marathon I saw advertised on Rachel's page at Girl with the White Parasol, and I might still do that. However, when I tried thinking of famous catty broads, my treacherous brain kept thinking of great female friendships instead (I was going to put "great film female friendships," but who wants to encounter that much alliteration this time in the evening, or whenever you're reading this?). Well, I thought of one friendship in particular, at any rate--that of ballerinas turned fallen women Kitty and Myra in 1940's Waterloo Bridge, as portrayed by Virginia Field and Vivien Leigh, respectively.
This film is the Gone with the Wind of China, apparently, with subtitled versions used in universities for students studying English. As for contemporary America, this movie certainly isn't as well known as Casablanca or any of the other great wartime tear-jerkers. Part of that could be Robert Taylor as male lead Roy Cronin; though he does a competent, charming job as the Scottish (?) Captain who wins Myra's heart, maybe he's too charming, too nice, too perfect, too much the distant, idealized, do-nothing hero, with no enticing conflict to generate as much interest as, say, moody and cynical Rick Blaine.
Plus, let's face it, the plot is Camille'd in a big way, more sentimentalized than the grittier 1931 version directed by James Whale. Sweet, innocent ballerina+Presumed dead fiance=A LIFE OF SHAME ON THE STREETS IF YOU KNOW WHAT I'M SAYIN'. But then, oh then, she finds out her presumption was maybe premature....
The movie is emotionally manipulative, and after awhile you want to shoot poor, harmless Tchaikovsky for ever having written Swan Lake, or the producers for thinking "Auld Lang Syne" wouldn't make a monotonous love score, given the way both tunes are used ad nauseam whenever Leigh gets misty.
Yet somehow the movie works, and is legitimately touching for all its manufactured syrup. Part of that may be due to the fantastic cinematography, and Mervyn LeRoy's comparatively quiet directing and the screenplay that doesn't hit you over the head with any sugary sweetness, and has some surprisingly sharp lines. Plus, you've got imperious coldness in the form of Maria Ouspenskaya as brittle ballet mistress Madame Kirowa, blustering stuffiness with C. Aubrey Smith as the duke, and Lucile Watson as a multi-layered Lady Margaret Cronin, the protective mother of Taylor.
But mostly, I think the movie works based on the sincere performances of Leigh and Field, and the friendship their two characters share.
This was purportedly Leigh's favorite film, and it's certainly her most sensitive, realized performance outside of Blanche. Myra is more grounded in reality than any character she's ever played, even with the stereotypical weepy-sad-prostitute shit she has to muck through. Coming right after Scarlett, a performance that you could argue bordered on the broad for all its immense awesomeness (which rightly fit the source material), Myra was truly the window into just what Leigh could do with a role--inhabit it completely. Was there ever an actress with a more expressive face? A face that could pull you into what she was feeling with a minimum of any actual facial contortions? There was an undeniable energy radiating from her face, that shone through even when perfectly still, filling you with what she felt.
Myra is a character that so easily could have been saucer-eyed and sticky, were it not for Leigh's ability to truly humanize her. Myra is totally affectless, completely guileless, and thus we more than just stomach her. We love her.
Then there's Virginia Field. Dear, undeservedly forgotten Virginia Field. This blonde stunner was just as tart and breezy and likable as Ginger, Una, and Blondell, with a saucy cockney twist and legs that went on forever. Yet she's able to get at deeper, more emotional places, that might have made you cringe if you saw one of those aforementioned ballsy dames try for them. Her Kitty is someone you'd want in your corner. Kitty is a former showgirl who finds herself in an uptight ballet company due to the war (another example of Hollywood's skewered take on reality--so a showgirl can pass herself off as a ballerina, eh? And getting into a ballet company is a last resort choice for her?). This cocky, streetwise dame, despite all logical odds, becomes inseparable pals with the shy, virginal Myra. And she'd do anything for Myra, anything: pretend a note sent to Myra that disrupts Madame's lecture is actually for her, then get fired for standing up for Myra, and ultimately, become a prostitute in order to support the ailing Myra, stricken after reading that Roy's been killed overseas.
Is Kitty almost too much the idealized friend, as Roy is the idealized man? If so, we don't notice it as much or feel half as manipulated, since Field as Kitty is so brass and raw that she doesn't come off as a caricature of maternal, wisecracking camaraderie, but instead she's the real thing. Of course, sadly, she's unable to shield Myra from her way of living for long.
Waterloo Bridge is undeniably packaged as a sweeping romance, from its swelling score and candlelight, to its distraught, separated lovers. Myra and Roy's relationship is indeed effective. Leigh and Taylor do have lovely chemistry together, for all his shiny over-perfection. But nothing beats the sister-chemistry between timid Myra and boisterous Kitty, and theirs are the most electric scenes. Kitty undeniably gets the best lines, and delivers them with zip. The energy rises whenever she's onscreen. And Myra is so touchingly charming that we want her to have a defender like Kitty; honestly, Roy is steeped way too much in his fantasy land of invincible happiness that we wonder how anything not rose-colored could ever get through to him.
Sandwiched into this tragic love story and war drama is a buddy picture. Without it, maybe we would have thrown up our hands in disgust at the swoony couple and hokey, tired plotline; as it is, Kitty and Myra's struggles and courage remind us that hard things happen to real friends, too, not just film lovers.
Instead of ending on the film's sad note, let's go with Myra and Kitty at their happiest, earlier in the movie. Here's my favorite scene, both for the movie and for showcasing Myra and Kitty's friendship. Roy has reappeared after Myra thought he'd gone back to war, and she sees him through the window. Myra was never giddier, and Kitty never more excited for and amused by her pal, as she helps her get ready to meet him.
Scene starts at 10:00--
Were it not for the Hayes policy that fallen women must fall all the way down flat on their faces no matter how pure at heart, how delightful would a Myra & Kitty Wartime Fun Hour serial have been? What's that? Now I'm the hokey one? Rude.
St. Martin's Lane was made in 1938, a quirky but heartfelt little film--but not quirky and heartfelt in that appalling sticky way that happens sometimes--about the dying art of busking in late '30s Britain. It's co-written, co-produced, and co-starring Charles Laughton. He plays the gentle-hearted, wily, but fundamentally bombastic Charles Staggers, who fancies himself a Sir John Gielgud of the London streets. On some level, he knows he's not as classically refined in his talents as those onstage, but he's happy with his mediocre living and his eccentric streetwise pals.
It's not until he meets Leigh's stagestruck Libby, a sort of theatrical but homeless prodigy, that he even becomes aware that there's anything to be dissatisfied about in his meager and gypsy-like career. Really, I'm not sure why Vivien didn't send Selznick this movie instead of Fire Over England to showcase why she'd make the perfect Scarlett O'Hara. Not only does she portray the same feisty, fiery temper and irrational desires that, like Scarlett, gives her the air of a volcano just waiting to erupt in a black cloud of crazy, but she maintains throughout that adorable likability that keeps the audience from totally condemning her character.
Because really, save for a few fine moments (that I'll talk about in a bit), the script gives us very little reason to like Libby. She starts out as a pickpocket more concerned with getting a permanent wave and manicure like everyone else than earning an honest living, and Charles is just about ready to haul her in for stealing his sixpence and a famous songwriter's cigarette case, when in a magical sequence, he comes upon her dancing to a little tune she's humming, and discovers that the stuck-up little thief moves like an acrobatic swan (I'm unsure how much of the dancing is Vivien's and the rest a double's, but in the close-ups, her upper-body movements are at least very believable).
Recognizing her innate talent, Charles recruits her for his act, and, inevitably, falls for the "silly coot." And despite the fact she tears up his room in a fit, smacks him a couple of times, looks down on his act once that dashing songwriter (Rex Harrison) enters the scene again, and more or less acts the thoughtless little ditz much of the time, we can see where the infatuation comes from.
She is, after all, Vivien Leigh. And where there's Vivien Leigh, there's charm. A while back I was discussing with someone online about how Paulette Goddard would have done as Scarlett. We both agreed she probably would have done a fine job, but I argued that she was too much the hardboiled '30s dame to make us properly sympathize with her Scarlett. In Goddard's screentests, she lacks the childlike manner bordering on pert naivete that Vivien brought to not only Scarlett but most of her roles, including Blanche, Myra, and of course Libby.
We as an audience can forgive Libby a lot because instead of a tart tease, she comes across more like a damaged child, orphaned and lost, who's had to act tough to get through life at all. It's not that she's going for the handwringing, big-eyed childwoman of D.W. Griffiths movies--that would be totally out of place in this light British comedy. Libby is certainly a spoiled child, but not one without a heart.
Let's go back to those few fine scenes I mentioned, or at least one in particular. After she tears up the room and Charles lightly jokes about it, you see her face crumple in shame, and she turns away to cry. In one of the most quietly sweet moments I've ever seen, she half-heartedly snaps, "go away!" when Charles pats her shoulder. An instant later, she hugs him. Watching Laughton's face shift from numb surprise to numb softness is melting enough, but then in-between childish gulps of breath, Libby apologizes for all the wretched stuff she's done to Charles in the one day they've known each other--stolen his sixpence, made fun of him, torn up his room-- "I'm sorry, you silly fool! I'm sorry!" And she buries her face in his shoulder.
I could be wrong--I've actually had no experience being a man--but I think most guys would have no problem forgiving her there.
The other fine scene appears at the end, and I won't spoil anything except to say it does involve a very sweet kiss. Unfortunately, one of the reasons Vivien probably didn't send this flick to Selznick was because she apparently didn't have the best time working on it. Her relationship with Laughton was chilly at best, and as this was made at the height of her love affair with that Olivier person, she was quite distracted with the relationship, and Laughton was less than sympathetic (you really can't blame him. But then again, it's Vivien, so I at least forgive her, even if he couldn't).
Whatever tensions were on on-set, Laughton and Leigh did not let it show in their performances. They both had wonderful chemistry, and made the audience feel for both of them. No small feat, since both characters want different things: Libby wants fame, Charles wants Libby. Turns out both desires are incompatible, but the sweetness these characters share can't be ignored, either.
Neither can Vivien's rare star quality. She doesn't so much act the role of Libby as she does throw herself aggressively at it, and while I'm sure the same Method devotees who sneer at her Blanche might have the same problems with her Libby (she can be a bit shrill at times, her Cockney accent wavers every once in a while), there's no denying she makes her character come alive in a way that can't be taught in an acting school, not really. Like Scarlett, Libby stands for all the ruthless ambition that survives because of that unshakable spark, that childlike conviction that she has no other choice but to make it--in Libby's case, to the stage and the tantalizing promise of Hollywood in the near future. Hm, that's promising.
Every once in a while I get hooked on a performance I see in a movie, whether it's someone in a principal role or a character actor making a brief appearance. Something about the actor--whether it's actual skill or just a distinct way of talking, emoting, or what have you--just clicks with me. Usually I find others who share my opinion, but sometimes not enough. And that makes me angry for some reason. I mean, why should I give so much of a crap? I bet the actors don't care if not everyone on the globe fawns all over their performances, so long as they get their paycheck. But, frankly, the fact exists: I think there are some performances out there so fabulous and spiffy that they should be universally acknowledged. So there.
Thusly and therefore, here's this post. Right now I'll cover the lady performances I've seen over the years, since they're the first that come to mind. I don't know, maybe it's a self-centered trait of mine that makes me focus more on the wimmin' performers, since I, like many fangirls, tend to insert myself into the female roles I see onscreen. But this sort of backward sexism is impermissible! So once I think about it some more, I'll give the guys some time to shine.
But for now, in no particular order:
Michelle Pfeiffer as Selina Kyle/Catwoman in Batman Returns (1992)
As you might remember from my previous Batman related post, I tend to favor more outlandish and cartoonish portrayals of stuff adapted from comic books, so long as it adheres to the original author's tone. That's why I'm mostly a defender of the Burton Batman movies. They're not as good as the animated series in my opinion, but they still have that gothic, stylized design combined with galumphing energy that just feels right for a Batman treatment (hell, I'm pretty sure it's Burton more than anyone else who influenced the cartoon series). However, people still tend to rag the shit out of Batman Returns, though thankfully acknowledging it's freaking Citizen Kane compared to the Schumacher nightmares. Yes, The Penguin parts sucked. I'll admit that. And a lot of the writing was...eh. But seriously? Take it for what it was going for, which is stylistic pulp, and it's a fun ride!
This negative backlash really pisses me off on Pfeiffer's behalf. Audiences are begrudgingly coming around to the fact that, "yeah, the lady's pretty and she can act, sure." But hardly anyone I know freaks out about how rad her Catwoman was. Yes, fanboys drool all over the sight of her in the stitched up shiny black pleather. And yes, audiences acknowledge it's a better portrayal than Halle Berry's. But maybe because of the campy, Danny-Elfman-whiz-bang musicality throughout, many gloss over how intense and iconic her actual performance was.
I'll admit right now that I prefer her pre-transformation, when she's still the awkward hot mess Selina Kyle. While that part could have come across as merely another "Oh, jeez, the mousy girl is unattractive...UNTIL SHE TAKES OFF THOSE GLASSES!" bits Hollywood's oh so fond of, Pfeiffer's dorky Selina has a distinctive and, yes, kittenish patter with an underlying edge of not-quite-rightness. We're none of us surprised when she totally loses it and transforms from nervous, scatter-brained kitten to full-blown, feral, I'm-going-to-infest-you-with-rabies-because-you-dared-shoo-me-away-with-a-broom Katzefraulein.
I realized I was watching something close to a screen miracle during her transformation scene (vid by MakingTime):
This is one of those scenes that requires something more than a "good actor" alone. You need a certain type, someone able to emote that special...y'know...IT factor. "Itness," if you will. And Pfeiffer, from her frizzed out white-blond hair to her thin, husky voice, embodies Catwoman's "Itness" perfectly.
Her actual Catwoman is fabulous as well, but never quite got me as the above scene and her mousy Selina did. The voice she affects might be what's troubling me, the self-conscious deep purr she adds to her voice once she's in the suit. It's a few steps away from Snagglepuss at times. Just a wee bit out of place, even in a Burton-laden, out-there atmosphere. But! She does redeem herself in her movements, eyes, expressions, and she knocked off all those mannequin heads in ONE TAKE with her whip during the mall scene. That last one by itself deserves some major props. Overall I consider it an outstanding, powerhouse performance. Audiences and critics hadn't yet decided to take comic book movies too seriously, so who knows, maybe if Batman Returns hadn't had that cache, Pfeiffer could have gotten more recognition.
Mia Kirshner as Elizabeth Short in The Black Dahlia (2006)
Brian DePalma is another director whose films get mixed feedback thanks to his unique sense of style and the way he tends to screw around with film convention, often at the expense of substance, his critics argue. I generally disagree, seeing as Carrie's pretty much the masterpiece holy grail of prom slasher flicks, and Phantom of the Paradise is one of my secret favorite movies. Well...maybe those films do lack a little substance (whatever the hell that really is), but still he works well with what he does convey up there.
Except maybe in Black Dahlia. I'm afraid to say I thought that one was a bit of a mess. Yes, it succeeded in scaring me. But that's really not hard to do. I'm still a little frightened of the scene in The Simpsons where Bart imagines Homer's skull melting (a la the Nazis in Indiana Jones) after Homer forgot to pick him up from soccer practice. So that's no huge feat scaring me, in other words. Where DePalma faltered was in trying to cram all the subculture from the 1940s into one spooky movie, subsequently leaving his audience overwhelmed by the plot machinations and underwhelmed by the outcome.
But the film has one saving grace in Mia Kirshner as the eponymous dead girl. I had never heard of her before the movie. And you know what? I still wouldn't if I hadn't watched the movie and looked her up. And that, to me, is a crying shame. Some of the other performances are good--Aaron Eckhart, Hilary Swank, and Fiona Shaw's, for example--but uniformly I felt the acting was rather bland and invisible. So a stand-out performance like Kirshner's deserves far more acclaim.
She appears only in screen tests peppered throughout the film, following her progress from a slightly unhinged but still girlishly optimistic Hollywood newcomer to an even more unhinged, fadingly sad little-girl-lost who realizes she'll probably never rise above Z-movie porno's. These brief tests are the most haunting scenes in the film. Kirshner, like Pfeiffer, has an aura about her that transcends acting talent alone. She captures that smoky, film noir setting better than in any of the other attempts DePalma makes throughout. Her Betty Short is fragile, vulnerable, and unearthly, yet somehow manages to reveal a steely resolve just barely poking through her dazed meandering. This is most blatant in her first scene, where she embarrassingly stumbles through Scarlett O'Hara's "never go hungry again" monologue. The director of the screen test (Brian DePalma hisself) is laughing at her, enjoying the view but obviously not about to hire this charming little nut. She realizes this, and starts laughing as well. She throws her hands up cutely, but the radiant smile doesn't reach her eyes. She leans over and starts rearranging the items on his desk. And she finishes the monologue. With each word, her determination slowly surfaces, not tempered by any of her usual spaced-out affectations. By the time she says her last "I'll never go hungry again," she's staring frankly into the unseen man's eyes, her smile sad but her voice warm and genuine--strangely triumphant.
Amy Acker in just about anything
The public seems to enjoy inflicting Audrey Hepburn Syndrome on any actress these days who demonstrates the least bit of class and charm. In other words, you hear a lot of "Anne Hathaway reminds me of Audrey Hepburn!" Or "Audrey Tautou is totally Audrey Hepburn come back as a short French girl!" Or "Natalie Portman is so the new Audrey!" "Nuh-uh, Keira is!" And so forth. While I like all those actresses, to me they all bring to the table traits and qualities very different from the late Ms. H, and besides, pigeon-holing an actress as the new anything is simply unfair to an actress trying to make an individual name for herself.
Having said all that, Amy Acker comes closest.
She isn't the new Audrey Hepburn or anything like that, but she is the only actress I know of these days who affects her small but devoted audience in that same way Audrey did to an entire world. I recently discussed this on a thread on IMDb. Even when her character is written unevenly, as happened to her frequently on Angel, the viewer is drawn to her character, Winifred "Fred" Burkle, and often wants to reach out to her. She has the gamine waif thing down pat, so that you end up on her side no matter what. Period. Her classiness and intelligence are not intimidating, since she combines those traits with a lot of warm good will.
Now granted, I haven't really seen her outside of Angel and...uh...thekidsshowWishbone. Y'know, the one with the little dog who acts out old books with human actors? Heh heh...heh? Look, I was all nostalgic one day and looked up the actors in my favorite show from when I was a kid and that's how I started watching Angel, okay? There? You happy?
But back to Acker. Oftentimes, like I said, Angel's writing was uneven, and her hyperbolic babbling and insecurities as Fred could grate on one's nerves, but again, Acker's so innately likable that it's hard to actively dislike Fred. Just...stuff about Fred. And when Acker plays Illyria, a resurrected demon god, an Old One? Well, I hate to say it, but the wonderful Audrey never had to perform such an about face in any role she ever had. If given the chance, would she have aced it like Acker? We'll never know. All's I know is Acker's frighteningly amazing ability to clap on (Fred) and clap off (Illyria) without so much as batting an exhausted eyelid is an incredible feat for someone known primarily as a TV actress (though some of the best cinematic stuff is ironically on TV currently). Her characters transform and so does she, in voice, carriage, temperament, looks, etc. She's a great actress who can't seem to make a very big name for herself. Possibly because she really is our day's closest equivalent to Audrey Hepburn, and sadly, though we say that's what we want in actresses like Hathaway, when the real deal comes along there's no place for the Hepburn personality anymore.
Tuesday Weld in just about anything
Speaking of Audrey, in my first post I called Tuesday the naughty, evil, blond version of her. And that's true. In fact, maybe that very edge was what gave Tuesday the opportunities Audrey never had to play against type. Unlike Audrey, Tuesday got to play characters all over the moral spectrum, from bubble-headed beach bunnies (Lord Love a Duck, 1966) to cuckoo-psycho-bird cheerleaders/molls (Pretty Poison, 1968). Unfortunately, it's that very versatility that probably kept her from becoming as beloved a figure as Audrey, since "pretty poison" really is an apt description of her: she's pretty, charming, and delightful, but all those traits seem to be laced with something toxic. This bubbly and venomous quality of hers is even more obvious than Pfeiffer and Kirshner's, because from watching her performances and reading her personal interviews, you get the impression that the disturbed energy came from within. To some viewers like me (and I'm guessing The Real Tuesday Weld), that's captivating. However, I can see how her performances could come across as potentially off-putting. Plus, it doesn't help her reputation any that she was self-destructive in her life and in her career (you turned down effing Bonnie & Clyde?!)
But for those of us who like the demonic little twinkle in her eyes and her toothy grin, Weld's performances are endless amounts of underrated fun.
Elsa Lanchester as The Bride in The Bride of Frankenstein (1935)
I of course concede that of all the performances mentioned, Elsa Lanchester's Bride of Frankie is probably the most celebrated, with the widest fanbase, so many might not categorize it as ignored. But, darnit, she ain't celebrated enough fer my likin'! Her appearance as the bride is sadly brief, but I still believe that it should be mentioned in the same breath as other horror greats, such as Lon Chaney, Bela Lugosi, and her co-star Boris Karloff. The Bride of Frankenstein is just about tied for first place as my favorite movie of all time, maybe slightly usurped by The Big Lebowski. Just like The Dude, The Bride abides, at least in my creepy little heart. I wanted to be The Bride of Frankenstein when I was a little girl. Hell, I still want to.
Lanchester's portrayal resonates with me on a completely different level than the other horror actors I mentioned. While her character is silent, her jutting movements and expressions differ from the bombastic performances you get from silent thrillers like Nosferatu and the 1925 Phantom of the Opera. And she's not deliberately evil and seductive, like Lugosi and the vampire's sisters. Nor does she give her character a warm human edge, like Karloff.
What she does do is act precisely how you'd expect a creature jolted electrically to life to act.
Lanchester apparently studied the swans at Regent's Park in preparation for her role, and the highly alert, quick twitching she noticed transfers perfectly to The Bride. It's a realistic performance of a woman with no personality or intellect yet formed, whose character relies completely on her newborn senses and impressions. Those who have seen the performance don't forget it. You can tell how linked together my tastes are when you discover that there are quite a few discussions comparing Catwoman in Batman Returns as a nice parallel to The Bride.
I'd also like to point out that Elsa Lanchester was born October 28th, my birthday. And she died in December of 1986, not much more than a year before I was born. But it's very unfair of you to accuse me of pondering briefly as a child the possibility that I could in fact be her reincarnation. That's an unfounded accusation and I won't stand for it.
But yes, Elsa is my favorite actress, after Vivien. Oh, and speaking of whom, last but not least:
Vivien Leigh as Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire (1951)
"Now wait a second, you chucklehead," you might be saying to yourself. "Elsa Lanchester's Bride of Frankenstein unappreciated, maybe. But Vivien's Blanche? Um, hello, didn't she win a freaking Oscar, you addle-pated ninny? How is that underappreciated, exactly?" Well, first of all, no one calls anyone names like "chucklehead" and "addle-pated ninny" anymore. So get over yourself. The second is, yes, Vivien did indeed win an Oscar. Y'know, back when the movie first came out. But now almost sixty years later, what do people pretty much only remember about that film?
Brando. And that's about it.
Yes, his performance was uh-may-zing. Very innovative and method-y and with loads upon loads of animal magnetism. Incredibly effective and memorable, and it's rightly called one of the best film performances out there. So I'm cool with the recognition he gets.
What bugs me is when all those accolades come at the expense of how people receive Vivien's performance. Whenever her Oscar win is mentioned, along with Kim Hunter and Karl Malden's, it's usually framed by someone fuming about the injustice that Brando didn't win anything that year. I can understand this outrage, since he was pretty much robbed. I mean, much love to you and all, Bogie, I did love your performance in African Queen, but you yourself knew it didn't deserve to win the Oscar over Brando. You shoulda won for Treasure of the Sierra Madre instead, consarnit!
So people bitching about Brando's loss, I don't mind. What I do mind is people focusing not only solely on Brando's performance to the point where every poster you see these days has Brando in the most prominent position if he's not the only person featured, but when people start maligning Vivien's interpretation in order to build up Brando's. I've seen her called overly stagy next to Brando's apparently more natural turn, her Blanche labeled as too melodramatic and phony, too obviously of the classic acting school when the rest of her co-stars are obviously top-notch, revolutionary method actors.
And you wanna know why that sort of criticism really rankles me? Because the genius of her Blanche lies in those very qualities.
Blanche is supposed to wax phony and artificial; her whole life is a charade. She's a woman rapidly approaching middle age, striving to appear just as young and flirtatious as she was in her younger years--those younger years coinciding with the time when classical acting was all the rage, by the way. The reason I find the dynamic between Leigh's Blanche and Brando's Stanley so explosively awesome is because Leigh's classical training and Brando's method acting are perfect examples of their characters' dynamics: Stanley is brutish, modern, and exciting, while the fragile old world sensibilities Blanche cherishes are fading into the ether. Their performances work on multiple levels, until they're almost meta.
Plus, nobody could accuse Leigh of not getting into character as much as her co-stars. Oh, she did and how. Another thing that bugs me: when people do talk about her performance, it's usually to point out how Vivien's sanity starting slipping playing Blanche, and how erratic her behavior became. Not that her condition should be ignored or stifled, but that's all people start to remember her for, and without that much sensitivity a lot of the time. Oh, yeah, that crazy broad who played Scarlett O'Hara. She sure was crazy, huh? Really, her outbursts and breakdowns don't sound much different from similar stunts Method Actors have pulled on movie sets, but because that's all modern and edgy, that's apparently acceptable. But a chemical imbalance she couldn't control? Pff, who cares about her?
No other performance has ever touched me like her Blanche has. For those of you curious about my fanatical devotion to Pauline Kael, I must confess that a large part of it is due to discovering that she is one of the few critics I've come across who shares my view completely about the importance of Vivien's performance (to be fair, I haven't been able to find many reviews from the actual year Streetcar was released, so critics back then might have been kinder to Vivien than those I've read recently). Here's how Kael begins her capsule review of Streetcar:
Vivien Leigh gives one of those rare performances that can truly be said to evoke both pity and terror. As Blanche DuBois, she looks and acts like a destroyed Dresden shepherdess...Shakespeare must have had a woman like this in mind when he conceived Ophelia...you're looking at two of the greatest performances ever put on film....
This is a perfect review about a perfect performance. Kael gives Brando plenty of due as well, which is important. But what's most refreshing for me is to read someone who was affected like I was, who saw Vivien's wide Dresden Doll eyes as windows of absolute despair, her thin body so delicate that her movements are almost wraith-like--but with enough wiry strength left to at least try twisting the broken bottle into Stanley's face. A porcelain tigress indeed.
Starting yesterday, I've been having a Batmanathon with my dad, sister, and brother-in-law, since the latter two now own the DVD boxset featuring all of the fantastic animated series episodes from the '90s. Overall I consider myself a fairweather Batman fan, seeing as it was only a latent bout of nostalgia that led me to watch the show recently (even in my childhood, when the show was on the air, I only cursorily watched it when I had nothing better to do. I was a pretty dim kid). But now the cartoon is my Batdrug of choice. I've gotten a fun kick out of watching the '60s TV show (what gal out there doesn't want to be Julie Newmar?), and I enjoyed the parts of the '89 Burton movie and its sequel that I've seen (again, what gal wouldn't also want to be Pfeiffer?). And I acknowledge that Ledger looks awe-inspiringly brilliant in Dark Knight. But that film appears to have just too much of that dreaded realism crap for me to really get into it too much. I mean, I acknowledge I should get around to actually watching it one of these days and judge it from there, but when it comes to something adapted from a comic book, I prefer the output...y'know....a little more comic-y.
While I have a very limited knowledge of the original comics, what I have seen and what I've researched makes me believe the '90s cartoon comes closest to Bob Kane's original vision in 1939: dark and energetic, gothic and stylized--heart without camp, grit without downtrodden naturalism. Y'know, only without the killings. For the kids! Oh, and I'd just like to point out you couldn't capture the slick artwork and expressions on the characters' faces with CGI, thankyouverymuch. Plus, who knew Mark Hamill of all people could make The Joker sound so maniacal, twisted, and hysterical?
Little Lukey....
....Equals this guy?
Right on.
Did I mention how the first comic came out in 1939? That's right, this is where I'm heading: a kickass, full-scale, top-notch film noir made in the '40s, depicting the tone and characters of the animated series (see, I know there was a lower budget version of Batman made in 1943, so I wanted to specify that this is BIG BUDGET BIG STARS and exclusively in TAS-verse). I'm just going to throw this out here right away: directed by Fritz Lang, circa 1945 (wanna give the comics a few years to gain popularity). Now let's cast the hell out of this! Wheeee, I'm never going to stop with these things!
Dana Andrews as Batman/Bruce Wayne
One of the handsomer stars of film noir, Andrews also had a dark, rough, and somehow vaguely tragic edge. He was moody but no weakling. And perfect for playing the stalwart hero (see Laura). Andrews also has that square-cut jaw and strong/lean physique perfect for Batsy.
Yeah, I have a bit of a crush on this guy.
You know who's an even weirder crush of mine?
Richard Widmark as The Joker
I read once that Widmark was actually inspired by Joker comics when he infamously portrayed the giggling psychopath Tommy Uto in Kiss of Death. I mean, look at those two faces! Any surprise, really? Someone with mad photoshop skills should try Jokerizing the heck out of that picture of Widmark. Seriously, slap some white body paint on him, slather on the red lipstick, and dye his hair bog green, and he is Joker.
I would like to note that after researching Mr. Widmark on IMDb, I found out that in spite of his "pushing-wheelchair-bound-grannies-around" image he depicted onscreen, he was apparently a very peace-loving, pro gun-control sort. Kind of a relief to know, innit?
For Batman's principal femme fatale, I have a list of potential candidates, like
Gene Tierney....
...Ava Gardner....
...or, yes, my girl Vivien....
...As Catwoman
All these ladies would bring phenomenal qualities to Catwoman. Gene Tierney's got the elegance, mystique, and the established chemistry with Dana Andrews. Gardner has the wicked cat eyes and attitude, plus she probably has the best bod of the bunch. Vivien has the most kittenish personality, plus the best acting chops, so if Lang wanted to go with the deeper Jeckyll /Hyde persona that Pfeiffer brilliantly portrayed in Batman Returns, Viv would be superb.
So, I'm stuck on this one. Thoughts? Concerns? Other ideas? Merp.
Jeanne Crain as Batgirl /Barbara Gordon
In Leave Her to Heaven, a marvelously ludicrous melodrama that nevertheless remains a classic film noir despite the blazing technicolor, Crain played the good girl-next-door role to Tierney's seething baddie. Crain played what could have been a simpering character with an undertone of strength, making her believable and sympathetic (though often outshone by Tierney, but everyone in that film was). Crain has the youth, sweetness, spunk, and the bright auburn hair crucial to Babs. I think she could pull off both the loving daughter and librarian, and the plucky superheroine.
C. Aubrey Smith as Alfred
Not really much I can add to this one. Smith is refined and stuffy, but with an underlying paternal kindness. It's all good. Kind of a weird photo of him, though.
Burt Lancaster as Two Face / Harvey Dent
Lancaster often played the steady, the hero. Yet my strongest impression of him comes from his ferocious portrayal of megalomaniacal, obsessively covetous and incestuous columnist J.J. Hunsecker in the masterpiece noir Sweet Smell of Success. Hunsecker tries presenting himself as an affable man-about-town and caring brother, but his face quickly shifts from bland benevolence to reptilian malice as needed. That coupled with his foreboding broad shoulders and razor sharp glare makes him just twisted and fascinating enough for tragic, dynamic former D.A. Harvey Dent.
Rita Hayworth as Poison Ivy
To be perfectly honest, I haven't really seen much with Rita Hayworth. I only know she's another great fatal female, has glorious red hair, and men go all sorts of ga-ga over her. Seems quite fitting for Dr. Pamela Isley.
But what about Ivy's bestest buddy in the whole wide world?
June Preisser as Harley Quinn
Oh, Harl, everybody's favorite henchwench. I dismissed her as a mild annoyance when I was a young'un, and ironically it took me in my older years to fully appreciate, and fall in love with, the most childlike character in the batverse. She was created especially for the animated series, in an attempt to lighten the Joker--again, for the kids. Frankly, I always thought she did the opposite of that, since Joker always beat her up and tried to kill her. But she did win the hearts of cartoon and comic book fans alike, and she was soon adopted into the canon. Screwball, nuts, squeaky voiced, and physically limber and flexible. Who could do it back in the day?
June Preisser is a recent find of mine. I was just mindlessly flipping through a Pauline Kael book, as is a frequent pastime of mine (parties? Pffft, screw that noise), and I came across this description of her in one of the Andy Hardy movies: "she's like a baby Mae West and her eyes rove with mischief." Baby Mae West? Well, obviously, I just had to check her out. She's blonde, vivacious, and criminy, take a look at her eyes in that picture: insane. But in an adorable way! And as an experienced contortionist, she could even effortlessly pull off Harley's gymnastic stunts! Double whammy. True, she might be a bit young to fit Harley's origin as a former shrink of the Joker's, but I always thought that backstory was a bit odd anyways. Driven mad with love for the Joker, fine; after all, look at all the fangirls panting over Ledger's Mistah J. But a young woman who heretofore has thrown herself into psychology suddenly snapped into a world-class, circus level acrobat? Not so believable, in my mind. So, alter the backstory to something like Joker wooing a ditzy tightrope walker, and Preisser is absolutely perfect. Plus, by the mid-'40s, things started sliding sadly downhill for Preisser, so maybe playing Harley could have revitalized both her life and her career, and she could now be known as someone other than Judy's rival in the Hardy flicks.
Peter Lorre as The Penguin
Penguin is one of those characters seldom used effectively. Burgess Meredith did well with him in the '60s series because the quacking laugh and long cigarette didn't look out of place in that more comic backdrop. But Penguin was one of the biggest failures in both Batman Returns and the cartoon series. Neither Burton nor the brains behind TAS knew how to reconcile a man who looks like a penguin and the darker, pulpier feel they were going for, and the scenes with him turned into an uncomfortable mesh of both genres. Frankly, if you're going to do it that way, might as well have an actor excellent at both macabre and comedy. Dear Lorre, one of my favorite actors ever, was obviously a dark, scary mite, but guess what? He got his start doing comedy in revue halls. Perfect match, if you have to film The Penguin.
Clifton Webb as Scarecrow
Yep, three Laura stars here. But I swear it isn't only narcissism because of my name. Dr. Jonathan Crane, aka THE ALMIGHTY SCARECROW KING OF FEAR, requires someone cruelly erudite without falling headlong into histrionics; I think Webb's smarmy sophistication would capture that dichotomy well. And those who have seen his Waldo Lydecker will attest to my assertion he can also nail playing a psycho-creep. Really, who else could you imagine reveling in exploiting peoples' fears, but still maintaining his sharp and classy demeanor?
I might write a sequel to this post after I finish the whole series, when I'm better acquainted with the entire rogues gallery. And I can't yet pinpoint which actors could play Riddler, Killer Croc, Clayface, and the rest. Suggestions, kids? Oh, and leaving out Robin? Not an oversight. I just don't give a crap about Robin.
And yes, to those wondering, in this wonderland Fritz Lang production, George Sanders will remain Mr. Freeze. Only it would be even better this time, because in the animated series his character would have the added pathos of fretting over his sick wife Nora, and wouldn't Georgie just be too too adorable struggling to keep her alive cryogenically? He'd do a helluva better job than Arnie, that's for sure.
(Hmm, who could have played the immobile Nora? All she'd have to is stand there frozen, looking pretty. Would Grace Kelly have been too young? She's certainly got the ice queen thing down, har-dee-har. BUT NO DON'T EVEN SUGGEST ZSA ZSA NO WAY DON'T EVEN THINK IT THAT'S NOT FUNNY).
Shame-faced at calling myself an English Major after failing to read certain classics, I made it a priority this summer to at least read some great literature I hadn't before, in between job hunting. And as always, I was more successful on that front than in actually securing something that could make me money. Feh. But anyways! Stop being bitter, you guys.
One of the books I absolutely fell in love with was Thomas Hardy's Far From The Madding Crowd, which is well known for being one of his only cheerful books--as in, cheerful for a Thomas Hardy novel. There's still death, destruction, and heartache, but you actually don't feel like your soul has been sucked out by some sci-fi leech/vacuum hybrid by story's end. A quick, inadequate summary: pretty girl named Bathsheba. Turns down nice guy Gabriel. She inherits a farm. She's a kickass womyn, not taking no guff. Except she isn't that kickass; she can't run the farm without Gabriel. Hires him, he's head shepherd. Bathsheba drives Mr. Boldwood, elegant next-door neighbor, mad with the love-crazies. She herself is driven love-crazy by dashing man-whore Sgt. Frank Troy. Oh, it's in Wessex, the fictional English county in pretty much all of Thomas Hardy's books. Lots of colorful commentary from farm workers. There's sweeping romance and bloated sheep having to be poked in the tummies to breathe.
It's great! But I have as yet to see a filmed version that's really blown me away. The 1967 film was a huge disappointment, except for Peter Finch's bang-up job as Boldwood (and poor, nuttier-than-a-can-of-cashews Boldwood is my favorite part of Crowd, so his performance did go a long way toward redeeming the movie for me). The 1997 BBC version was okay, but the casting was iffy. Like I hear with Dark Shadows, however, little rumors tell me there will be a new cinematic version out sometime in the nearish future. I've toyed with the idea of casting that one in my head, a fond hobby of mine, and you'll probably see it often here. But because I love classic movies and vintage stars so much, I figured, hey! Why not cast a version with the actors from yesteryear, by golly? The production values back then and the more overt acting styles would better fit the epic, romantic mood Hardy establishes. I'm helped in this noble endeavor by something I read on a message board once: Vivien Leigh was once signed on to play Bathsheba in a version that was dropped for unknown reasons. Well. That sucks. I would have loved, adored, and eaten up with a spoon any version with Vivien Leigh in it. True, she'd basically just be playing an English country-girl version of Scarlett, but who freaking cares? It's Vivien. In Far From The Madding Crowd. I'm sold!
So, let's cast this imaginary movie filmed sometime in the forties, and...why don't we just cast the five principal leads, since it would take a whole plethora of old-timey character actors to portray all the local color in the thing? Here we go, gang! C'mon, Scoob!
Vivien Leigh as Bathsheba Everdene
There's no way this is not perfect. Now, I admit that I'm more than a little biased when it comes to Vivien. She's just my favorite actress, is all. I like to put on my fancy film buff pants and go, "I knew she was the greatest actress ever from the moment I saw her in A Streetcar Named Desire when I was only a little kid," thus sticking it to folks who know her primarily as Scarlett O'Hara. But while that's all very true, I didn't really become actively addicted to her until middle school, when I, like many privileged, white, ignorant brats before me, became simultaneously addicted to Gone With The Wind. But I do still maintain that her Blanche is probably the greatest performance I've ever seen. I'll probably post more on that some other time. HOWEVER: why's she perfect for Bathsheba in particular?
Well, like I said, it's a no-brainer. Beautiful? Check. The ability to play a petulant brat who means well, but is mired down by her ambitions and vanity? Double check. Dark-haired?! YES, CHECK. Sorry, but that's what really pissed me off with the '67 flick: Julie Christie, aka Blondie McBlonderson, as Bathsheba? No no no. Look, I'm not one of those book traditionalists who flies off the handle if a character's physiology deviates slightly; after all, Vivien's eyes are blue, while Bathsheba's should be brown. But Bathsheba's hair color is a freakin' plot point in one scene, for cryin' out loud. Christie was so miserably miscast.
Even though I compared the idea of Vivien's Bathsheba to an English version of Scarlett, I actually look at her performance in That Hamilton Woman as definitive proof that she would, no doubt, own the role of Bathsheba. In that film she starts out as a giddy little social climber, motivated in equal parts by misplaced love for an unseen rich git and a desire to lead a finer life than that of a chorus girl. Later, after earnestly falling in love and realizing what a shallow lie her life is, she becomes more jaded and wise, more melancholy. And she plays both these facets of Lady Hamilton's character flawlessly--I'd even venture to say it's a technically better performance than Scarlett, though few portrayals can ever touch the fiery charm she achieved in Gone With the Wind. But her ability to play both young/frisky and staid/wise is vital to playing Bathsheba accurately, since Bathsheba has far more of a conscience than Scarlett ever did, though she makes similar mistakes.
Robert Mitchum as Gabriel Oak
"His height and breadth would have been sufficient to make his presence imposing, had they been exhibited with due consideration....He was at the brightest period of masculine growth, for his intellect and his emotions were clearly separated...."
--Thomas Hardy on Farmer Oak
Ol' Bobby Mitchum is another of my favorites. He was wildly versatile. He could chill you to the bones in Cape Fear and The Night of the Hunter, but it's his gentler, subtler, and more stoically rustic work in The Sundowners and Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison that convinces me he would be the ideal Gabriel, maybe the book's one truly morally conscientious character. I couldn't help myself: he's who I pictured almost immediately I started reading, and there he stayed in me head. He's stoic, physically imposing, good looking but not conventionally gorgeous, and just watch the way he looks at Deborah Kerr in Mr. Allison: without making a big fuss, his eyes register painful, frustrated, steadfast adoration, combined with determination to help his lady out no matter what the cost. But nooooo, stupid Kerr had to be a stupid nun, ruining everything! Dumb bint.
Only qualm I have is his ability to pull off an English accent. How'd he handle an Irish brogue, people who have seen Ryan's Daughter?
George Sanders or Claude Rains as Mr. Boldwood
I know in my first post I cast my vote solely in Sanders' favor for this role, but that's simply because he's my current cinematic fixation, thanks to my wee brain's tendency toward perseveration. However, Claude Rains was my initial choice when reading the book (y'see, I hadn't yet watched Village of the Damned, the film that really sparked my Sanders mania). Why? Well, first, watch Notorious. Then watch the 1943 Phantom of the Opera. Then read Hardy's description of Boldwood here: "If an emotion possessed him at all, it ruled him; a feeling not mastering him was entirely latent. Stagnant or rapid, it was never slow. He was always hit mortally, or he was missed." Now apply that to a portrait of a refined, middle-aged, elegant bachelor whose frigid indifference to women is turned upside-down into a consuming obsession by a flighty girl's practical joke, and you have the ideal role for Claude Rains, what-ho.
But Sanders shouldn't be discounted yet. He's not as obvious a choice as Rains, no, but don't let his caddish ways mislead you. Actually, he could take that ruthless, careless front of his and use it to his performance's advantage, illustrating just how deeply Bathsheba uproots Boldwood's life. Sanders is refined and elegant, and he can play obsessive. Don't believe me? Watch a strange little flick called Summer Storm. He does exactly this; plays a thoughtless but respectable cad until Linda Darnell shoots seductive glances at him through sooty lashes and YOWZA. Brother gets it bad. I feel like a louse saying this, but even in the midst of my admiration for the man, I had no idea he could act so damn well. I was mostly infatuated with his attitude, his man-about-town, rakish persona. But this movie schooled me. Schooled me good. There's a particularly unsettling scene where he drowns his sorrows in a pub/cafe/cabaret type thing after Darnell gives him the cold shoulder, and he gets so sloshed George Sanders actually lets loose! Only in a really demonic, scary way! Someone begins singing some sentimental twaddle that starts hitting too close to home, and his eyes blaze and he shakes in his seat. So he abruptly stands and fumbles his way to the stage, trying to rouse everyone into a more chipper chorus. Then he stops short, staring at his reflection in a large mirror, where he sees, cruelly, what a mook he's become. He's fallen so far from the dignified dandy he was at the start of the picture that his fury just builds and explodes, and he hurls his drink at the glass, shattering it.
That's Boldwood-type manic behavior right there. Trust me.
(I'd also direct you to 1952's Ivanhoe as further proof that Sanders could play unrequited, desperate love well, but nobody should have to sit through that turd. No actor came out well in that, save maybe Liz Taylor. And I forgive no movie that makes our Sanders parade around in baby blue tights and wear a bright auburn wig and mustache. Yeah, we get it, it's technicolor! We've seen it before, don't blind us! And don't get me started on that idiotic helmet with the weird bird tacked on it that he wears in the jousting scene. Nonsense.)
But if you really can't get away from the cad thing, there is another role he and some guy named Archie Leech could contend for....
George Sanders or Cary Grant as Sgt. Frank Troy
Why do I believe Sanders has the ability to play both the proper, repressed Boldwood and the n'er-do-well ladykiller Troy? Because Sanders has always reminded me in equal parts, both physically and in his manner, of a tiger and a penguin, that's why. And he can play both the ferocious predator and tuxedoed bird interchangeably. He'd make a very slick Sgt. Troy, and his age in the 1940s might have been a wee bit more appropriate for Troy than for Boldwood. While Boldwood is only supposed to be forty, an older actor--say, fiftyish?--might better capture the age gap between he and Bathsheba on film (besides, in this my little fantastical version filmed in the '40s, Vivien would already be in her late 20s/early 30s. You might need an older actor to play her Boldwood). However, a part of me can't help but think that Troy is too predictable a role for Sanders, and he might be sorely tempted to fall back on tricks he's played before.
That's why I prefer Grant. He was chiseled out of his bad guy role in Suspicion, and while he played a similar role in 1932's Madame Butterfly (above), I don't think he ever tackled an all-out cad once he became uber-famous. And because Grant is so innately likable, Troy's few soft moments would be more believable, and keep his character from traveling too far into one-dimensional, dumbass jock territory. Just as Sanders often played the Sanders role, so did Grant play the Grant role: a happy-go-lucky hottie who casually gets the girl while ultimately doing no harm. A character like Troy who's mostly a dick but has a few surprisingly redeeming qualities would give Grant an opportunity to flex his skills outside of his usual type. Would he be capable of playing not only a despicable scum-bag, but also a poor schlub sobbing while trying weakly to plant flowers on the grave of a certain character? Maybe we could have gotten a good taste of just how far Grant's range as an actor extended. Plus, he's handsome and jaunty, and just as pretty as Vivien. They'd make a good onscreen match.
Joan Fontaine as Fanny Robin
Remember I mentioned Troy's soft spots? Dear, pathetic Fanny Robin is one of them, though the softness she inspires in him is fickle and rather faint. She's a housemaid at Bathsheba's farm who loves Troy despite the fact he's Troy, and tries eloping with him in the beginning. Under hilariously lame circumstances, that's stalled, and before they can try again....
Joan Fontaine is an actress familiar to anyone who reads the fabulous Self-Styled Siren, where Fontaine is a frequent favorite. I doubt producers in the '40s would have been keen for Fontaine to jeopardize her prim, delicate English rose image by playing a working-class, uneducated, fallen girl like Fanny, though by far Fanny is the most innocent and delicate character in the novel. That's precisely why I think Fontaine would be so effective in the role. She was so enchanting as the shy second Mrs. DeWinter in Rebecca that I honestly believe her performance there could be the most touching display of timidity I've ever seen on screen. This gift of hers, playing fragile girls realistically and adorably, would make Fanny's plight all the more poignant. Can you imagine that sweet, nameless girl from Rebecca half dead on the rural streets of the English countryside, struggling down endless roads in the rain to get to a hospital, helped only by clutching the coat of a passing dog? If that image wouldn't strike straight to the hearts of indulgent housewives in '40s movie theaters, I don't know what would.
Like I said, there are a menagerie of other roughneck extras hanging out in the book, and it would take stronger powers than even my majestic ability to babble on and on to cast each one. However, we're talking about the Golden Age of Hollywood, and in the Golden Age of Hollywood, when you need a likable character actor to play a blustering farm hand, you'd most likely get in touch with this guy:
Thomas Mitchell as Jan Coggan
You like sprawling epics, the kind you'd only see in full, corny, wonderful detail way back when, in the tradition of William Wyler's Wuthering Heights and that one movie about the Old South that chick Leigh was in? Then I'd recommend reading Far From the Madding Crowd. It's about as close as you can get to that sweepy feeling in classic novel format.
And after you've read it, you can answer the question nagging me now, and will keep me sleeping only fitfully tonight:
Who the heck could have played Liddy Smallbury in those days?
