Slightly Dangerous (1943)

Slightly Dangerous (1943)

Directed by Wesley Ruggles

Screenplay by Charles Lederer and George Oppenheimer

Runtime: 1 hr, 34 min

I’m sure that all of us have fantasies about being rich and famous at some point.  During a boring day in class or at work, our mind wanders off into a land where we’re secretly the long lost relatives of some rich family.  What a perfect escape from humdrum suburban existence, am I right?  Yet most of us rightly put those fantasies away, rather than indulging in them and letting the idea dominate our existence.  Slightly Dangerous, however, dives right into that particular daydream, and the result is a sickening and unconvincing mess.

Our star is Lana Turner, who plays small town soda jerk Peggy Evans.  Her job is so easy that she can literally perform her tasks blindfolded, and she is explicitly fed up with her life with a man and aspirations.  When the new manager of the shop, Bob (Robert Young), calls her into his office for her blind soda jerking, she snaps and runs off to the city.  Shortly after arrival, she gets hit on the head with a paint can, and fakes having amnesia.  Long story short, she convinces everyone that she is Carol Burden, the long lost daughter of soap tycoon Cornelius Burden (Walter Brennan).

Honestly, when Peggy first got to the city, I thought the movie had an interesting thread going for it.  Peggy is in the midst of an identity crisis and desperately wants to reinvent herself.  The first thing she does is blow all her money on a new outfit and her inner monologue spends a long while trying to come up with a new name.  It’s a picture trying to superficially escape from their small town life.  It presents someone who is not in a sound mental state, and could be fertile ground for a psychological exploration.  Yes, I thought that this film could have been deep.

Oh, how quickly I was proven wrong.  Not thirty seconds after I started thinking, Peggy is hit with a falling paint can, and the identity crisis angle is quickly painted over.  Once Peggy has convinced Cornelius and the nanny (May Whitty) that she is Carol, the thematic undertones the movies had been building up are thrown aside, and a mere trifle begins: scenes at the philharmonic and dances with fellow socialites ensue.  What could have been an interesting character study with comedic elements is abandoned in favor of simple wish fulfillment.

Now, I will say that the way in which Peggy “becomes” Carol is actually pretty clever.  She has to pick out Carol’s favorite toy from the playroom; she’s got a one-in-one-hundred chance of guessing correctly.  Yet Peggy is able to mentally narrow down the possibilities, since she learned that it was kept in a small safe.  Granted, this briefly turns what was supposed to be a comedy in a Donald Sobol story, but I will give the filmmakers credit for writing and filming a fairly interesting and suspenseful sequence.

However, the implications of the scene are what get under my skin.  See, Peggy’s actions are wholly unethical; she knows that she is not Carol, yet she continues with the charade because she is afraid of going to jail if she confesses.  Had she just stumbled into this position out of sheer luck, then the resulting sequences would have carried the necessary overtone that this is wrong.  But because Peggy guesses the toy correctly, it is as if she earned living the lie.  She’s deceiving other people, and the film implicitly rewards her for it.

It is rare that I harp on the morality of a movie so much, but in this case, the ethical implications override all other considerations for me.  It’s a shame, really, because there are some good elements to Slightly Dangerous.  Walter Brennan turns in a hearty performance as Mr. Burden; his facial expressions demonstrate the years of frustration and sorrow along with the sudden bursts of joy at finding “Carol”.  Of course, thinking of his performance immediately makes me think of how horrible a person that Peggy is.

Or there are the scenes in the soda fountain, which feature brief but memorable encounters with customers and a lively atmosphere as Peggy wows customers with her blindfolded sundae making bit.  It is fun to watch, but at the same time carries an oppressive tone in just how bright it is.  Yet even those scenes are sullied by the central immorality.  After hearing rumors that Peggy drowned herself, all the workers go on a blindfolded strike.  They of course don’t know about her dealings in the city, but it reinforces the notion that Peggy’s actions are justified.

In the end, yes, I can’t get past the main character’s lack of ethics.  Well, I could—if the film didn’t condone it.  Really, this is wish fulfillment in the extreme.  Yes, viewer, you too are trapped in a world which doesn’t appreciate your obvious talents.  You too can leave everyone back home worried about your safety and lie to long grieving parents so that you can live out your fantasies and escape your small town ennui.  And you too won’t have to worry about any real repercussions—because you deserve that lifestyle.  Lord, is this movie is detestable…

Romeo and Juliet (1936)

Romeo and Juliet (1936)

Directed by George Cukor

Screenplay by Talbot Jennings, based on the play by William Shakespeare

Runtime: 2 hr, 5 min

Ah, William Shakespeare.  His plays have delighted the multitudes, brought enlightenment to theatre-goers and confounded high school English students for centuries.  It is no surprise, then, that the Bard’s works have been adapted many times over for the big screen.  And why not, with dialogue larger than life, sword play aplenty, and the fact that all of his works are in the public domain?  Yet there weren’t too many Shakespeare adaptations during Hollywood’s golden age, making the 1936 version of Romeo and Juliet a relatively unique specimen.

If you don’t know the tragic tale of Romeo and Juliet, then welcome to Western civilization.  For all others, you know the drill; “star-cross’d lovers” and all that entails.  Here, we find Norma Shearer as Juliet of the Capulet clan and Leslie Howard playing Romeo, a Montague.  Their families hate each other but they fall in love and get married.  Only problem: the universe is conspiring against them, and as the prologue tells us, they commit suicide.  Their deaths bring forth reconciliation between the warring families, and the credits roll.

In terms of adapting the text for the screen, this version does its job rather nicely.  Screenwriter Talbot Jennings did cut some scenes out, particularly comic relief sequences in the second half, but the story itself is intact and is easy to follow.  In addition, the decision to show some of the offstage action is a welcome addition.  For example, this film shows the messenger getting quarantined on the way to Mantua.  While it does remove the textual suspense regarding whether Romeo gets the message, it also makes the event more believable and less of a plot convenience.

Furthermore, the way in which the filmmakers use new medium is indeed inspired.  One of the advantages of film is that the director and the cinematographer can choose which part of the scene to focus on at any given point.  This is used to great effect when Romeo first lays eyes on Juliet.  The camera cuts between Juliet’s grand entrance, complete with choir and dance, and Romeo’s mesmerized reaction.  This sequence underscores the pivotal nature of that first encounter, and similar scenes in the film have a very similar nature.

All that out of the way: let’s talk about the casting.  The cast list to this film still has me scratching my head.  On paper it looks excellent.  Howard, best known for playing Ashley Wilkes in Gone with the Wind, is perfect for the part of Romeo, Basil Rathbone is a top-notch choice for Tybalt, and they even got John Barrymore to play Mercutio.  This tale of star-cross’d lovers merits a star-studded cast, and that’s exactly what it got.  The only problem was that this particular adaptation was made in 1936.

Everyone, and I do mean everyone, is far too old for their roles.  Romeo, Juliet and their pals are teenagers.  That’s kind of why they act so impulsively throughout the story.  The fact that Shearer, then in her early-thirties, is the closest to her character’s age should tell you something.  This causes some massive incongruities in the characters’ actions.  It is so jarring to see someone who is clearly an adult trying to tap into the emotional immaturity of a 14-year old.  It’s as if the audience has entered into a topsy-turvy world.

Still, I could forgive the odd casting choices if the performances were good.  But, well, they aren’t.  Well, okay, most of them are passable, and Rathbone was made to play a man such as Tybalt.  However, the train wrecks are far more vivid in this film.  Most unfortunately, Barrymore is beyond wretched as Mercutio.  There’s no liveliness to his mayhem and humor; he looks as though he’s simply going through the motions.  But we’re talking about Mercutio, the guy cracking jokes as he lies dying.  The result is a performance which is annoying and boring simultaneously.

Granted, some performances have memorable moments, such as Shearer’s contemplations and fears before taking the sleeping potion.  But these problems with the performances prevent me as a viewer from getting invested in the film.  Who cares that Mercutio is dead and all hell has broken loose as a result?  Who cares that Romeo has been banished from Verona?  These guys have become archetypal characters; it should not be so difficult to latch onto their plight, yet this adaptation of Romeo and Juliet finds a way.

I really did have high hopes for this film, and had the casting department done its job properly instead of simply grabbing at names, I could easily see this film as a smashing success.  There’s weight to sets and the costuming; there’s the sense that Verona is an actual city with hordes of citizens.  It has all of the trappings of a major production that a Shakespeare play deserves.  As it stands, however, Romeo and Juliet as directed by George Cukor is a failure.  Not one on the level of the Baz Luhrmann version, but a failure nonetheless.

Finian's Rainbow (1968)

Finian’s Rainbow (1968)

Directed by Francis Ford Coppola

Screenplay and book by E. Y. Harburg and Fred Saidy, based on the stage play by the same

Runtime: 2 hr, 25 min

I may not be any sort of expert on film or film history, but I absolutely love writing about and reviewing classic cinema.  And I have loved maintaining this blog in order to do it.  The process writing up these reviews has exposed me to films that I would otherwise probably ignore, and by several strokes of luck, the vast majority of movies have been a treat to view.  Occasionally, however, one must watch a catastrophe, and few movies I’ve ever seen are quite as catastrophic as today’s film, Finian’s Rainbow.

Set in Rainbow Valley, which is two miles from Fort Knox, Finian’s Rainbow finds Fred Astaire as Finian, an Irishman who has taken a crock of gold from a leprechaun named Og (Tommy Steele) and traveled to America with his daughter Sharon (Petula Clark) to make his money multiply—long story.  Meanwhile, there’s a rancorous senator (Keenan Wynn) who wants the town property for his own corrupt uses, but the residents of Rainbow Valley, led by a fellow named Woody (Don Francks), are none too happy about that.

Finian’s Rainbow, buried somewhere deep in the proceedings, has the makings of a good movie—political corruption and hatred, mysticism and money-making schemes.  It’s got all of that, and that’s the problem.  Watching the film try to juggle all these plotlines and elements is like watching me try to juggle anything—it all falls down very, very quickly.  Despite nearly two-and-a-half hours of screen time, Finian’s Rainbow fails to adequately develop any of its subplots, let alone integrate them into a coherent story.

The clearest example of this problem comes in the romance between Sharon and Woody.  When Sharon and Woody first arrive in town, they clearly demonstrate some possible chemistry.  Yet at their very next interaction, they share a musical number and fall in love.  I get that it’s a light-hearted affair, but can we at least get them some more dialogue before they get to that point in their arc?  This event occurs about a third of the way through the film—which leaves a good hour-and-a-half of their relationship going absolutely nowhere.

Normally, a weak storyline (or several) can be salvaged by some good performances.  Sadly, Finian’s Rainbow is in short supply of those.  I will say that Petula Clark has a fine sing voice and brings energy to her character, but the rest of the cast is dire.  Fred Astaire, no doubt a result of his age, appears lethargic as Finian, and Francks’ Woody is as stiff as board; there’s no way he’s in love.  But the worst is by far Tommy Steele, who is overacting in all the wrong ways and performs as if restraint is a foreign concept.  I hated him from thirty seconds in, and not one second passed where I didn’t wish for him to drown.

Still, I can see why Steele, a teen idol in Britain, would be cast in a musical—he certainly can sing.  But given the voices of Steele and Clark and the moves of Astaire, I’m a bit perplexed how shaky the musical elements of the film are.  Most of the songs are flat or cloying and fail to advance the plot or characters; only the melody of “This Time of the Year” sticks out.  Even worse is the choreography, which is confused as all hell.  The dances aren’t engaging and the staging is hacked to bits by poorly placed cuts.  Apparently dance gives you the power of teleportation.

Yet what gets my goat the most—more than the acting, the plotting, or the music—is the fact that Finian’s Rainbow has a message.  Not that it’s a bad message; “Don’t be a bigot,” while obvious today, would be a worthwhile one for the film’s setting.  The problem is that it’s this movie that’s delivering it.  The amount of disconnect between the painful slapstick from the god-forsaken leprechaun and the sudden turns to anti-racism from Sharon is staggering.  Even for light entertainment, Finian’s Rainbow does not earn the right to preach to its audience.

Okay, I will give the film one thing: it look beautiful.  Even though the amount of green in the movie sets gives the impression that Finian and Sharon never left Ireland, the textures and cinematography are lovely.  There’s a certain surreal appearance to the grass, especially where Finian buries the crock of gold.  This does an excellent job of accentuating the mystical qualities of the film’s story and characters.  It also leads to the obvious joke that, yes, I would rather watch the grass growing than what was portrayed on screen.

Finian’s Rainbow fails in some many ways that laying the blame on anyone person would be inadequate.  Is it Coppola’s fault for not getting how a musical is staged?  Do we blame Tommy Steele for making a bad set of performances intolerable?  Or could it be that the screenwriters clearly needed to give the script a good once-over before handing it in?  Yes, yes, and yes, and yes to several more possibilities.  Ultimately, Finian’s Rainbow serves as a great guide to filmmaking.  See what they did here?  Yeah, don’t do that.

Eight Men Out (1988)

Eight Men Out (1988)

Directed by John Sayles

Screenplay by John Sayles, based on the book by Eliot Asinof

Runtime: 1 hr, 59 min

Baseball has had a long history of, shall we say, less than ethical behavior.  From Ty Cobb sharpening his spikes to take out fielders, to allegations that Gaylord Perry threw spitballs, all the way to the still-current steroid era, the national pastime has had scandal galore and then some.  But one incident in particular stands out, and that of course would be the Black Sox scandal, in which in several players on the Chicago White Sox threw the 1919 World Series as part of gambling scandal.  It is this dark episode of baseball lore which John Sayles chronicles in Eight Men Out.

The eight men in the title refer to the ballplayers who were implicated in the scandal.  The most famous is “Shoeless” Joe Jackson (D. B. Sweeney), but he’s largely in the background.  In terms of the players, Sayles chooses to focus on the lesser known figures: first baseman and ringleader Chick Gandil (Michael Rooker), conflicted ace pitcher Eddie Cicotte (David Strathairn), and, especially, third baseman Buck Weaver (John Cusack), whose involvement in the scandal has been, as with Jackson’s, hotly contested.

The strength of Sayles’ film partially lies in how he portrays the chemistry, or lack thereof, within the White Sox organization.  Forget feelings on throwing the series; the opening sequence, depicting the last game of the regular season, shows the players ragging and sniping at each other regarding place of birth and education level.  Perhaps more importantly, the scene highlights the players’ incentive to throw the series, when owner Charles Comiskey (Clifton James) gives his team flat champagne in lieu of an actual bonus for winning the pennant.

Had the film kept the action squarely on the players, the story told would be both crystal clear and compelling on the character level.  Unfortunately, too broad a net is cast; every angle of the Black Sox scandal is covered.  The gamblers who initiate the scandal; the circle of Arnold Rothstein (Michael Lerner), who provided the money; the journalists who suspect something is up; the families of the players—they all get screen time.  But there simply isn’t enough screen time to adequately cover everything involved in the conspiracy.

In fact, the movie juggles so many story elements that there is scant time to register who’s who in the scandal.  Few of the characters who are not on the White Sox are given substantive introductions, and unless one is intimately familiar with the history of the 1919 World Series, I can’t imagine how one could follow this story without significant mental effort.  One of my rules for filmmaking is that the audience should always be able to determine what is literally happening on screen, but Eight Men Out has too broad a scope to follow that rule.

The performances in the movie are significantly better than the structure, though the best turns tend to be in supporting roles.  Christopher Lloyd keeps a comic undertone as gambling man Bill Burns, and Charlie Sheen is perfectly cast as the not-entirely-there centerfielder Happy Felsch.  My personal favorites, however, are Strathairn, who appears the most torn up about the scandal, and Gordon Clapp as beleaguered catcher Ray Schalk, constantly fuming that his pitchers are crossing him up and not throwing breaking balls.

Besides the acting, what Eight Men Out does best is capture the game on the field and in the stands.  While the real story of the Black Sox scandal involves backrooms and disreputable gamblers, this ultimately is a baseball film.  From Cicotte hitting the first batter of the series to Jackson’s home run during garbage time in game eight, Sayles puts a gradually changing atmosphere into each at-bat.  The crowd in Cincinnati is on its feet from the get go, but by the time the last game is played in Chicago, both the suspected fix and the inevitability of defeat weigh heavily on the fans.

As a matter of fact, the film captures the emotions in the park so well that it may have been a more effective movie if the fix were gradually revealed through the actions of the players and the reactions of the fans and journalists.  It would have kept the character count down, added a sense of mystery and dread to the proceedings, and allowed for some more complex character developments.  Sure, anyone with a cursory knowledge of baseball history would know that the series was fixed, but the question of how it’s exposed would still remain.

Alas, that not the movie that John Sayles made.  I find it difficult to fault a director for ambition, and covering every aspect of a story certainly would qualify as an ambitious endeavor.  But to accomplish such a feat, one must lay the foundations properly, and that’s ultimately what sinks the film.  Not enough background and too little individual character development prevent Eight Men Out from being a home run.  Maybe it’s a single that just gets past the shortstop.  In other words, it’s just a routine, unspectacular baseball flick.

The Circus (1928)

The Circus (1928)

Written and directed by Charlie Chaplin

Runtime: 1 hr, 11 min

As goes my motto, “I need to watch more silent movies.”  I find unacceptable that I didn’t see a silent picture until the summer before my senior year of high school (Speedy).  I find it unacceptable that I’ve only seen Buster Keaton in a cameo role in Around the World in 80 Days.  I could go on, but the question always on my mind regarding the subject is, “Why haven’t I viewed more Chaplin movies?”  After all, I’ve seen two and liked both; what am I waiting for?  Well, here’s to addressing that issue, and here’s a review of The Circus.

Chaplin, who wrote, directed, produced and later composed the score for the movie, stars as the Tramp.  After a run-in with the authorities rife with laugh-out-loud pratfalls, the Tramp winds up at a circus, which is struggling to get the audience to laugh.  Chaplin’s efforts to evade the cops, however, bring down the house, and the ring master (Allan Garcia) offers him a job.  The Tramp accepts and soon falls in love with Merna (Merna Kennedy), the ring master’s mistreated step-daughter.  Being a Chaplin film, hilarity ensues.

And hilarity does indeed ensue, but there’s a twist to this story.  See, the Tramp is only an accidental comedic genius.  When the ring master has him audition with the clowns, he has no idea what he’s doing.  Therefore, the Tramp must be put into situations where he must improvise his survival.  There’s a bit of dissonance at work—the audience is supposed to believe that Charlie Chaplin isn’t a natural funnyman.  Yet Chaplin pulls it off, largely because his failure to be funny is itself hilarious: never give clueless actors shaving cream, am I right?

Furthermore, the times where the Tramp is funny on accident are uproarious.  My personal favorite sequence occurs early in the film, where the Tramp is hiding from the cops in a funhouse.  Caught outside, he pantomimes being one the robotic figurine on the funhouse with such precision and timing—with punctuation from the score—that the feat alone is a riot.  He’s forced to work on the spot, which in some ways mirrors Chaplin’s method of filmmaking, where improvising from a vague premise was a frequent tool.

This contrasts nicely with the atmosphere of the circus, which is tightly managed and authoritarian.  It’s telling that before the Tramp arrives, the circus performance scenes are shot largely from backstage, highlighting the artificial nature of the material.  It is only when the Tramp barges in and inadvertently shines a light on the machinery (such as accidently activating the magician’s apparatus) that the audience begins to laugh.  In fact, by making the Tramp an unconscious comedian, Chaplin may be arguing for an unscripted form of comedy.

Arguments about the nature of comedy aside, The Circus can also be enjoyed as a fairly straightforward love story with a slew of zany hijinks thrown in for good measure.  Despite some early brusqueness towards her, the Tramp quickly takes a shine to Merna and stands up to her abusive stepfather.  However, when Rex (Harry Crocker), a new tightrope act, arrives at the circus, Merna is immediately drawn to him.  The Tramp doesn’t take to kindly to this; he wishes for Rex to take a spill on the tightrope while he and Merna watch the show.

This incident indicates that the Tramp is not a flawless figure and Chaplin’s reactions as he watches Rex go a long way to humanizing his character.  Sure, I love how the way the Tramp eludes the authorities casts the powers that be as incompetent and wrongheaded, but at the same time it’s good to see the scrappy everyman with legitimate faults.  In the end, though, one can count on the Tramp to do the right thing, get well away from the police’s path, and make the audience fall from their seats in mirth.

Chaplin’s so good in this role that the rest of cast suffers by comparison.  Garcia plays the typical mustachioed villain, Kennedy is charming but a little bland as the stepdaughter, and while Crocker has his moments, he doesn’t get enough time on screen to flesh out a fully formed character.  That they don’t turn in great performances does drag down the more pathos driven sequences of the film, but I realize that to do more justice to these roles would mean diluting the screen presence of Chaplin—and that is, after all, why we ultimately are here.

Yes, the audience is here because of Chaplin, and Chaplin delivers the goods.  I’m not sure what else the audience would be able to ask for.  Sure, The Circus doesn’t have the same social awareness as the other two films I’d seen (The Kid and The Great Dictator), but then, this film, like the title attraction, exists to entertain.  And it does precisely that.  If you are like me, then you will be laughing, laughing, pondering the film’s position on the role of spontaneity in comedy, and laughing.

Rebel Without a Cause (1955)

Rebel Without a Cause (1955)

Directed by Nicholas Ray

Screenplay by Stewart Stern

Runtime: 1 hr, 51 min

Despite never having seen a James Dean film, the Dean persona was still ingrained in my head.  The image of the handsome, troubled young man in a red jacket may just a part of the American collective unconscious now, or it could be that the image is just widely disseminated throughout culture.  Given that Dean has had that great an impact with that small a body of work, I thought it only just to give one of his films a look.  And what better film to review that the one that made him a star soon after his death: 1955’s Rebel Without a Cause.

Dean plays Jim Stark, a teenager with a whole mess of issues but a heart of gold.  His parents have relocated every time he gets into trouble, but have made no attempts to understand their son’s plight.  On a field trip to Griffith Observatory, he draws the attention of the local bad boys, led by Buzz (Corey Allen), who tries to rough him up.  At the same time, Jim becomes friends with Plato (Sal Mineo), who idolizes Jim as a father figure.  Jim also develops a relationship with Buzz’s girl Judy (Natalie Wood), despite her initial cold attitude.

Through all of these interactions, Dean is pitch-perfect as the angst-ridden Jim.  He tends to be quiet throughout, only raises his voice in frustration (including the famous “You’re tearing me apart!” bit).  Sometimes, this quiet persona is philosophical, while at other points Jim seems on the edge of tears.  More importantly, it gives the impression that Dean’s character does not know why he does the things he does.  He wants answers, especially from his weak-willed father (Jim Backus), but he also seems aware he won’t get them.

Indeed, the unanswerable “Why?”, I think, drives the turning point of the film.  To prove to Buzz’s gang that he not chicken, Jim and Buzz participate in a “chickie race”.  Long story short, Jim jumps out of his car first, while Buzz ends up crashing over a bluff into water.  There are some many questions: Why does Jim have the compulsive need to not be a chicken?  Why is everyone on board with a stunt so mind-meltingly dangerous?  Why does Judy take Buzz’s death so calmly?  So many questions and so little answers.

Then again, that’s kind of the point.  Rebel Without a Cause attempts to understand what it means to be a teenager.  It may be stereotypical to say so, but one’s teenage years are rife with confusion—pure, unadulterated confusion.  It’s the sort of confusion which leads to the film’s opening sequence at the police station: Jim was drinking, Judy was walking the streets at one in the morning, and Plato was shooting puppies.  Despite all of this, the authorities, except for one officer (Edward Platt), make little effort to get to the bottom of their actions.

Not that getting to that point would be easy.  I’ve already mentioned the well-meaning mess that is Jim, but Judy and Plato are no less complicated.  Judy hides behind a wall of insincerity which only gradually gets lowered.  Her father’s treatment of her carries some incestuous undertones, which no doubt can’t be healthy.  Plato, meanwhile, essentially has no parents, and tries to make Jim and Judy his surrogate family.  Plato is kind-hearted, but is obviously unstable, from the puppy shooting to his general shaky demeanor.

It’s not just the story and characters that demonstrate the confusion of the teenage years.  It’s also Ernest Haller’s cinematography. This is most evident in Jim’s argument with his parents after Buzz’s death.  As Jim and his folks flip back and forth between idealism and pragmatism, between respectability and honor, the camera moves from POV shots to long takes with sudden shifts into slight Dutch angles.  It’s about as uneasy as the shouting match taking place on the stairwell, and it provides for a marvelous effect.

Finally, it appears that the events in Rebel Without a Cause are an exercise in futility.  Jim wonders aloud why he isn’t able to do anything right.  Given how events unfold, that may not be all his fault.  This is especially true in Jim’s dealings with the cops after Buzz’s death.  He tries to tell the cops what happened on the bluff, but they won’t listen and Jim’s not very articulate.  And that doesn’t even touch the tragic ending, in which a lack of communication ends up costing a life.  Sometimes, one just can’t do the right thing.

All of this combines to make Rebel Without a Cause one of the best movies that I’ve seen since starting this blog.  I’ll say that it handily surpasses Blackboard Jungle for the best “teenager” film that I’ve done, and that it makes want to devour the rest of James Dean’s oeuvre—I’ve been meaning to watch Giant at some point, and I can easily throw East of Eden on the to-do list as well.  If you’re like me and you’ve been waiting to watch this movie, do yourself a favor and get straight on doing that.

Our Vines Have Tender Grapes (1945)

Our Vines Have Tender Grapes (1945)

Directed by Roy Rowland

Screenplay by Dalton Trumbo, based on the novel For Our Vines Have Tender Grapes by George Victor Martin

Runtime: 1 hr, 45 min

Our Vines Have Tender Grapes is a movie that, I will admit, I judged by its title.  I figured that it would be a story about parents and their children, probably in a rural community.  It would probably be charming but too precious, and ultimately would be a coming of age story.  Well, it turns out that I was mostly correct.  Except for the last, plot-related guess, my uninformed prediction was on the nose.  This means that I was not disappointed with the film, but it also means that it rarely deviates too far from pleasant.

Our Vines Have Tender Grapes is a slice-of-life story set in a Wisconsin town of Norwegian immigrants.  Martinius Jacobson (Edward G. Robinson), like most of the townsfolk, is a farmer with dreams of a new barn.  He’s also a doting father, for he loves his seven-year-old daughter Selma (Margaret O’Brien) above all else.  The film follows the family through the school year, along with a host of other characters: Nels, the editor of the local paper (James Craig); Miss Johnson, the new, Milwaukee born schoolteacher (Frances Gifford), etc.

There is some interconnectivity between the vignettes.  Nels wanting to marry Miss Johnson and Selma raising her own calf are two prominent examples.  For the most part, though, Our Vines Have Tender Grapes eschews a central narrative.  This film wants to capture an assortment of moments that add up to a collective whole.  One could argue, seeing it was made during WWII, that its purpose was to present audiences with a wholesome, quaint view of everyday life to be had once the war was over.  Or it might have its goal regardless of real life circumstances.

The town life shown on screen is certainly wholesome, at times a bit too Rockwell-esque.  Selma’s younger cousin Arnold (Butch Jenkins) says “shucks” to just about everything, and a Christmas pageant sequence goes on for far longer than necessary.  These sorts of things do make life in town charming, but it also seems to be longing for an era that was never around to begin with.  I will say that making the town specifically of Norwegian ancestry adds a certain texture to the goings-on—more so than if the town had been generic white-bread America, anyway.

The town as a whole may be a foreshadowing of 1950s sitcoms, but the individual townsfolk are a bit more varied.  Robinson brings to Martinius a perhaps overly-loving streak; he’s unwilling to punish Selma when she misbehaves, and one can see the pain in his face as he sends her to be without supper.  His wife, Bruna (Agnes Moorehead), while a bit cold at times, shows genuine concern for her husband’s well being, and has a damn good point when she argues against him building a new barn.

Margaret O’Brien’s performance as Selma is bit harder to evaluate.  O’Brien herself is fine, able to portray both a naïve and caring little girl and an egocentric child who won’t give others a turn on her skates.  She speaks with an appropriate hesitancy during the pageant yet is carefree throughout the film.  The problem comes in how she is written.  Her dialogue is far too sophisticated for a seven-year-old to be saying.  I just can’t buy a child that young getting philosophical so damn often.  Blame writer Dalton Trumbo for this tension.

The characters in Jacobson family are sweet, and others, such as unfortunate farmer Bjorn Bjornson (Morris Carnovsky), are lively and amusing.  Other characters are, shall we say, uncomfortable.  The way that Nels is constantly asking for Miss Johnson’s hand goes from funny to “leave her alone already” territory rather quickly.  Meanwhile, the way the mentally disturbed Ingeborg Jensen (Dorothy Morris) is handled, and how quickly she is disposed of, comes across as exploitative and mars a good portion of the film’s proceedings.

Finally, at 105 minutes, the movie is far too padded.  It’s not that the vignettes told aren’t interesting; in fact, ones such as the roller skate affair allow for explorations of the characters’ interior emotions.  The problem is that, since the connective tissue of the film is virtually nonexistent, after awhile Our Vines Have Tender Grapes begins to feel like a vacation slide show.  A few anecdotes from your relatives are fine, but there’s a point where it all just blurs together.  That about sums my viewing experience: “Well, that was nice.  When’s dinner?”

I don’t mean to imply that the film is of poor quality, because it isn’t.  In fact, I wouldn’t even say that Our Vines Have Tender Grapes isn’t entertaining.  It’s not as if watching it was excruciating or boring.  The film achieved what it set out to be: an inoffensive look at farm life in Wisconsin.  Hell, if I were living during WWII, I’m sure I’d want a pleasant distraction from the events of the world.  That the filmmakers succeeded, however, results in a movie which does not promise a lot of re-watch value.