Dean Jones's Animal Instincts

When Dean Jones passed away at age 84 on September 1, there wasn't much fanfare. For many, like me, he was a childhood memory of The Wonderful World of Disney on Sunday nights. Although he hadn’t been very active in films for many years, and his leading man days were over long ago, at one time he was the very visible face of the live-action Disney films of the mid-to-late 1960s.

He got his start in Hollywood in 1956, landing small and uncredited roles until finally breaking through in 1957 as the disc jockey Teddy Talbot in Elvis Presley’s third film, the now-iconic “Jailhouse Rock.”

From there he continued to get larger parts, usually in supporting roles. As the 1960s took shape, Jones, along with other young male stars like Jim Hutton and Jeffrey Hunter, became a sort of figurehead of the streamlined mid-century man, handsome in slim-fitting suits, white shirts, skinny ties, perfect hair, and beguiling smiles a girl (or guy) just couldn't resist.

Older male stars who'd gotten their start in the 1930s but were still active in the '60s, such as James Stewart and Henry Fonda, had a more old-fashioned, home-spun persona; but by updating that unpretentious, boy-next-door quality to a younger generation and bracing it for the more freewheeling '60s, Jones became the everyman persona's heir apparent.

Jones smooches a surprised Jane Fonda
in "Any Wednesday."

At this time, he took top billing in a couple of light comedies that are emblematic of the period in look and attitude, including “Under the Yum Yum Tree” (1963), with pretty Carol Lynley; “Two on a Guillotine” (1965), with bubbly Connie Stevens; and “Any Wednesday” (1966), with Jane Fonda. These three co-stars are emblematic of '60s leading ladies.[1]

Most people today would find these fluffy romances fairly dated, and maybe even sexist; but they are entertaining diversions indicative of their time. In them, Jones represents the glib, charming, glossy modern ladies’ man as seen through the lens of Hollywood. In between television appearances, he also had the chance to do a few dramatic roles as part of an ensemble cast, such as "The Young Interns" (1964)--which, no surprise, also cast him opposite some hot ladies of the era, including Stefanie Powers, Barbara Eden, and Inger Stevens.

In 1965, his fortunes changed. Walt Disney Studios was trying to find new ways to cash in on the teen market. They already had a money-maker in Hayley Mills, but she was growing up and no longer the little girl from “Pollyanna.” So they found a vehicle that would capitalize on her existing marquee value, but help make Jones their avatar for live-action comedy. Plus, he enabled them to add a little clean-cut male sex appeal.

Hayley Mills and Jones paws
for a moment to think about the crime.

Jones’s first Disney movie was “That Darn Cat!” (note the exclamation point), which gave Miss Mills the chance to be adorable, yet grown-up. Meanwhile, Jones was able to capitalize on his charisma and proven comic ability. (It’s worth noting that the studio wasn’t quite ready to make Mills his leading lady; in this comedy, Jones falls for her sister.)

An unequivocal hit, “That Darn Cat!” led to a series of Disney movies that cast Jones opposite other then-current leading ladies who basically played second fiddle to whatever the animal of the moment happened to be. There was “The Ugly Dachshund” (1966), with Suzanne Pleshette; “Monkeys Go Home!” (1967), with Yvette Mimieux; and “The Million Dollar Duck” (1971), with Sandy Duncan.

In 1968 alone, he appeared in three Disney films, including “Blackbeard’s Ghost” (with Pleshette again); “The Love Bug,” with Michelle Lee (and a Volkswagen); and “The Horse in the Gray Flannel Suit,” with Diane Baker—and a horse, of course.

Jones's most popular and well-remembered
Disney feature co-starred an adorable car.

But by the end of the sixties, the Walt Disney-Dean Jones formula was wearing thin and audiences were losing interest. Perhaps it was the grim realities of the fast-changing Vietnam era that made these films seem out of step with the times.

And as if in response to the excesses of the ‘60s, Jones’s personal life took a turn. He had grown weary of the Hollywood way of life and some of its more self-destructive aspects. While his film career foundered, in 1970 he was cast as Bobby in Steven Sondheim’s “Company,” and although he had a magnificent singing voice, he quit the production just two weeks into its initial run due to marital problems. You'll be wowed, and perhaps surprised (as I was), by his powerful rendition of "Being Alive," an emotional performance that indicates the true depth of his talent (and seems to indicate what was going on in his personal life).

It was around this time that he hit a point of crisis that led to him becoming a born-again Christian. His presence in films from then on would never reach the level it had been in the 1960s, yet he would continue to act in parts small and large, in feature films and television. He made his last film appearance in 2009.

Periodically, he returned to Disney territory, including two mediocre features that attempted to follow on the success of the studio’s earlier films. “The Shaggy D.A.” was a 1976 sequel to 1959’s “The “Shaggy Dog” (which had starred another Disney leading man, Fred MacMurray). “Herbie Goes to Monte Carlo” was a meager 1977 follow-up to the original Love Bug movie. (I remember going to the theater to see it when it came out.)

As if hanging onto his most popular and iconic film, Jones participated in other retreads of the cute Volkswagen storyline, including the short-lived television series “Herbie the Love Bug” (1982) and the television movie “The Love Bug” (1997). Neither made much of an impression, nor did his appearance as the villain in 1997’s remake of “That Darn Cat.” (Note that this 1997 take on the 1965 title dispensed with the exclamation point, as if to underscore that the ‘90s was a decidedly less lighthearted decade.)

With that smile and those boyish good looks, he just seemed like a
nice guy--the perfect Disney hero.

Jones was a bright, engaging presence who sleekly represented his era. His modern look, affable demeanor, and easy-going charm helped balance the slight scripts of those popular Disney comedies. He never complained about their formulaic nature, and knew they were innocuous light entertainment. Yet his deft handling elevated the material and indicated a true professional who understood his appeal.

In a career that spanned nearly 60 years, Jones made his mark in those relics of a different era’s snappier, less complicated approach to entertainment. The Disney movies in which he co-starred with a cat, a dog, a horse, a duck, even a ghost and, most iconic, a cute little car, are the ones for which he’ll be best remembered.

[1] Granted, Fonda's career went much further than Lynley's or Stevens', and changed significantly into the 1970s in lockstep with the anti-war, anti-nukes, and women's rights movements.

For The Birds: Elizabeth Wilson and Charles McGraw

It can be challenging sometimes to come up with an idea for this blog; for some months, it’s easy to fall back on holiday-themed movies (Christmas movies in December, spooky movies for Halloween in October). But I feel like I’m taking the easy way out when I do that!

So this time, I decided on an idea that seems kind of far out, since the two actors I’m discussing have nothing in common except for a single movie. And really, just a single scene.

I recently discovered an actor named Charles McGraw, who starred in a series of underrated but excellent film noir thrillers in the late 1940s and early ‘50s. I was intrigued by his presence, so did a little research.

After having seen some of his earlier movies, I was surprised to discover that he later appeared in a small role in Alfred Hitchcock’s 1962 classic “The Birds,” one of my favorite movies.

When character actress Elizabeth Wilson died this year at 94, I did some digging about her, too. I was familiar with her as an older player in movies from the last 30 years or so, but I wondered what her earlier filmography featured. Sure enough, she also had a small part in “The Birds.” And it was in the same sequence as Charles McGraw.

McGraw in "The Birds"

If you know the movie, you’ll recall Tippi Hedren and Rod Taylor stopping in a diner to use the telephone, as the birds continue to behave strangely. McGraw, as a cantankerous fisherman, enters the diner to order a cup of coffee and grouse about the birds’ behavior. Wilson plays the wife of the diner owner, the picture of frazzled efficiency as she tries to juggle multiple orders as the diner’s patrons become increasingly worried about what they’re hearing from Hedren and Taylor.

Now, when I watch “The Birds,” I look forward to seeing McGraw and Wilson in their single scene together. It’s not that their acting here is remarkable on its own, but they both bring a momentary naturalness that stands in contrast to Taylor’s hunky heroics and Hedren’s icy coolness.

Wilson in "The Birds"

It may be a stretch, but in this post I’m going to look at these two disparate actors who had very different careers, but who are united by a single film. Even though Charles McGraw and Elizabeth Wilson aren’t household names, they still make an impression in anything in which they appear.

Elizabeth Wilson: Stealing the Show

What makes Wilson’s connection to “The Birds” even more interesting in retrospect (to me, anyway) is that her very first film appearance, as an uncredited party guest, was Hitchcock’s “Notorious” in 1946. 

After that she went straight into the new medium of television. She had sporadic film appearances throughout the 1950s, most notably in “Patterns” (1956), which I discuss in my September 2014 post as one of the most notable films of that decade. It was a small but important role as a dedicated secretary in a large corporation going through internal upheaval.

Wilson as Dustin Hoffman's mother in 'The Graduate."

She finally broke through as a character actress in a couple of classic, touchstone films of the 1960s. Fans of Mike Nichols' “The Graduate” (1967) will remember her as the unctuous mother of Dustin Hoffman’s Benjamin Braddock. She was dryly funny as a privileged woman who has completely bought into the materialistic world in which she exists—the very world that eventually drives her son to take drastic measures to escape.

Throughout the '60s and ‘70s, Wilson appeared in dozens of roles in television movies and series, including soap operas (‘Another World,’ ‘Dark Shadows’) and sitcoms (‘All in the Family’).

As Roz Keith in "9 to 5,"
with Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin

Her film appearances were fairly sporadic, with parts in reputable movies (“The Prisoner of Second Avenue”) and not-so-reputable (“The Happy Hooker”), but she had a terrific comic role as the hilariously irritating office snoop Roz Keith in 1980's feminist comedy “9 to 5." (It's possible that her characterization is a send-up of her role in 1956 in the similarly office-based film “Patterns.”)

Wilson is one of those faces you recognize, but are never sure from where. She brought a touching humanity to even her least sympathetic characterizations, elevating even the slightest material with her professionalism and presence. And she never seemed interested in being the star of the show, even though she invariably stole it anyway.

Charles McGraw: Film Noir Threat

A sedate portrait of tough-guy
Charles McGraw

Certain actors belong to a certain time. Charles McGraw belongs to the late 1940s and early 1950s, when gritty black-and-white crime dramas were plentiful.

I didn’t really learn about him until I recently saw several of his movies in a row, and began an instant appreciation.

After some bit and uncredited parts in war films and horror movies in the early '40s, he began getting cast in a series of B-movie melodramas in the post-war years. Always playing a tough character, he alternated between policemen and detectives, or gangsters and hoods. And sometimes he was even a good guy gone bad.

McGraw had a square-jawed look, and his face was handsome yet grizzled enough to indicate a hard life, so he brought an authenticity to these roles. Plus he had a distinctively gravelly voice that made him suited to the film noir genre.

He appeared in small parts in a series of classics, including “The Killers” (1946), which made stars out of Burt Lancaster and Ava Gardner. In 1947 alone, he’s on both sides of the law in a long list of typical melodramas of the era: “The Long Night,” “The Big Fix,” “T-Men,” “The Gangster,” and “Brute Force.” All solid films, made better by his presence.

As a brutal killer in 'The Threat."

But it wasn’t until “The Threat” in 1949 that McGraw really broke out. In this brittle, hard-edged, but little-known thriller, he plays a notorious, violent killer who gets out of prison and attempts to get revenge on everyone who put him there.

McGraw followed this role with a string of similar movies. They all had great noir titles; sometimes he was the bad guy (as in “Border Incident” as a vicious henchman); but more often a hard-nosed man of the law: A detective in “Side Street” (1949) and “Armored Car Robbery” (1950); an insurance fraud investigator in “His Kind of Woman” and “Roadblock” (both 1951); and a cop with a chip on his shoulder in “The Narrow Margin” (1952). This last title has emerged as an influential classic, and shouldn’t be missed.

McGraw’s star waned fairly quickly and, like Elizabeth Wilson, he moved predominantly into television. However, he still had a few opportunities to put his toughness to good use in feature films.

As the vicious Marcellus
in "Spartacus."

Notably, he made Kirk Douglas’s life miserable as the slave-driver Marcellus in Stanley Kubrick’s 1960 masterpiece “Spartacus.” His arrogance and viciousness is memorable.

In 1967, while Wilson was appearing in “The Graduate,” McGraw had a small but important role in Richard Brooks’ outstanding adaptation of Truman Capote’s true-crime book “In Cold Blood.” After that, he spent most of the remainder of his career in television. The series in which he appeared read like a lexicon of iconic TV programs of the era: ‘The Man from U.N.C.L.E.,’ ‘The Wild Wild West,’ ‘Mod Squad,’ ‘Gunsmoke,’ and ‘Ironside,’ to name a few.

In his heyday of the late ‘40s and early ‘50s, McGraw was always a magnetic presence, whatever the material. He made even flimsy scripts better just by being in the movie, and managed to bring out the best from the battery of contract players he was teamed with. Watching him in these films, you see a sadness in his eyes, a world-weariness that is quite compelling and relevant in today's weary world.

McGraw’s story ends on a tragic note. The year in which Wilson triumphed in "9 to 5," McGraw died after slipping in the shower and falling through the glass door. It was an ironic end to an actor who had specialized in playing hard-boiled guys—good or bad—who were capable of withstanding almost anything. 

My guess is, had he lived, he would have followed a trajectory similar to his one-time co-star, creating even more indelible and interesting characterizations well into old age, as she did.

In a Summer Place

Where did the summer go? I thought I’d have a blog post published by the middle of July, but the time just flew.

I bandied a post dealing with big, bright, late-1940s MGM musicals with the word “summer” in their title, like “In the Good Old Summertime” (1949) and “Summer Stock” (1950), both with the legendary Judy Garland.

Then I thought about Disney pictures with a summertime theme, such as “Summer Magic,” a forgotten 1963 feature starring the adorable Hayley Mills.

For a dimmer view of summertime, I thought about taking a look at film adaptations of Tennessee Williams' tortured Southern Gothic plays “Suddenly, Last Summer” (1959) and “Summer and Smoke" (1962).

But instead, I’m limiting our theme to two movies that may surprise you. They’re special because they’re iconic of the 1950s, but have a refreshingly adult tone. And they indeed revolve around that magical summer season.

Summertime (1955)
Katharine Hepburn is the lonely Jane Hudson, a small-town American school teacher seeking a change of scenery on vacation in Venice, Italy.

She certainly finds beauty in the romantic setting, but finding actual romance was not on her agenda. But one evening, idly watching the birds flutter about while sitting alone at an outdoor café, she senses that someone is watching her. 

The dashing Renato de Rossi (Rosanno Brazzi) is instantly smitten with this unusual woman. But he is a married man, which presents ethical problems for Jane even as she falls in love with him.

The film traces their relationship and the contrast between Jane’s solitary existence founded on her valued principals and Renato’s more liberal perspective on life, love, and the rules of marriage. “Summertime” is an examination of two very different people coming together, albeit briefly, and the ultimate decision one of them must make. 

Yes, it is rooted in mid-20th century morality, but these disparate people navigate their circumstances in a very grown-up way. The film is a look back at a time when marriage and fidelity were viewed in a stricter sense; when people took it more seriously. (Just ask Ashley Madison's 37 million customers.)

Part of the power of “Summertime” is the personal and societal confines within which Jane lives her life. The rules she follows in America are thrown into disarray by the more freewheeling view of sex and love that Renato—and Venice—presents.

Katharine Hepburn, as lonely Jane Hudson,
has a contemplative moment.

Based on Arthur Laurents’ play The Time of the Cuckoo, the film is directed by David Lean, who was a master at using geography, architecture, and terrain as backdrop and character in his films (as evidenced by such epics as “Lawrence of Arabia” and “Doctor Zhivago”). “Summertime” is a testament to the power of on-location filming, not to mention color photography.

Famed New York Times film critic Bosley Crowther said about the film upon its release in 1955: “The curious hypnotic fascination of that labyrinthine place beside the sea is brilliantly conveyed to the viewer as the impulse for the character’s passing moods...It is Venice itself that gives the flavor and the emotional stimulation to this film.” He was right.

Aside from changing mores, the film remains a rich, mature experience for discerning viewers seeking an unusual character study. It remains one of Hepburn’s most indelible, heartbreaking performances. She has sincere, sometimes electric chemistry with Brazzi who, while often typecast as a stereotypical Latin lover type, could be quite good when the material permitted him to be (as he is here).

I talk about this film in my prior blog post from May 2014, which looked at the various films in Hepburn’s career that closely aligned with her personal life.

Troy Donahue and Sandra Dee
in a typical publicity still.

A Summer Place (1959)
Based on a popular novel by Sloan Wilson, who often took a critical eye to (then) modern-day customs, culture, and mores, this film adaptation looks at the relationship between two adults from very different walks of life. However, the burgeoning romance between their teenage children takes center stage as the film progresses.

Handsome Richard Egan is Ken Jorgenson and the underrated Dorothy Maguire is Sylvia Hunter. As the story unfolds, we learn that 20 years earlier, while college students, Ken and Sylvia carried on a romance. But their lives changed, and they moved on from each other.

Sylvia married Bart (Arthur Kennedy), an alcoholic whose family money has run out. Ken married Helen (Constance Ford), a scornful woman who has nothing but contempt for anyone who is different from her or doesn’t share her view of the world.

Ken, who worked his way through college, is now wealthy; Sylvia, who came from money, has turned to running Bart’s family home as an inn. 

Dorothy Maguire and Richard Egan

When Ken and Sylvia meet again at a resort on Maine’s Pine Island, they furtively rekindle their romance.

Throughout all the grown-up dramatics, we meet Ken and Helen's teenage daughter Molly (Sandra Dee) and Sylvia and Bart's son Johnny (Troy Donahue). As Ken and Sylvia rekindle their romance, Molly and Johnny fall for each other too.

Things get complicated when Ken and Sylvia divorce their spouses to remarry. Meanwhile, Molly and Johnny continue to see each other. And when Molly and Johnny reunite at Pine Island, Molly gets pregnant.

While the film became a touchstone--and later a point of mockery--for 1950s morality, upon reflection “A Summer Place” has some rather progressive ideas about hypocrisy and tolerance. In one scene, Ken angrily calls out Helen for her racial and ethnic bigotry. Like teenage pregnancy, these were not subjects that were broached much in Hollywood pictures in the '50s. Perhaps it took a seemingly simple soap opera to present them to the public.

Egan and Maguire are good, but the movie provided an early showcase for teen icons Dee and Donahue. The flip side of the teen stars’ iconic status is the reality that, after the white hot flash of fame fizzled, both Dee and Donahue led sad, troubled lives rife with drug and alcohol abuse and, for Dee, health problems that included anorexia and depression.

Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta
in "Grease"

Summer Lovin' 
The 1970s both sent up and paid homage to the various tropes of the 1950s. In fact, the visual inspiration for the early seaside scenes in 1978’s hugely popular and enduring musical “Grease” come directly from “A Summer Place.”

Summer Playlist
Listen to “Theme from a Summer Place” here. Corny kitsch to some, I can still remember hearing this song for the first time when I was a small child in the '70s. I was in the back seat of our station wagon, my parents in the front seat (Dad was driving). The song came on the radio (probably an oldies station), and I was transfixed; I’ve loved it ever since.

Summer Reading
As a summer blog bonus, here’s my take on two good books—one a brand-new biography, the other a not-so-new autobiography—that I recently read, about two icons of Hollywood’s Golden Age: Bob Hope remains a household name, if somewhat vilified today; Ray Milland was a big star in his time, but his name is not well remembered.

Hope
By Richard Zoglin, Simon & Shuster, 2014

When author Richard Zoglin, a contributing editor and theater critic for Time magazine, was writing Comedy at the Edge: How Stand-up in the 1970s Changed America, he interviewed many stand-up comedians and asked them who their influences were. He was shocked by the fact that none of them cited Bob Hope.

Zoglin set out to find out why. He meticulously researched Hope’s past as the child of immigrants from England, who settled in Ohio in the late 1890s. (Hope was born in 1903.) The book illustrates how Hope ventured into vaudeville in the 1920s, which took him to Hollywood in the 1930s, where he had a rather inauspicious debut; but despite early fits and starts, he eventually conquered the movies while establishing himself as a leading radio star well into the 1940s.

With World War II came the opportunity to entertain the troops, and his efforts in the Pacific, Europe, and points in between, were tireless; Zoglin interviews some of the people who knew him at that time. During the war, he also became a newspaper columnist and published several books, including a post-war memoir.

If radio, movies, and publishing weren’t enough, Hope smoothly entered the new medium of television in the ‘50s. After years as America’s top funnyman, the tide began to change in the mid-‘60s with the advent of the Vietnam conflict. 

While Hope was determined to entertain a younger generation in a new kind of war, he was increasingly out of touch. His films were decreasingly good or popular. While his telecasts of troop visits, especially Christmas specials, were highly popular, Hope was becoming synonymous with the ‘older generation.’ Everyone seemed to know it but him.

Anyone who grew up in the ‘70s, 80s, and ‘90s who remembers his stiff, cue-card laden skits in a variety of television appearances will know that Hope had outstayed his welcome. When he died in 2003 at 100, the token tributes were made but it was clear the world had moved on.

Regardless of how you might feel about Bob Hope as a man or a comedian, this is an unsentimental, unbiased, yet revelatory biography of the most significant entertainer of the first half of the 20th century. It explains the factors that led to Hope becoming an unrelatable antique, despite the fact that he pretty much invented stand-up comedy as we know it today. And it reveals what a cypher he was to almost everyone who knew him, including his children.

Hope’s impact on American comedy cannot be denied, but he allowed his reputation to be spoiled by an ego that insisted he hang around, never knowing when to quit.

Wide-Eyed in Babylon
By Ray Milland, William Morrow and Company, 1974

In 1974, Ray Milland published this look back on his young life and early years in Hollywood. The book is a colorfully written, fascinating window on growing up in Wales in the 1900s and entering Hollywood as a very young man in the early 1930s. 

Milland became a big star at Paramount in the early '40s. Although he excelled at light comedy, he eagerly ventured into darker territory, beginning with his Oscar-winning portrayal of an alcoholic in the then-daring “The Lost Weekend” in 1945. This the first Hollywood film to deal realistically with the subject of alcoholism. It's still pretty potent.

His career slipped a bit in the ‘50s, but he leveraged the new medium of television to star in two series. In the early '60s, he continued to appear in sporadic films, even directing two cult-classic science fiction movies. In 1970 he played Ryan O'Neal's disapproving father in the extremely popular “Love Story.” But he was well past his prime by then.

Sadly, after that it was strictly Z-class movies all the way to the end, when he died in 1986. This was probably not the way he would have preferred his career to wrap up. But the book doesn’t get that far; it stops at a point in Milland's life when he was still a well-known veteran of Hollywood's Golden Age, and he was happy to talk about those days.

When he wrote this memoir, Milland’s memories were still within reach. But now, 40 years hence, the bucolic Wales of the 1900s and the energetic Hollywood of the 1930s are consigned to history. (That's why autobiographies like this are important; they serve as records of now-vanished times, people, and places.)

I recommend the book, although fair warning: His views on women, gays, and minorities are dated. For example, at one point he recounts how he excused himself from a dull party, blithely noting that his hosts were a couple of “house faggots from Beverly Hills.” I actually thought that was so absurd an offhand comment that it was funny.

If you can get past those dated aspects, take the book as a record of Ray Milland’s life, times, attitudes, and professional experiences. He published it in 1974, a year that sits five years after the end of the tumultuous '60s, when everything began to change in ways overt and subtle.

Like many people of his generation in the entertainment industry (see Bob Hope above), Milland may not have taken seriously women's lib, the burgeoning gay rights movement, or many of the other societal changes that were happening at the time, but happening they were. He couldn't know the changes that would continue to occur for the remainder of his life.

Perhaps the point of his book was a way to look back before it was too late. "Wide-Eyed in Babylon" is a proven actor's entertaining, episodic memoir of a most interesting life during very interesting times--before the times changed.

Side note: You can find an inexpensive back copy on Amazon.com, as I did. A used hard cover was only 85 cents, plus $3.99 shipping. (Or you can have my copy.)

Victims and Wilde Trials

After missing a couple months of posts here at In a Movie Place, I wanted to return before the end of June to recognize Gay Pride Month, which has been celebrated with events in American cities as diverse as New York, San Diego, Washington, DC, and my hometown of Pittsburgh.

And with last week’s monumental and historic Supreme Court ruling in favor of marriage equality, it’s a good time to take a look back. One way to do that is through motion pictures, that arbiter of national mood, morals, values, and tastes.

Through the end of the 1950s, the subject of homosexuality, in any treatment, was still highly taboo in the movies. But filmmakers began to tackle the topic in the early 1960s, mostly tenderly, if tentatively.

In films of the 1960s, homosexuals were treated alternatively as subjects of sympathy, comic stereotypes, or criminals and psychopaths. I’ve selected just four films of the early years of the decade that stand as important illustrations of changing attitudes in what evolved into ten years of real upheaval.

Movie poster for "The Trials of Oscar Wilde."

The Trial of Oscar Wilde (1960) - “You’re an artist; the public expects you to be different.”

Peter Finch portrays the flippant playwright, and in early scenes depicts his popularity in the world of British theater and society, as well as his devoted marriage to his wife Constance. But it also documents his affair with Lord Alfred Bruce Douglas, as well as the libel case that Wilde brought against John Douglas, 9th Marquess of Queensberry (and father of Alfred).

When Wilde went to court against John Douglas, fortunes eventually reversed, and Douglas brought charges of gross indecency against Wilde due to his relationship with Alfred. It was this case that ended up bankrupting and ruining the world’s then-most popular playwright.

The film is genteel, but it doesn’t whitewash the unseemly aspects of the court case, or Wilde’s relationship with Lord Alfred. The movie makes it clear that Wilde’s wife and some close friends are aware of his predilections, and depicts Victorian society’s emphasis on maintaining appearances for the sake of society.

Through Wilde’s story, the film illustrates a singular aspect of the experiences of gay men in the Victorian era, and certainly demonstrates the hypocrisy of a society that embraced the flamboyance of Oscar Wilde in terms of his art, but which turned against him when his truth was revealed. As Wilde’s friend points out in an early scene—when Wilde was certain he was safe from judgment—“A halo doesn’t have to fall very far, Oscar, to become a noose.”

Finch plays Wilde in an effete and humorous manner, as befits the playwright’s wit; but the real standout is from John Fraser, an actor with whom I was not familiar before this film. He impressively captures the impulsive, spoiled nature of the beautiful Alfred.

As a side note, this is one of two British films made about the trial in 1960; the other, starring Robert Morley, was simply titled, “Oscar Wilde.” I’ve never seen it, but it would be worth seeking out to compare to the Peter Finch version.

"I did love you! I do love you!"

The Children’s Hour (1961) - “I couldn’t call it by name before."

In Lillian Hellman’s play, first staged in 1934, two women open a private school for girls. When a conniving student starts a rumor that the women have a romantic relationship, it begins a chain of events that leads to tragedy.

Director William Wyler adapted the play for his 1936 film, which was renamed “These Three.” Due to the production code in place at the time, the rumor had to imply not that the women were lesbians, but that one of the women is having an affair with the other’s fiancé.

Twenty-five years later, Wyler directed an updated, and more faithful, version of Hellman’s storyline.

In it, Shirley MacLaine and Audrey Hepburn portray the teachers, Martha Dobie and Karen Wright, respectively. James Garner plays Karen’s fiancé, a local doctor. When the student tells her wealthy grandmother what she thinks she has witnessed, the grandmother makes the rumor known publicly. Parents react, pulling their daughters out of the school. Martha and Karen file a libel suit against the grandmother, but the evidence (not to mention popular opinion) is stacked against them, and they lose the case.

The audience is led to believe that the rumor was just that. But in a later scene, after the court case has been lost, Martha admits—furtively—that she realizes now that she is, in fact, in love with Karen. In a dramatic scene near the film’s conclusion, Martha admits, “It's there. I don't know how, I don't know why. But I did love you! I do love you! I resented your plans to marry. Maybe because I wanted you. Maybe I've wanted you all these years. I couldn’t call it by name before, but maybe it's been there since I first knew you.”

The admission is a little frustrating to watch, because Martha’s confession is written in a circuitous way, no doubt in an attempt to soften for 1961 audiences what she was really saying to Karen. Martha is made to be an object of pity, if not scorn. When she hangs herself in the film’s conclusion, it’s clear what happens to gay people when they come clean.

The fact that Wyler made a movie that even broached the subject of lesbianism was a stride forward for Hollywood in 1961. It is not a movie that could have been made even five years before. The film is flawed, but is a milestone for its sympathetic treatment of homosexuality, albeit wrapped in tragedy, which was not unusual for films of this period that attempted to tackle this touchy subject.

What’s different today? We can call it by name. In an era when men and women can freely admit who they are and who they love, “The Children’s Hour” stands as a restrained artifact of a time in which shame, fear, and confinement were facts that gay people simply had to live—and sometimes die—with.

Movie poster for "Victim."

Victim (1961) - “It used to be witches; at least they don’t burn you.”

In this, the first English-language movie to use the word “homosexual,” Dirk Bogarde plays Melville Farr, a married barrister whose male lover has been arrested for stealing money he planned to use to pay off blackmailers. In 1950s and ‘60s England, blackmail was a common crime against gay people because they were easy targets with much to lose if found out.

As the police inspector explains to Farr in an early scene, "There's no doubt that a law which sends homosexuals to prison offers unlimited opportunities for blackmail." He goes on to say, “Someone once called this law against homosexuals the blackmailer’s charter." And continues by noting that 99% of all blackmail cases have a homosexual origin. Clearly, at this time, the cards were heavily stacked against gay people.

Indeed, the stakes are high for Farr, as he is slated to become a Queen’s Counsel, and eventually a judge. If it comes out that he had a homosexual affair, it will ruin his career, if not his seemingly happy marriage to Laura (Sylvia Syms).

When the lover hangs himself in prison (shades of “The Children’s Hour”) in an attempt to protect Farr's reputation, Farr decides to take on the blackmailers himself. He works with a friend of the lover to help identify other gay men who are also being blackmailed, including a well-known theater star and several business owners. It’s clear that these men all live in a shadow world in which their true identity is meticulously hidden—thus perfect targets for blackmailers.

But none of them is willing to help. The price of coming out is too high, and it’s cheaper to keep paying off the blackmailers. They are caught, truly "victims." 

When Farr’s wife sees “Farr is Queer” scrawled in bold white paint on their garage door, she confronts him. He decides to help the police catch the perpetrators, which means giving evidence in court. He knows that the ensuing media firestorm will almost certainly compromise, if not destroy, his career aspirations. And perhaps his marriage.

When I saw this film for the first time recently, I was struck by how inclusive its screenplay is in terms of representations of various perspectives on homosexuality: The sympathetic straight male ally; the bar owner who takes the gay men’s money but secretly despises them for who they are; the prim woman who trades on her twisted view of morality and believes gay people deserve to be blackmailed; the fair-minded police inspector who takes a wider view of humanity; his more narrow-minded colleague; and many others who illustrate the challenging opinions that gay people experienced from every corner of society: Their families, their friends, their employers and coworkers, the authorities, and so on.

To value the freedoms gay people hold dear today, it is critical to see the incredible obstacles that were experienced by those in the past. Bigoted and biased laws and police practices, gays pitting themselves against each other for self-preservation, and the fear and loathing foisted upon them from wider society—we have come very far indeed.

(Side note: Although controversial upon release in England, "Victim" was initially banned in the United States.)

Brock Peters, Leslie Caron, and Tom Bell 

The L-Shaped Room (1962) - “It takes all kinds.”

Most people know of Leslie Caron for her incandescent musicals, such as “Gigi” and “An American in Paris.” But she was a fine dramatic actress too, and was nominated for an Oscar for Best Actress for “The L-Shaped Room.” She creates a touching portrayal as Jane Fosset, a single and pregnant young Frenchwoman who moves into a run-down London boarding house.

The film focuses mainly on her budding romance with another tenant, a young writer named Toby (Tom Bell), but it’s her relationship with two other tenants that place this film in my blog.

Her next-door neighbor is Johnny (Brock Peters), a gay black man with whom she becomes fast friends. Although the fact that he’s gay is not stated outright, it’s obvious. Johnny is protective of Jane, and even somewhat jealous of her romance with Toby. But it’s clear to the audience that Johnny really yearns for a romance of his own. To be gay and black in London in 1962 presented double the challenges.

The boarding house is run by an older woman named Mavis (Cicely Courtneidge), who was once a dance-hall entertainer. In her cluttered apartment are mementos of her theatrical past. In early scenes when Jane meets Mavis, we see a WWI military uniform hanging on the back of a door. Jane knows that Mavis’s act included a partner. When Jane asks, “Was he on the stage, too?” Mavis is quizzical. “Who, dear?”

Mavis’s partner on stage, and in life, was in fact a lady. Later in the film, when Jane sees a framed photo of a woman dressed in the uniform, Mavis realizes that Jane understands. “It takes all kinds,” she says slyly, but unapologetically. Jane is touched by Mavis’s honesty, which ultimately inspires her to follow her own heart to do what is right for her.

The film takes a poignant and sympathetic look at these disparate people, all living with their own circumstances, demons, and dreams. It’s refreshing to see a film in which all the characters help and support each other in small, simple ways, with no judgment.

Jon Voigt and Dustin Hoffman in 1969's
groundbreaking "Midnight Cowboy."

As the 1960s rolled out, cinema in general became more permissive, but treatments of homosexuals veered away from pity and victimhood to either more sinister portrayals, such as in “The Killing of Sister George” or “The Fox” (both 1968); hyper-flamboyant comic depictions, such as  “The Gay Deceivers” and “Staircase”; or pathetic delusion, as in “Midnight Cowboy” (all 1969).

The new decade of the 1970s kicked off with the all-male cast of “The Boys in the Band” (1970), but the gay theme was still couched in fear and self-loathing. The obscure “Some of My Best Friends Are” (1971), made after the Stonewall riots of 1969—which fundamentally kicked off the gay rights movement—is a small film that takes place in a Greenwich Village gay bar. The men and women (including Rue McClanahan) don’t fret about being victims; instead, they have real conversations about their lives and relationships. It is markedly different from the films of the early 1960s I’ve discussed here.

As the ‘70s wore on, gay men were brought into America’s living room. The flamboyance of Paul Lynde, Charles Nelson Reilly, and Alan Seuss was played strictly for laughs in sitcoms, game shows, and variety shows, making them safe for public consumption. Outside of Billy Crystal’s more substantially written gay character in the satirical sitcom “Soap,” the ‘70s was just as limited as previous decades in depictions of gay characters in mass entertainment, albeit in a different way. But when Rock Hudson, the ideal Hollywood heartthrob, died of AIDS in 1985, it snapped America out of its reverie and forced it to look at gay people not as one-dimensional comic foils, victims, or dangerous, shadowy figures, but as multi-dimensional people with the same hopes and aspirations as everyone else.

Movies will always show us what we strived for, what we achieved, and how far we’ve come. It will be fascinating to see what comes next.

Top o’ the Movie to Ya!

Maureen O'Hara and the wearin' o' the
green (in black and white)

For most people these days, St. Patrick’s Day is an excuse to dress in silly green outfits, wear oversized leprechaun hats, and drink excessive amounts of cheap beer.

But a couple generations ago, when America’s European immigrant groups were more clearly delineated along ethnic lines, it was not uncommon for movies to be made about those groups and particular aspects of their culture.

From the colorful characters with their brogues to rousing songs, the Irish had a special place in Hollywood’s heart. And with so many actors of Irish descent in the 1930s, ‘40s, and ‘50s, it’s no surprise that many movies celebrated stereotypical Irish blarney.

Whether you’re Irish or not, here are seven fun Hollywood films you can enjoy with a nice cold green beer:

The three O'Hara brothers demonstrate
the Irish in them

The Irish in Us (1935) – No classic, but how can you beat a movie starring James Cagney and Pat O’Brien, two of Hollywood’s original paddies. It’s a very simple story about the O’Hara brothers: Danny (James Cagney) is a boxing promoter; Pat (Pat O’Brien) is a cop; and Mike (Frank McHugh) is a fireman. They fuss and feud in a big Irish way, as Ma O’Hara yearns for Danny to get out of the boxing biz and get a respectable job. Meanwhile, Danny and Pat each try to win the affections of lovely Lucille (20-year-old Olivia de Havilland). This is a fun time capsule that captures working class Irish flavor of the mid-1930s.

Irish Eyes Are Smiling (1944) – When you add music and Technicolor to a movie about the Irish, you get a special treat. This is a splashy, corny musical biography of Ernest Roland Ball (Monty Wooley), a composer of popular sentimental Irish songs, many of which we still enjoy today. (Spoiler alert: Ball wasn’t actually Irish.) The film is bright fun that captures the vaudeville stage world of the 1910s and features 1940s favorites June Haver and big band crooner Dick Haymes. Ball often collaborated with Chauncey Olcott, who is the subject of the next of our Irish films.

A fine singer and
pleasant personality

My Wild Irish Rose (1947) – Chauncey Olcott wrote many of the classic Irish-themed songs we still know today. In this biography, Olcott is played by the handsome Dennis Morgan, who was an excellent singer in his own right. He co-stars opposite smashing redhead Arlene Dahl, who looks great in 1910s garb and doesn't have to do much else. Like many biographies of this Hollywood era, a lot of leeway has been taken with the facts, but the point of Technicolor musicals was to entertain, in this case featuring classic Irish songs and punching up the nostalgia for audiences weary of the world war that had ended just a couple years before. Hollywood has always had a sentimental tendency to sugarcoat the past, and no period was more ripe for that than the early 1900s, a more insular, innocent time in America.

Top o' the movie to ya!

Top o’ the Morning (1947) – Barry Fitzgerald was Hollywood’s resident old Irish curmudgeon, and he had it down pat. He and Bing Crosby had already made a few movies together, including “Going My Way” in 1944, so they were a dependable movie team for such corny little comedies as this one. Crosby is Joe Mulqueen, an insurance agent who travels to Ireland to investigate the supposed theft of the actual Blarney Stone. Along the way, he romances Conn McNaughton (Ann Blyth), the daughter of Seargent Briny McNaughton (Fitzgerald). The film is easy to take and captures the Irish flavor that these types of films did so well. (Even if they really only focus on the stereotypical, if not apocryphal, aspects of what it means to be Irish.)

Tyrone Power

Luck of the Irish (1948) – After breaking out of a pattern of redundant 1930s romantic comedies, Tyrone Power successfully proved himself a good dramatic actor over the next decade (while also serving in WWII). His greatest dramatic triumph was especially the trenchant film adaptation of Somerset Maugham's “The Razor’s Edge.” But in 1948, Power returned to light form in this sweet romantic fantasy-comedy. Here he plays Stephen Fitzgerald (no relation to Barry), a reporter who travels to Ireland and meets Nora (“Razor’s Edge” co-star Anne Baxter) and a mischievous leprechaun named Horace (Cecil Kellaway). Stephen, smitten with Nora, reluctantly returns to New York, where he is torn between marrying his wealthy fiancée Frances (Jayne Meadows) or following his heart back to Ireland. Horace works his leprechaun’s magic to help Stephen make up his mind.

Maureen O'Hara and John Wayne
fight their way to true love.

The Quiet Man (1952) – No Irish movie collection would be complete without this bonafide classic from director John Ford, who knew from Irish. Here, John Wayne is former boxer Sean Thornton, who travels from Pittsburgh in the 1920s to reclaim his birthplace in the (fictional) village of Innisfree, in Ireland. When he sees the ravishing redhead Mary Kate Danaher (Maureen O'Hara), it is love at first site. But before he can win her hand, he has to get through her brash bully of a brother Will (Victor McLaglen). Will wants Sean’s family farm and is bitter that Sean outbid him for the property. The film is a soaring romance, but it’s also an examination of the clash of cultures, as Sean is oblivious to Irish customs and is determined to do things the American way. With themes of pride, personal identity, and respect; the remarkable chemistry between Wayne and O’Hara (who were never better); a gallery of great character actors (including Barry Fitzgerald in a hilarious supporting part); and the gorgeous on-location color photography of the Irish countryside, this film can’t be beat.

Darby commiserates with the king of
the leprechauns

Darby O’Gill and the Little People (1959) – In the pantheon of Walt Disney movies, for some reason this gem has been overlooked. Made at the height of Disney’s foray into live-action films, this glorious entertainment features Albert Sharpe as Darby O’Gill, the caretaker of an estate in the Irish town of Rathcullen. Darby is getting on in years, so the estate’s owner, Lord Fitzpatrick (Walter Fitzgerald—again, no relation to Barry), gives the caretaker job to Michael McBride (a very young and handsome Sean Connery). Darby’s Irish pride insists that he request Michael not tell his daughter Katie (Janet Munro) about his forced retirement. 

Michael agrees, but that night, Darby is captured by leprechauns who live on the top of the fairy mountain Knocknasheega. When Darby escapes, he suffers the wrath of the king of the leprechauns; and when she finds out her father has lied, he suffers Katie’s wrath as well. When she falls from Knocknasheega, the dreaded (and terrifying) banshee sends The Death Coach to carry Katie's soul off to the land of the dead. Darby does everything he can to be taken in her place—but the story doesn’t end so sadly as that. This is fantastic Irish folklore brought to vivid life, with outstanding special effects. (The screaming banshee is one of the scariest things I’ve ever seen in the movies.) But the frights are balanced with pure charm, and you even get to hear Connery sing in a film made just a few years before he became James Bond.

Hopefully these unabashedly corny movies will be the pot o' movie gold you're looking for as you celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Enjoy!