Midmod Musings

Garbo Laughed, I Cried

I'm embarrassed to say I had forgotten about Garbo.

Not entirely, mind you. It's not like I couldn't rattle off a list of her credits if asked, or quote her oft-misquoted signature line, "I want to be let alone," when the mood struck me. But I had allowed her to fade into the recesses of my memory. It had been about 15 years since I last watched a Garbo movie.

I recorded "Ninotchka" when it played a few weeks ago on TCM and just watched it this morning. I had quite forgotten the pleasures of this film, first introduced to me by professor Annette Insdorf on the syllabus for Masterpieces of American Cinema.

Garbo plays a dour and frumpy Soviet agent sent to Paris to reign in three comrades. The bumbling trio was sent to France to sell royal jewels for the Soviet government, but they were seduced by the glamour and hedonism of capitalism. Initially, Ninotchka is more interested in the engineering behind the Eiffel Tower and learning from a cab driver where the workers go to eat. But she too succumbs to the City of Light when she meets a count, played by Melvyn Douglas, who cracks her stern exterior and -- famously -- gets her to laugh. Complications arise when the count's former lover, an exiled Russian duchess, seeks to block the sale of the jewels, which belonged to her before the Soviet takeover, and reclaim her beau.

Garbo's performance is extraordinary. Her mannish monotone, her slouch, her oppressive hairdo -- they all give way to a raw and deep sensuality once her legendary laugh escapes. Her smile is radiant, and yet she remains awkward in her femininity, like a gangly foal striving to walk gracefully. When she discovers champagne, her reaction is priceless. When she faces off against the duchess, played by the magnificent Ina Claire, it's more than a catfight. It's the clash of two acting styles -- Garbo's European, silent-movie expressiveness against Claire's arch American stage manner. I believe it was critic Pauline Kael who said of their encounter, "The fur flies exquisitely." And when it looks like Ninotchka has lost to her rival, director Ernst Lubistch manages to draw real tears from her and from the audience. Victory snatched from our heroine, her entire body seems to convulse in one yearning, hollow ache, making the ultimate romantic pay-off deeply satisfying.

The Soviet jokes play differently today than they might have in 1939, but nevertheless, this is a romantic comedy for the ages. See it now, and see why Garbo was a star.

Note to reader: Whatever you do, avoid the plodding musical remake "Silk Stockings" with Cyd Charisse, at least until after you've seen the original that, er, inspired it. Charisse's gams are no match for Garbo's face.

Screwball Romance

Turner Classic Movies has made it easy to hibernate, even in this mild winter. (Whoever thought I'd be walking around St. Paul in January in a sweatshirt and jeans?) Whether reacquainting me with old favorites like Hitchcock's "Foreign Correspondent" or introducing me to lesser-known gems like "Libeled Lady," TCM has been the Calypso keeping me on my mid-mod couch.

While I'd love to expound on the glorious suspense of "Foreign Correspondent's" windmill sequence, or the brilliance of its photographer-as-assassin chase among umbrellas, I have to say that "Libeled Lady" made clear to me why my love life is such a failure. It is simple, and sadly irredeemable. I want to date William Powell.

The screwball comedy has long been a favorite genre of mine. A screwball comedy usually involves an heiress and a regular Joe who are thrown together through highly convoluted circumstances, fall in and out of love and back in again before the closing credits. The genre owes much to mistaken identity plots of post-Restoration British comedy, but it is uniquely American, born out of the Great Depression. Screwball romance is funny but genuine; its hardships lead to a satisfying union and a marriage in which the classes comingle and thrive. In some strange way, "The Simple Life" with Paris Hilton is the long-lost granddaughter of the genre - an heiress out of her depth making America laugh.

But back to William Powell. God, he's good. There are few actors from Hollywood's golden age who could pull off both verbal and physical comedy and still be suave enough to serve as a convincing romantic lead. Cary Grant, of course, was the master. But much as I adore his work, Grant's distinctive voice and spectacular good looks always kept him somewhat apart from the common man he represented. Powell, on the other hand, is not a stunner. He's got borderline-googly eyes; he's got that goofy pencil mustache under his beaky nose. In "Libeled Lady," he looks more comfortable in fishing gear than in a tuxedo. Yet I'll be damned if he isn't the sexiest guy on screen. His looks benefit considerably from his charisma, his easygoing attitude, and his palpable chemistry with Myrna Loy.

Watching Powell wrestle with his conscience is a treat. He has been assigned by newpaper editor Spencer Tracy to seduce Myrna Loy, who has filed a $5 million lawsuit against the paper. Part of the scheme involves having Powell wed Tracy's sweetheart, the brassy blond Jean Harlow, in a sham marriage so that they can run a story about the heiress who had an affair with a married man. (Screwball plots always suffer from synopsis - the best ones are complicated and should be experienced, not summarized.) Powell starts out by trying to get into Loy's father's good graces by learning all about trout fishing - a ploy that can only lead to slapstick disaster. Yet the sparks of romance that emerge from an otherwise soggy troutstream result in some of the most charming romantic moments on screen. Powell actually falls for his mark, and in the process, I fell for him.

Of course, as I thought about it, I wondered if that really meant I wanted to be a smart and spoiled heiress, proud before my fall, ready for my reputation to be sullied by the common yet manly man who took my father fishing. I chose not to think more about it.

In any event, I highly recommend the movie, and Mr. Powell, to anyone looking for a little comedy to alleviate their seasonal affective disorder. Or at least take in the trailer, posted on TCM's website, which doesn't do justice to the truly funny script except for the moment where Jean Harlow confuses bigamy with arson...

http://www.tcm.com/video/videoPlayer/?cid=16811&titleId=2363

Automats and Redheads

I finally watched That Touch of Mink, which I recorded during Turner Classic Movies’ tribute to actor Gig Young. Yes, you read that right. The programmers at TCM probably feel as I do that they’ll find any reason to watch That Touch of Mink. And why not Gig Young? He’s plays Cary Grant’s analysis-addicted sidekick with comic gusto, and his character lands in one of those quaint (and regressive, but we’re forgiving that) 1950s homosexual subplots.

That Touch of Mink is my favorite of the Doris Day chastity comedies. Watching it again made me desperately wish that two mid-century phenomena were available to us today. (A trip to Bermuda with Cary Grant being universally desired, I will not discuss that.)

The Automat. For years, an automat was an abstract concept that confused my understanding of “Diamonds Are a Girls Best Friend.” (“A kiss may be grand but it won't pay the rental/On your humble flat, or help you at the automat.”) That Touch of Mink portrays the automat as a sleek precursor to fast food restaurants: a cafeteria-sized vending machine, a dining haven for the working class and underemployed of Manhattan. Put in a quarter, take out a blue-plate special. The automat frequented by Doris Day and staffed by her stalwart pal Audrey Meadows makes being on the dole look efficient and glamorous. In fact, film students bored with writing papers on gender roles and gay themes could easily look at That Touch of Mink as a comedy of class. The automat is a refuge for working women splattered by speeding limousines and hounded by wolfish welfare department employees.

The Sassy Redheaded Roommate. American film comedy lost something with the arrival of sexual liberation, and That Touch of Mink provides a great illustration of it. A nice girl’s virtue is the sun around which innuendo and double-entendre orbit, and it shines best when juxtaposed with a girl who’s been around the block. Audrey Meadows is the perfect foil for Doris Day’s chaste (and chased) blonde virgin. Worldly wise, wise-cracking, and wonderful, she’s the best roommate you could ask for. She’d provide career guidance while tinting a lock of her red hair gray with an aerosol can, or dispense free food and advice at the automat when you’re down on your luck. You’d sleep on twin beds that form an L in the corner of your apartment; you’d talk to each other on candy-colored telephones. What could be more fun?