Dick Powell – Movie Musings

Handsomely staged and quietly influential production, full of invention and good ideas

Director: Max Reinhardt, William Dieterle

Cast: James Cagney (Bottom), Joe E. Brown (Francis Flute), Dick Powell (Lysander), Jean Muir (Helena), Victor Jory (Oberon), Verree Teasdale (Hippolyta), Hugh Herbert (Snout), Anita Louise (Titania), Frank McHugh (Quince), Ross Alexander (Demetrius), Ian Hunter (Theseus), Mickey Rooney (Puck), Olivia de Havilland (Hermia), Dewey Robinson (Snug), Grant Mitchell (Egeus), Arthur Treacher (Epilogue)

It says something about Hollywood’s back-and-forth relationship with Shakespeare, that Reinhardt and Dieterle’s film can still make a case for being one of its finest Hollywood Shakespeare films. What’s fascinating about it is how much attitudes towards it have changed over time. Opening to a chorus of sniffs from the critics (“It should never have been filmed!”), horrified about the blasphemy of the Bard on celluloid, the things praised at the time now feel the stuffiest while the elements criticised feel fresh and dynamic. Personally, it’s crazy mix of genres, eras, comedic styles and dramatic tone feels like the sort of thing Shakespeare (a consummate showman who spoke in poetry) might have enjoyed.

It came about because Jack Warner wanted a bit of class. Max Reinhardt, internationally famous avant-garde theatre director, as part of Warner’s power thruple: direction by Reinhardt, music by Mendelssohn, words by Shakespeare! Reinhardt had directed a lavish production at the Hollywood Bowl (which also featured Rooney as Puck and de Havilland as Hermia), that would form the basis of his film, incorporating ballet and impressive visual effects. William Dieterle, was bought in to translate Reinhardt’s vision to film (since it quickly became clear Reinhardt didn’t know how to make a movie).

We get an MND that mixes farcical comedy with a dark, sensuous energy. Athen’s forest was transformed by Hal Mohr’s Oscar-winning photography into a glittering fantasy land, created with a mixture of superimposition and miles of cellophane wrapped around the perfectly-recreated trees to reflect the studio lights in a shimmering dance. But in this, is a fairy world of danger and chaos: Reinhardt’s pioneered the interpretation of Puck (played with malicious gusto by Mickey Rooney) as a fire-lighting child, revelling in the chaos his actions cause. Rooney (or rather his double, as Rooney broke a leg early in production) skips and sways, laughing maniacally, tormenting the lovers (possibly even controlling their words and actions), unleashing dark forces of the night.

The film is full of such dark forces – a surprise to critics who saw Dream as a gentle comedy. The ballet sequences, used by Reinhardt to visually demonstrate Oberon’s and Titania’s power to manipulate the environment around them, feature demonic dancers who wouldn’t look out of place in Faust, creepy music-playing goblins and a constant sense of unknowable power. Victor Jory – highly praised at the time, although his precise, poetic reading feels austere and lacking in feeling today – is a darkly imperious Oberon, with barely a trace of warmth to him. (Anita Louise’s Titania also takes a traditional line, speaking with a slightly irritating sing-song that should serve the poetry but instead drains it of life.)

You suspect, if he could have got away with it, Reinhardt might have allowed a trace of bestiality to enter into Titania’s romance with the transformed Bottom. As it is, he settles for Titania snatching a coronet from the Indian boy (nicely introduced early, to cement the split between the two fairy monarchs) who bursts into tears, increasing the feeling that the fairies are inconsistent, temporary creatures, perfectly willing to drop previously treasured people for whoever else captures their attention.

Lavish spectacle runs throughout a play that feels highly indebted to Raphael and the other Renaissance masters. Reinhardt has no problem switching styles: Theseus’ arrival is staged like an Ancient Roman pageant, before settling into a Renaissance style court while the Mechanicals could have stepped straight out of Brueghel. Again, it’s a playing around with style and location that looks very modern today but short-circuited reverentially literal critics at the time. Reinhardt even plays with the idea of Hippolyta being a less-than-willing partner for Theseus (she appears defiantly restrained in the opening scene), although this is largely benched for later scenes.

The lavish opening also shows the production’s ability to balance comedy and drama. Alongside the traditionalist grandiosity, we have low comedy from both the lovers and mechanicals. In a fast-cut, skilfully assembled array of moments (surely Dieterle’s work), the relationships between the four lovers are expertly displayed and mined for comic energy (particularly Lysander’s and Demetrius’ private competition to sing loudest) as are those between the mechanicals (from Bottom’s enthusiasm to Quince’s frustration at the terminal stupidity of Flute).

The mechanicals are one of the greatest divergence in critical opinion between then and now. To critics at the time it was a jaw-dropping mistake to cast Cagney and a host of film comedians in Shakespeare – surely these were roles for the likes of Gielgud? Everything from their delivery to the posture was lambasted for being crude and too damn American for a genre considered the exclusive preserve of the well-spoken likes of Jory and Hunter. However, the energy and naturalness of these actors – and the consummate comic timing they pull out of their roles – is one of the film’s greatest touches.

Cagney was never afraid to look beat-up or ridiculous, and he revels as an explosive ball of energy as Bottom. He flings himself, with the same energy as Bottom, into over-enunciated voices and grand displays of ‘bad acting’, parodying a host of styles from classical to pantomime to stage comedy. Cagney also makes him sweetly naïve and childishly literal, while his gentle, polite mystification about being treated like a king by the fairies seems rather sweet. The other mechanicals are also genuinely excellent, doing one of the hardest things: making Shakespearean comedy work on screen. Joe E Brown is hilarious as a supernaturally dim Flute, barely able to remember what gender he is playing; Hugh Herbert’s Snout has an infectious nervous giggle he can’t control, Frank McHugh’s Quince parodies directors like DeMille. Each of them contributes to a genuinely funny Pyramus and Thisbe that closes the film.

It’s more funny than the sometimes-forced banter between the lovers, not helped by a far too broad performance by Dick Powell (who later claimed he didn’t understand a word he was saying) that makes Lysander somewhere between a buffoon and an egotist. Olivia de Havilland (perhaps not surprisingly) emerges best here as a heartfelt Hermia, although the quarrel between the lovers is perhaps the least well staged sequence in the film (Reinhardt and Dieterle resort to all four of them at points speaking their lines at the same time, as if wanting to get the scene over and done with).

But MND is awash with other touches of cinematic and interpretative invention, it’s darkish vision of the Fairy world (with superimposition and ballet interjections giving it a darkly surreal touch) as influential as it’s haphazard approach to place and setting. Its comic performances come alive with real energy, devoid of the more stately approach from others. Above all, MND feels like an actual interpretation of its source material, rather than just a respectful staging – and its influence played out over decades of productions to come. Overlooked for too long, it’s a fine and daring piece of film Shakespeare, far better than it has a right to be.

Less a musical, more about a musical – but a delightful love letter to the joy of theatre

Director: Lloyd Bacon

Cast: Warner Baxter (Julian Marsh), Bebe Daniels (Dorothy Brock), George Brent (Pat Denning), Ruby Keeler (Peggy Sawyer), Guy Kibbee (Abner Dillon), Dick Powell (Billy Lawler), Una Merkel (Lorraine Fleming), Ginger Rogers (Anytime Annie), George E Stone (Andy Lee), Ned Sparks (Barry), Robert McWade (Jones), Allen Jenkins (MacElroy)

Jones and Barry are putting on a show! The cry lights up Broadway (in an impressively staged series of quick-cuts, cross fades and super-impositions of the excited souls). And 42^ndStreet is all about the creation of that show, from the signing of the contracts to the opening night and the spontaneous making of a star. If it feels, watching 42^nd Street that it’s made up of nothing but theatrical cliches… then it’s because most of them became cliches from excessive re-use after 42^nd Street showed they worked so well – and made such a hugely entertaining film along the way.

The show is Pretty Lady, to be directed by Julian Marsh (Warner Baxter), the finest director (and friendliest tyrant) on Broadway who needs the money after losing a packet in the Crash. He’s not the only one struggling in Depression-era America: the competition to land a job as chorus girl is fierce. So, it’s a lucky chance that debutante Peggy Sawyer (Ruby Keeler) lands a gig. The star is Dorothy Brock (Bebe Daniels), a vaudeville veteran trying to make it as a serious Broadway actor and currently the squeeze of the shows’ wealthy financier Abner Dillon (Guy Kibbee) – although she is still seeing her old partner Pat Denning (George Brent). But will Dorothy make it through the drama to opening night – or will Peggy need to step up to save the day?

It’s not a surprise that of course she does, but then Julian’s final words to her (“You’re going out a youngster, but you’ve got to come back a star!”) is the film’s most famous moment. As well as launching a thousand backstage dramas, 42^nd Street is remembered as a musical. But there is actually precious little music in it. We have to wait almost 45 minutes before the first song (Dorothy’s rendition of ‘You’re Getting to Be a Habit with Me’) and the final fifteen until we see the bulk of Busby Berkeley’s choreography. Other than that, this is very entertaining soapy, backstage drama with romantic entanglements. It’s a more film about the stressful theatrical alchemy involved in making a musical, rather than a musical itself – there is no ‘putting my feelings into song’ here.

And it’s taking place in Depression-era desperation. Everyone needs a job – that’s why they are so excited about hearing there is a show in town. That plays into the family atmosphere behind the scenes. After all everyone needs the show to be a success, and if that means roping in a few gangsters to get a wayward star back into line so be it. Much like, in fact, 42^nd Street itself, coming to the screen after a glut of musical flops (perhaps that’s why there is so little actual musical content in it). The film zeroes in refreshingly and lovingly on the hard work, dedication and family atmosphere that can grow up in theatre, where everyone is working towards a common goal – and why I, a veteran of more than my share of putting a show on, felt a real soft spot for it growing.

And there is support, for all the bitchy moaning behind the scenes. Julian Marsh may tyrannically insist on absolute perfection – rehearsing through the night, waking the piano player when needed – but, it’s all to service a common goal. When emergency hits, the company flocks around and support each other. When one of their number triumphs there will be more congratulations than there are jealousies: even Dorothy will lay aside any personal feelings to support the new star. 42^nd Street really captures the sense that behind the curtain in the theatre a little world of its own is created, one which can be very loving in its own unique way.

It’s also a world, with more than a few sexual escapades, something hard to overlook in a film as full of chorus girl’s legs as this (the chorus girls are largely hired on the basis of how good those legs look). Dorothy is effectively trading her favours for a career leg-up from the clueless Dillner, while sticking with true love Denning. Denning, jealous, conducts his own speculative flirtation with Peggy (in a fun sequence, her landlady throws her out for daring to bring Pat home for a coffee – while behind her another chorus girl smuggles out her lover with an illicit kiss). Anytime Annie didn’t get her nickname for her dancing, Lorraine is happy to leverage her relationship with dance director Andy Lee and Lee himself (it’s implied) is the willing subject of Julian’s attentions.

In the midst of this, poor Peggy feels rather naïve. Sure, she may be bouncing between unlooked for attentions from a young member of the company and leading young man Dick Powell, but a passing possibility of romance with George Brent’s cuckolded partner (in every sense) to Bebe Daniel’s star leaves her flustered. Brent’s intentions may well be noble, but left alone with him in his apartment, Peggy is sweetly nervous and locks her door after she is chivalrously conveyed to the spare bedroom by Brent, as if scared she may give into temptation. Hilariously they are only in his apartment, after his calling on her is mistaken for a dalliance by her landlady, who throws them both out while boasting she never misses a trick – all while, in the back of the shot, another tenant quietly ushes her beau out of the door.

All of this gives some lovely opportunity to its actors, and there are several delightful turns in 42^nd Street. Not least in the chorus, where Una Merkel has a wonderfully playful flirtatiousness and Ginger Rogers gives her monocle-clad Anytime Annie a rogueish sexiness. Guy Kibbee’s moronically uncultivated sugar daddy gets several good laughs at his boorish cluelessness. If Ruby Keeler at times seem a bit unnuanced as the lead (there has long been some rather mixed feelings about her slightly heavy-footed dancing) and Dick Powell is eminently forgettable as her love interest, there is more than enough class from Baxter’s stressed out director, George Brent is very fine and Bebe Daniels invests Dorothy Brock with just enough vulnerability under the diva exterior to always leave you rooting for her (she is, after all, just as desperate for work as the meanest chorus girl).

It’s a film put together with flair – the early montage is pacily and flashily assembled – and a great deal of wit (producer Darryl F Zanuck and Berkely often gain the lion’s share of the credit for its pace, wit and zip although I feel some credit must go to experienced director-for-hire Lloyd Bacon). The final dance numbers are expertly done and very well filmed by Berkely, including a point where the camera glides under a parade of leg arches. But above all, it’s a heart-warming and witty tale that pulls back the romantic curtain of theatre to reveal – well an equally romantic view of the camaraderie and magic that brings a show to the stage. But it would be a hard heart that could not find something to smile at here.