Tag: Helen Hayes

A Farewell to Arms (1932)

Hemingway hated this lusciously made high romance version of this novel, very well-filmed

Director: Frank Borzage

Cast: Helen Hayes (Catherine Barkley), Gary Cooper (Lt Frederic Henry), Adolphe Menjou (Captain Rinaldi), Mary Philips (Helen Ferguson), Jack La Rue (Priest), Blanche Friderici (Head Nurse), Mary Forbes (Miss Van Campen)

If there was one thing Ernest Hemingway got out of David O Selznick’s A Farewell to Arms it was a lifelong mate in Gary Cooper. Presumably, they agreed never to discuss the film during their boozing sessions, as Hemingway loathed it. Probably because Selznick’s crowd-pleasing version carefully strips out the political and moral themes of Hemingway in favour of ramping up the romance. Of course, Selznick was right that it’s quite a damn big part of the book. But it’s not how Hemingway liked to see it.

In any case, a romance is what we get – and, of course,it’s tinged with tragedy. Lt Frederic Henry (Gary Cooper) is an American serving during the First World War with the Italian Army ambulance corp. Returning to hospital, he encounters English nurse Catherine Barkley (Helen Hayes), herself mourning the death of her fiancée. After an initial bad impression, they start a romance. One that’s hard to sustain across the vast distances of war and the jealous censoring of their mail by Henry’s friend Captain Rinaldi (Adolphe Menjou) who hates his pal losing his head over a woman. When a pregnant Catherine has desperate news, fate conspires to keep them apart.

Hemingway was of course right that this version of his novel was more a tragic romance, rather than the sort of state-of-moral-consciousness story he felt it was. It almost wasn’t even a tragic romance, since Selznick had two endings shot, with the happy ending attacked to many out-of-city screenings. The film still struggled, cut down by ten minutes after its release to meet the stringent requirements of the production code. But I wonder, did Hemingway really prefer the more serious, self-important remake that followed? (Probably not, since he famously told Selznick to shove it up his ass).

At least with this Farewell to Arms he had the rich, imaginative camera work by Frank Borzage. There are several striking tracking shots, as Borzage follows in the wake of characters entering the grand houses converted into hospitals. There is also some gloriously imaginative work where the camera takes the place of Cooper as he is wheeled into hospital on a gurney in a sustained POV shot. Ceilings track past us, faces loom in over the frame and it culminates in an almost completely unclear close-up of Hayes as she looms tightly into shot to inspect him. Combine that with a striking filmic montage that plays out the horrors of combat in one well-edited montage (in addition the very first shot is a corpse on a hill – no doubt war is hell) and you’ve got some striking film-making throughout from a director with an impressive visual eye.

Farewell to Arms also has a perfectly cast lead for Hemingway. Cooper is everything you might want from this novelist’s hero: a man’s man without a shadow of a doubt but, in true Cooper style, also sensitive, innocent and strangely child-like and vulnerable. There is no relish for combat in him, he’s an architect who lingeringly chats about his ideas. He’s got a playful bashfulness with women – few other actors would have made their character seem more innocent when framed playing with a good-time-girl’s foot across a table in a bar. By the end of the film, Cooper genuinely feels like a lost soul, like a big kid waiting for an adult to come along and fix things.

It works particularly well, because it’s important to Farewell to Arms construction that Cooper should never feel like a rogue. It’s only awful circumstances and terrible deeds that keeps him apart from Hayes. Left to his own devices he would have course rushed to her side: the film using this moral fidelity to justify the pre-marital sex the couple engage in. Much of the content more openly addressing this was, of course, snipped in the post-code re-edit – but it’s hard to escape when the entire plot revolves around Catherine being pregnant in the end.

The romance element remains however the primary calling card. Borzage, who often favoured high romance (especially in the face of adversity), clearly felt A Farewell to Arms was made for him. He even manages to work around the vast height difference (nearly a foot!) between Hayes and Cooper (who towers over her in mid-shot). Much of A Farewell to Arms is given over to their courtship and romance: from a muddled first meeting, confusion over a kiss to the warm embraces of Henry’s sick leave under Catherine’s care. Hayes gives a decent performance as Catherine, even if she seems a little more forced and mannered than Cooper’s relaxed naturalness. The increasingly grand tragedy of the film’s closing moments also leads to her leaning in a little too much towards intense stares and breathy line-deliveries.

Perhaps most interestingly though, there is another unspoken romance at the heart of A Farewell to Arms. The adaptation dials up the importance of Adolphe Menjou’s spaghetti-accented Captain Rinaldi. Menjou does fine work as this fun-loving, irreverent surgeon, but by making him the jealous reason for the lovers’ separation, it’s hard not to infer a homoerotic element in his feelings for Cooper’s Henry. Surely, it’s more than friendship that cause Rinaldi to travel across country to treat his friend. It’s hard not to read something into his continued irritated complaints about how ‘unmanly’ Henry is by allowing himself to he wrapped up in a woman, or the casually spiteful way he prevents them writing to each other. There is more than a little of the jilted lover to Rinaldi, a fascinating sub-plot you wish the film could explore more.

Borzage’s film may have been despised by the novelist, but it has some fine moments. Sure it’s romance often seems to fit very naturally into a traditional Romeo and Juliet style-template and its frequently more inspired in its framing than it is in the pace and depth of its storytelling (there is also, as well, a faint lack of chemistry between the stars). But there is a fine performance by Cooper and much to enjoy in its tight, lean frame, even if it never manages to find true inspiration.

Arrowsmith (1931)

An uninspired prestige drama suddenly turns at the end into an intriguingly subversive drama

Director: John Ford

Cast: Ronald Colman (Dr Martin Arrowsmith), Helen Hayes (Leora Arrowsmith), Richard Bennett (Gustav Sondelius), A.E. Anson (Professor Max Gottlieb), Clarence Brooks (Dr Oliver Marchand), Alec B Francis (Twyford), Claude King (Dr Tubbs), Bert Roach (Bert Tozer), Myrna Loy (Mrs Joyce Lanyon), Russell Hopton (Terry Wickett), Lumsden Hare (Sir Robert Fairland)

A neat trivia question: what was the first John Ford film nominated for Best Picture? Not many people remember Arrowsmith today – although, since Ford was ordered by producer Samuel Goldwyn to not touch a drop of the sauce while making it, we can be pretty sure he did. Adapted from a hulking Pulitzer-prize winning novel by Sinclair Lewis, it was the epitome of prestige Hollywood filmmaking. It’s a far from a perfect film, but it contains flashes of real beauty and genius – and presents one of the most surprising, subversive visions of infidelity you’ll see in 30’s Hollywood.

Martin Arrowsmith (Ronald Colman) is desperate to be a high-flyer. A scientist and doctor, he’s wants to make his mark – and his mentors such as noted bacteriologist Professor Gottlieb (A.E. Anson) and Swedish scientist Gustav Sondelius (Richard Bennett) think he can. But Arrowsmith postpones his dreams for a spontaneous marriage to Leora (Helen Hayes), before re-embracing science. When plague breaks out in the West Indies, the Arrowsmiths travel there, ordered to test a possible cure on the natives: half will receive the cure, the other a placebo. But temptation and tragedy will be Arrowsmith’s constant companion there.

Arrowsmith is very much a film of two halves (or, in terms of its run-time, two-thirds, one-third). To be honest, much of its first hour is frequently rushed, ponderous and dull, flatly filmed with the air of uninspiring prestige production. Watching it play, it’s hard to connect a film as flat, perfunctory and serviceable as this with Ford’s energy and flair. It’s not helped by the accelerated storytelling. Stuffing in as much of Lewis’s door-stop best-seller as it can (the first fifteen minutes cover as many events as whole movies often content themselves with), the plot barrels along so fast it can leave your head spinning. Scenes either feel like sketches from a larger whole or like narrative cul-de-sacs included to tick a box from the novel.

Arrowsmith feels like a compromised film. I suspect Goldwyn’s aim was to cover the book. But I feel Ford’s interest – if he had one in the film’s opening hour – was the Arrowsmith marriage. On the surface this is your standard loving-husband-supportive-wife pairing. But, underneath, there is a lot more going on here. Everything about their courtship and registry office marriage feels perfunctory. Arrowsmith treats his wife with a fondness that never tips into passion. When she suffers a miscarriage (which prevents her having children), he is sad but moves on remarkably quickly. At one point, Leona discusses the idea of leaving her preoccupied, distant husband who disappears for days on end (you feel she’s only half joking). Arrowsmith calls her ‘old girl’, which feels rather complacent and smug.

You suspect Ford might be hinting that, frankly, Arrowsmith is a self-important shit with grandiose ideas. It’s an idea the film can’t quite push – Ronald Colman’s undoubted charm smooths off Arrowsmith’s rough edges, even while he makes him self-righteous and pompous. But as Leona (Hayes is excellent in subtly suggesting this woman is much more lonely than she admits) watches her house jerry-rigged into a Frankenstein-laboratory (his atrociously poor safety measures will come back to haunt him later) or is left for days alone at home, it’s hard not to feel this is a more complex, strained relationship than the film can openly say.

These half-stated implications lead us into the film’s final act in the West Indies, which almost redeems the slightly confused mish-mash it proceeds. From the opening shot of this sequence – focused on Clarence Brooks’ doctor (notable for treating a Black character as an assured professional) with his patients sitting on a balcony, excluded from the conversation about their health going on down below – it’s impossible not to see Ford’s sympathy more openly lying with the West Indian villagers, whose health is of little interest to the white population and who even our nominal hero (reluctantly) uses as guinea pigs for his cure. This powers us through a half-hour sequence that is by far-and-away the most focused and interesting of the entire film.

This tragedy-laden sequence not only buzzes with an indignation of the unfairness of this system – in which our hero is a semi-reluctant participant – but unleashes the most beautiful, shadow-filled, expressionistic lighting in the film. Ford signposts moments of high emotion by casting people’s bodies in shadow. This mesmerising effect is used brilliantly, combined with shots deliberately echoing each other (most strikingly two contrasting shots of the Arrowsmith home, both framed at low angles with foreground chairs – the second laced with tragedy). Visual imagery reflects, not least the cutting between two cigarettes smoked by the Arrowsmith’s. There is a host of heart-rendering, inventive ideas in visual storytelling: at one point, Arrowsmith’s phone call with a sweating colleague goes dead – we cut to see a shot of the empty phone on the other end bathed in shadow, enough to tell us his interlocutor has literally died mid-call.

This shadow-filled sequence also powers the film’s most subtle moment: possibly the most under-the-wire depiction of infidelity seen in the movies. The original novel made clear Arrowsmith was serially unfaithful. Here, he meets Myrna Loy’s wealthy heiress, to whom he admits an immediate kinship. At night, wordlessly, Ford cuts back and forth between Loy preparing for bed and Colman sitting (bathed in shadow) smoking and possibly waiting. Wordlessly the cuts go back and forth – and then fades to black as we see a shadow approach the door of Colman’s bedroom. You can miss it entirely: but its clear they sleep together. (A late scene with Colman and Loy, with a lingering handhold, feels like proof positive). A late scene of Colman filled with manic energy, in this context feels powered more by guilt and shame.

It’s subtle because we know that in scenes of open emotion and dramatic import we’ve seen faces thrown into shadow. When its repeated here, in an otherwise inconsequential scene, we’re having visually communicated to us something the film can’t openly tell us: Arrowsmith is cheating on his wife. It’s the highlight of a compelling final act, full of drama, tragedy and beautiful filmmaking. When the film leaves the West Indies for its lab-set coda, it returns to flat film-making and sudden, jarring plot developments. But for this half-hour section, it’s a fascinating, oblique, challenging and rewarding film: one of the best short films buried in a large one you’ll see. Arrowsmith may not be a classic, but’s it’s a fascinating film.

Airport (1970)

Disaster awaits in the sky in this ridiculous soap that is less exciting than Airplane!

Director: George Seaton

Cast: Burt Lancaster (Mel Bakersfied), Dean Martin (Captain Vernon Demerest), Jean Seberg (Tanya Livingston), Jacqueline Bisset (Gwen Meighen), George Kennedy (Joe Patroni), Helen Hayes (Ada Quonsett), Van Heflin (DO Guerrero), Maureen Stapleton (Inez Guerrero), Barry Nelson (Captain Anson Harris), Dana Wynter (Cindy Bakersfeld), Lloyd Nolan (Harry Standish), Barbara Hale (Sarah Demarest), Gary Collins (Cy Jordan)

A busy Chicago airport in the middle of a snowstorm. Workaholic Mel Bakersfeld (Burt Lancaster) doesn’t have time to prop up his failing marriage to his humourless wife: he’s got to keep the flights moving, clear the runways and solve the problems other people can’t. He’s not dissimilar to his brother-in-law Vernon Demerest (Dean Martin), who hasn’t got time for his plain-Jane wife at home when he’s got a flight to Rome to run and a saintly pregnant air hostess girlfriend Gwen (Jacqueline Bisset), to deal with. Tensions will come to a head when depressed former construction worker Guerrero (Van Heflin) joins Demerest’s flight, planning to blow himself up so his wife can profit from his life insurance. Disaster awaits!

“A piece of junk”. That was Burt Lancaster’s pithy review of this box-office smash that was garlanded with no fewer than ten Oscar nominations. He’s pretty much spot on. Airport is a dreadful picture, a puffed-up, wooden soap opera that never takes flight, stapled together with a brief disaster plotline that only really kicks in during the final act of the film and is solved with relative ease. Other than that, it’s all hands to the pumps to coat the film in soapy suds, which can be stirred up by the strips of wooden dialogue that fall from the actors’ mouths.

Seaton adapted the script from a popular low-brow novel, though it feels as if precious little effort went into it. It’s corny, predictable dialogue does very little to freshen up the bog-standard domestic drama we’re watching in a novel setting. Both lead actors juggle loveless marriages with far prettier (and much younger) girlfriends. Those girlfriends – Jean Seberg for Burt and Jacqueline Bisset for Dean – play thankless roles, happily accepting of their place as no more than a potential bit-on-the-side and very respectful of the fact that the job damn it is the most important thing.

The film bends over backwards so that we find Burt and Dean admirable, despite the fact that objectively their behaviour is awful. Burt treats his home like a stopover, barely sees his kids and seems affronted that his wife objects he doesn’t attend her important charity functions and doesn’t want the cushy job he’s being offered by her father. Just in case we sympathise with her, she’s a cold, frigid, mean and demanding shrew who – just to put the tin lid on it – is carrying on behind Burt’s back. We, meanwhile, applaud Burt for showing restraint around the besotted Jean Seberg, merely kissing, hugging and chatting with her about how he’d love to but he can’t because of the kids at home damn it!

He looks like a prince though compared to Dean. Only in the 1970s surely would we be expected to find it admirable that a pregnant girlfriend happily takes all the blame – the contraceptive pills made her fat and she knows the deal – begs her boyfriend not to leave his wife and then urges him to not worry about her. Dean’s wife doesn’t even seem that bad, other than the fact she’s a mumsy type who can’t hold a candle to Bisset’s sensuality. That sensuality is overpowering for Dean, who at one point pleads with her to stay in their hotel room because the taxi “can wait another 15 minutes”. Like a gentleman his reaction to finding out Bisset is pregnant, is to offer to fly her to Norway for a classy abortion (rather than the backstreet offerings at home?).

This soapy nonsense, with its stink of Mad Men-ish sexual politics (where men are hard-working, hard-playing types, and women accept that when they age out, he has the right to look elsewhere) is counterbalanced by some laboriously-pleased-with-itself looks at airport operations. Baggage handling. Customer check-in. Customs control checks. Airport maintenance. All get trotted through with a curious eye by Seaton. Just enough to make parts of the film feel briefly like a dull fly-on-the-wall drama rather than a turgid soap.

Soap is where its heart is though. Helen Hayes won an Oscar for a crowd-pleasing turn (from which she wrings the maximum amount of charm) as a seemingly sweet old woman who is in fact an expert stowaway. Van Heflin and Maureen Stapleton play with maximum commitment (Stapleton in particular goes for it as if this was an O’Neil play rather than trash) a married couple whose finances are in the doldrums, leading the husband to take drastic steps.

It’s all marshalled together with a personality-free lack of pizzaz by Seaton, who simply points the camera and lets the actors go through their paces, with a few shots of humour here and there. There are some interesting split-screen effects, but that’s about the last touch of invention in the piece. It’s mostly played with po-faced seriousness – something that feels almost impossible to take seriously today, seeing as the structure, tone and airport observational style of the film was spoofed so successfully in Airplane (a much better film than this on every single level, from humour, to drama even to tension – how damning is that, that a pisstake is a more exciting disaster thriller?)

It smashed the box office in 1970 and got nominated for Best Picture. But its dryness, dullness and lack of pace mean it has hardly been watched since. Although it can claim to be the first all-star disaster movie, it’s not even fit to lace the flippers of The Poseidon Adventure, which far more successfully kickstarted the cliches that would become standard for the genre (and is a tonne more fun as well as being a disaster movie – this has a disaster epilogue at best). An overlong, soapy, dull mess.