1930's (and '20's) in Review: Ranking the first dozen Best Pictures

With every decade in the bag, I'm going to post a ranking of the Best Pictures, from best to worst. Since there was only two Best Picture winners in the 1920's, they get lumped in with the ten from the '30's.

Here goes:

1. It Happened One Night (1934)--Cinematic perfection from Frank Capra. The perfect romantic comedy. Deserving of its Oscar sweep.

2. Gone With the Wind (1939)--America's most popular film also happens to be a very solidly made epic with a lead performance from Vivien Leigh that will endure for all time. Stereotypes aside, the film is necessary viewing.

3. All Quiet on the Western Front (1930)--Powerful adaptation of Erich Maria Remarque's novel. The anti-war message is just as strong as the entertainment value the film provides. The war sequences hold up after 80 years.

4. The Life of Emile Zola (1937)--Well made biopic with an excellent performance from Paul Muni. The film effectively frames the debate between using art for commercial reasons or social change.

5. Wings (1927)--Surprisingly entertaining WWI set-drama. Though a silent film, Wings set many templates that other Oscar winners would follow.

6. You Can't Take it With You (1938)--Frank Capra adapts a Pulitzer-Prize winning play with a message valuing community and individuality over commercialism.

7. Grand Hotel (1932)--Ensemble drama featuring six main characters whose lives intersect at a posh Berlin hotel.

8. The Great Ziegfeld (1936)--Musical biopic about impresario Florenz Ziegfeld. The recreations of his acts distract from the story but are the most interesting parts of the film.

9. Mutiny on the Bounty (1935)--Huge historical inaccuracies undermine an otherwise solid adventure film. Fantastic production values though.

10. Cimarron (1931)--Unforgivable racism mars a very interesting story about the Oklahoma land rush. Hammy acting from the male lead doesn't help. The opening sequence is spectacular though.

11. Cavalcade (1933)--Boring adaptation of a Noel Coward play that is more concerned with being a checklist through historical events than creating interesting characters.

12. The Broadway Melody (1929)--Amateurish early talkie that gained the Best Picture Oscar more for its technical innovations than any quality performances, direction, or story.

I'm also going make a judgment on who was the best actor, actress, and director base on their work in the Best Picture winners:

Actor of the Decade: Clark Gable. Made three Oscar winners better and was enormously popular.

Actress of the Decade: Vivien Leigh. She's probably the biggest reason Scarlett O'Hara and Gone With the Wind have such enduring popularity. Apologies to Luise Rainer, who won two Best Actress awards in the decade.

Director of the Decade: Frank Capra. Almost singlehandedly made Columbia Pictures a major studio and was the tastemaker for the decade. Won Best Director three times and Best Picture twice.

Studio of the Decade: MGM. You can't argue with five of its films winning Best Picture Oscars.

Gone With the Wind: American Duality

What to make of the film which is unquestionably—for better or worse—the most popular ever made in the history of American cinema?

Perhaps it is best to start at the beginning. As is typical of the mega-epics of yore, there is an overture featuring some of Max Steiner’s themes in the score, followed by a two sentence preface: “There was a land of Cavaliers and Cotton fields called the Old South…Look for it only in books, for it is no more than a dream remembered, a Civilization gone with the wind…” Okay, nothing special so far. Dreams remembered, lost civilizations, cavaliers, stories in books—these are the things epic films are made of; it’s what you expect to see watching a film like Gone With the Wind. But then Steiner’s score swells with “Tara’s Theme” and the single most gargantuan “G” ever written scrolls onto the screen from the right of the frame. The letters, filling the screen, spell GONE WITH THE WIND, but they scream “THIS IS THE BIGGEST FUCKING MOVIE EVER MADE!!!” On the initial screening of the film the audience burst into rapturous applause at this sight—and I think even the most jaded of filmgoers will admit to being swept away by the opening credits of Gone With the Wind.

The film’s opening title sequence has only one legitimate rival in terms of sheer power—the Star Wars films, each opening with “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…” and then that cacophonous first chord in John Williams’ score and the yellow STAR WARS title filling the outer space on the screen. Not at all coincidentally, Star Wars is the only serious rival to Gone With the Wind in terms of being America’s most popular motion picture.

There’s a lesson here: If you’re making a movie and you aspire it to be the biggest fucking movie ever made, you might as well announce it as such in the main titles. David O. Selznick, producer of Gone With the Wind, most certainly held this ambition. Everything in Gone With the Wind is a superlative; nothing is small in this film.

I’ll do a quick rundown of how monstrous the production of the film was:

• Margaret Mitchell’s novel—a tome at well over 1,000 pages—was purchased by Selznick for a then-record price of $50,000. Selznick once thought the film would have to be split into two pictures.

• The screenwriting process was laborious, and passed through the hands over a dozen authors. When Sidney Howard, the credited screenwriter, turned in his first draft, the resulting film would have been 5½ hours long. (Some Oscar trivia—Howard was the first person to receive an Oscar posthumously. He was killed in a tractor accident on his farm before the film opened.)

• Selznick ran through three principal directors—George Cukor, Victor Fleming, and Sam Wood (who filled in for Fleming after he became too ill to work). At one point, five units were shooting footage.

• Eventually, over 500,000 feet of film were shot for Gone With the Wind. The final cut was whittled down to merely 20,000 feet.

• The film has over 50 speaking roles and 2,400 extras.

• The budget to create the women’s costumes alone was over $100,000. Additionally, it cost $10,000 to launder them over the course of the shoot.

• Each of the principal roles—Scarlett O’Hara, Rhett Butler, Melanie Hamilton and Ashley Wilkes—each had challenges to overcome before Vivien Leigh, Clark Gable, Olivia de Havilland, and Leslie Howard were settled on.

• The casting of Scarlett involved 1,400 actresses interviewed, 400 giving readings, dozens being screen tested over a nearly two year process before Vivien Leigh—an out of left field candidate—won the role.

• Conversely, Clark Gable was always Selznick’s choice for Rhett. Gable was indisputably the most popular star of the 1930’s, but he hated “women’s pictures” and thought the film would hurt his image. He agreed to do the film only after he received a bonus of $50,000 to secure a divorce from his first wife and marry Carole Lombard. His studio, MGM, was also paid off and given distribution rights for the film.

• Olivia de Havilland, under contract with Warner Brothers, had to plead with Jack Warner’s wife to let her out of her contract.

• Leslie Howard felt he was too old to play Ashley (in Mitchell’s novel, Ashley is 21; in real-life, Howard was 46), so Selznick appeased him by giving him a producer’s credit for the film Intermezzo.

• The final budget for the picture was $3.9 million dollars

• When the film held its premiere in Atlanta on December 15th, 1939, the Governor of Georgia declared it a state holiday.

For all the staggering human costs that went into the creation of the film, the reason Gone With the Wind has endured in popularity is because of its main character, one Katie Scarlett O’Hara. Of course, without Vivien Leigh, the character wouldn’t be. This is a case where actress and character become unmistakably one. Although Leigh would win another Best Actress Oscar (as the equally iconic Blanche DuBois in the 1951 film adaptation of A Streetcar Named Desire), through Scarlett, she achieved immortality. I have to admit—it’s a hell of a role, and Leigh is peerless in the part.

Scarlett also represents another theme of Gone With the Wind from which the film is inseparable: duality. My mother lists Scarlett O’Hara as one of her heroes (along with Lucille Ball and—yuck—Barbie, and this is where I thank God I am male). She frequently watches my nearly six year-old niece, and I asked my mother if she thought Scarlett was a good role model for her granddaughter. “Absolutely,” she replied, without hesitation. I also have an infant daughter, and Scarlett O’Hara is the last person I would wish for her to be like. Look at the facts—Scarlett, in the very opening scene of the film, is surrounded by beaus, and she flirts, pouts, toys, and plays them off another to get what she wants.

Throughout the film, her desire is to win over Ashley Wilkes, whom Scarlett considers an ideal match because of his social class and breeding. Although Ashley loves another woman (Melanie)—and compared to the other men in the film he is seen as weak and effeminate (why Scarlett would continue to want him when she has Rhett right there for the taking is mindboggling), Scarlett knows no bounds in her pursuit of him. She steals away other men already engaged to be married (twice, once from Ashley’s sister and once from her own). Scarlett lies, Scarlett cheats, and Scarlett loves to be at the center of scandal—which she often deliberately creates. Her entire friendship with Melanie exists solely because Scarlett hopes to one day steal Ashley from her (Melanie’s kindheartedness and willingness to turn a blind eye to Scarlett’s desires for Ashley act as a perfect foil to Scarlett’s character). Even when she is married to Rhett, she keeps a picture of Ashley in her vanity and her inability to completely close her feelings off to him dissolves their marriage and indirectly leads to the death of their daughter, Bonnie Blue (who Scarlett could care less about). Scarlett only feels validated through the eyes of another man, and her need for love from an unattainable man is her tragic flaw.

However, for all of Scarlett’s scheming and pettiness—and believe me, Scarlett O’Hara is the undisputed heavyweight champion of scheming and pettiness—I have to admit that my mother may be right. Scarlett O’Hara can be an excellent role model. For as much as Scarlett needs to be defined by her relationships with men, she also needs to adopt the role of a man to survive. The film is haunted by the backdrop of the Civil War. The men in the film—even eventually Rhett, the mercenary—are off fighting the war while the women are charged with sustaining their way of life. Although marriage brings Scarlett away from Tara to Atlanta with Melanie, when the city finally falls, Scarlett has but one desire—which is in many ways, the great, overarching theme of all 1930’s cinema: to return home.

Her journey is fraught with peril. First, she needs to help Melanie deliver her baby—for which neither she nor her servant Prissy (more on this scene a bit later) are entirely capable of doing. She must do this alone, as all of the doctors in the city are tending to the Confederate soldiers defending the besieged city (the slow, deliberate pull back as Scarlett is desperately searching for help among hundreds and hundreds of dying and wounded is the most effective shot in the film). She then enlists Rhett’s help to escape with Melanie, Prissy, and the baby as Atlanta literally burns to the ground (this famous sequence was achieved when Selznick ordered a set-to-be-destroyed soundstage on the MGM backlot burned to the ground at the cost of $25,000). Rhett though, ultimately abandons the women—he finally leaves to join the Confederate soldiers—leaving Scarlett to navigate a perilous road back to Tara. Once there, Scarlett finds her home ravaged—her mother is dead, her father is lame and both the home and crops are in disarray (the Wilkes home, Twelve Oaks, has been razed). She must also contend with Union soldiers intent on rape and pillage (and later, carpetbaggers), and the first half of the film concludes with her famous, defiant line: “As God is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again!”

I gotta admit—Scarlett, in that moment is absolutely empowering.

Scarlett’s choices from then on—and she only gets nastier in the second half of Gone With the Wind— are ultimately motivated with the intent of protecting Tara. Scarlett proves to be as stupid and petty as one of today’s reality television starlets (imagine Kim Kardashian as a Civil War debutante) but also as ruthless and intelligent as some women who have ascended into political office (I think Indira Gandhi would be the best comparison). I don’t think Scarlett O’Hara is ever compassionate enough to be called a feminist icon (I think Melanie and Mammy best represent those ideals in Gone With the Wind), but she is most certainly a character of tremendous and enduring power. Even when you hate her—and in Gone With the Wind I hated her often—you can’t ever pry your eyes from Scarlett. She is the reason that the popularity of the film has never waned and will continue to endure. A millennia from now, humans will know of Scarlett O’Hara.

Scarlett is not the only Janus-faced element of Gone With the Wind. Unsurprisingly, a film this large is littered with complications. First off—the two halves of the film may as well be two entirely different movies. Part One is chiefly concerned with the fall of Scarlett O’Hara and the demise of Tara. Scarlett’s journey mirrors the fall of the Confederacy in the Civil War, and the beginning of the decline of the genteel civilization in the South. The second half of the film is concerned with Scarlett rebuilding her home and regaining her wealth, just as the South is entering Reconstruction. The first half of the film is leaner, tighter, and more purposeful. The second half of the film is far less focused, episodic, and prone to melodrama. Gone With the Wind is essentially two separate films telling entirely different stories.

Selznick strove to present a historically accurate picture as possible, but there are many crucial details glossed over. Scarlett and Melanie come off the best once the war begins rolling in the film. When Scarlett becomes the de facto head of both Tara and Twelve Oaks, she assumed a role many other women in the South were forced to undertake. Her role as a business owner is also not radical. Yet Selznick omits any mention of the darker elements of Reconstruction. The “meeting” Ashley and Scarlett’s second husband attend is for recruitment into the Ku Klux Klan, but that name is never once uttered in the film, as is any KKK iconography.

In fact, race is the single most divisive issue—and will always be so—in Gone With the Wind. From the opening credits, every slave is presented as a happy one. The principal black characters in the film—Mammy, Prissy, Pork, and Big Sam, slaves all—are never once shown as unhappy with their situation in life and are all quite eager to please their masters. In the film, the African-American characters are presented as subservient and wholly dependent on whites, thus reinforcing centuries-old stereotypes. The implied white supremacy in the film is never more apparent in the scene where Scarlett slaps a hysterical Prissy into submission (and of Prissy, Malcolm X is said to have cringed when actress Butterfly McQueen “went into her act”). Hell, even the black female characters aren’t given proper names, only titles that describe their job—“Mammy”—or their disposition—“Prissy”. In the world of Gone With the Wind, the black characters are given names that reflect a lack of identity.

I think another uncomfortable truth accounting for the popularity of the film is that audiences want to see the African American characters presented as inferior. The popularity of the film has never diminished over time, and the film has never been cut or altered from its original presentation. Would the film really be different if say, the slapping sequence was cut? When the film made its debut in Atlanta, the city was all too eager to recreate the Reconstruction era. Storefronts were made over with temporary antebellum architecture, a gala costume ball, a parade down Atlanta streets lined with Confederate flags, were part of the debut festivities—which President Jimmy Carter recalled as “the biggest event to happen to the South in my lifetime.” However segregation was the rule in the theater, where Hattie McDaniel was prevented from attending the premiere with her cast mates by Jim Crow laws (Clark Gable threatened to boycott, but McDaniel urged him to go, and a young Martin Luther King Jr. attended the cotillion ball for the film as a guest of his father). Many audiences are guilty of falling in love with the romanticized South presented in the film yet completely overlook or disregard that Gone With the Wind is racist.

Racist though the film may be—it is a bit folly to dismiss Gone With the Wind as entirely such. Again, there is a bit of duality at work here. Look at Mammy, and the actress who played her, Hattie McDaniel. While Mammy is representative of the stereotypical female slave who worked inside a plantation, the film makes no bones about who really keeps Tara running. Mammy is also the only character to stand up to Scarlett—and the only character that can see through her bullshit. Scarlett and Mammy share a considerable amount of power. Mammy is also allowed to show flashes of personality outside of her role. A brief, but key scene has Rhett (who is easily the most progressive character in the film) giving Mammy a red silk slip—which she outwardly rejects but inwardly loves. Later, Mammy reveals that she wears the silk underneath her dress wherever she goes, and the slip represents a fiery personality underneath the mask she wears for Scarlett. Because the silk is also a gift from a white man, it does signify that there is at least one white person who sees Mammy as an equal, as a human being.

The character won Hattie McDaniel the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress. McDaniel was the first African-American to win an Oscar in any category. McDaniel continues to exert influence among black actors today. Mo’Nique, the most recent winner in the Supporting Actress category, thanked McDaniel in her acceptance speech. At the Oscar ceremony in 1940, McDaniel represented not only the first black actor to be nominated, but the first black person to attend the ceremony. In her acceptance speech, McDaniel said:

Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, fellow members of the motion picture industry and honored guests: This is one of the happiest moments of my life, and I want to thank each one of you who had a part in selecting me for one of their awards, for your kindness. It has made me feel very, very humble; and I shall always hold it as a beacon for anything that I may be able to do in the future. I sincerely hope I shall always be a credit to my race and to the motion picture industry. My heart is too full to tell you just how I feel, and may I say thank you and God bless you.

With her victory, McDaniel opened the doors to minority performers. I think there is a small measure of justice that for all of the racist and stereotypical prejudices within Gone With the Wind, McDaniel’s performance shattered the barrier to African-Americans. Her Oscar ensures that Gone With the Wind is a crucial part of black history, and in a small way serves as a counterbalance to the negative stereotypes contained within the film.

More than anything, Gone With the Wind represents an America filled with complications and contradictions. For as much as Selznick wanted to portray an idyllic civilization of “Cavaliers and Cotton fields”, the characters in the film are far from perfect and the drama within their lives is not easily resolved. For as much as the many fans of the film buy into the fantasy created by Scarlett and Rhett and Tara, they represent a reality that a Hollywood film rarely showed. As much as one may think Scarlett is a spoiled princess, they must also see her as a survivor and a woman of tremendous power. For as much as Gone With the Wind is about the life during the Civil War, it is also about life during the Reconstruction. For as racist as the film is, Hattie McDaniel’s performance represents a small step toward barriers being eroded for African-Americans.

I’ve often tried to reconcile how a film so offensive and divisive could be the most popular ever in our country? What does that say about us? Do women really wish that they could be exactly like Scarlett O’Hara? Do we, as a country, see our complicated past as idyllic and nostalgic? Do we look past the stereotypes in the film because we may, at our cores, condone racism? For as much as Gone With the Wind is about opposites, it is far too easy to dismiss the film because of its flaws. The film, in many ways, has held a mirror up to the face of our country and forced us to examine our own flaws. Scarlett should be admired because she ultimately becomes more real than a spoiled southern belle. Nostalgia becomes folly. And the ugly racism in the film serves as a reminder of exactly what is completely unacceptable in society today, and that the struggle to eradicate prejudice is ongoing.

We live in a complicated, two-faced country. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that our most popular film ever reflects the duality of its citizens.

Gone With the Wind (1939)

Director: Victor Fleming

Starring: Vivien Leigh, Clark Gable, Olivia de Havilland, Leslie Howard, Hattie McDaniel, Butterfly McQueen

Studio: Selznick International Pictures (distributed by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer)

Total Oscars: 10 (8 competitive: Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actress—Vivien Leigh, Best Supporting Actress—Hattie McDaniel, Best Adapted Screenplay—Sidney Howard (posthumous), Best Color Cinematography, Best Editing, Best Interior Decoration; 1 honorary—William Cameron Menzies for use of color photography; 1 technical achievement—Don Musgrave) out of 13 nominations (Best Actor—Clark Gable, Best Supporting Actress—Olivia de Havilland, Best Special Effects, Best Score, Best Sound Recording). Selznick was also awarded the Irving G. Thalberg Award that year.

The Life of Emile Zola (1937): A Case for Life

The Life of Emile Zola (1937)

Director: William Dieterle
Starring: Paul Muni, Joseph Schildkraut, Gale Sondergaard, Gloria Holden, Donald Crisp, Vladimir Sokoloff
Studio: Warner Brothers
Total Oscars: 3 (Best Picture, Best Supporting Actor—Schildkraut, Best Screenplay) from 10 total nominations (Best Director—Dieterle, Best Actor—Muni, Art Direction, Assistant Director, Score, Sound, Writing—Original Story)

I think that biopics—like romantic comedies—are difficult films to do really successfully. Many factors go into the creation of a successful biopic. For example, the more famous the subject, the trickier it is to condense a film from their life story. Jesus or Queen Elizabeth may prove too much subject for a feature film than say a relatively obscure French writer/activist. With that in mind though, a subject needs to have a life, or part of a life, that is worthy of being filmed. It may be hard to condense the achievements of a truly famous person into a film but if the subject is too obscure then will the film have an audience? The case for a filmic life needs to be made.

Biopics also need to be selective. I love a good, long and enveloping biography, but what works well for 1,000 pages can be agony on screen. Also, the film needs to adhere to some sort of structure that works for a feature film. Simply reporting the events of someone’s life may as well be a documentary.

Finally, a biopic needs to be an adaptation. By this I mean that the filmmakers need to know when it is necessary to create composite characters, condense events, or simply leave out details of a life that aren’t crucial to the story the film is telling. A chronological checklist of the events of a life rarely ever makes an interesting film. It may sound like blasphemy, but a good biopic has got to know how to rewrite history into a screenplay. Of course, the filmmakers can’t veer so far as to make up complete and outright lies (which I’ll examine much later when discussing A Beautiful Mind).

Oh, a damn good actor—and not just great but wisely cast—needs to occupy the lead role.

A good biopic is a balancing act, a tightrope walker performing without a net. Not everyone is as gifted, skilled or ballsy to walk on a high wire, and not every biopic can gracefully balance so many divergent elements. Both are rare acts indeed. Thankfully, The Life of Emile Zola hits all of its marks. The film presents the story of a relatively unknown subject—in this case Zola himself, given a searing portrayal by the brilliant Paul Muni—and makes the case for his story to be told by focusing on specific events in Zola’s life connected by a universal theme.

The Life of Emile Zola opens in Paris in 1862. Zola and impressionist painter Paul Cézanne (Vladimir Sokoloff) share a drafty flat, and live the lifestyle of struggling and starving artists. For those familiar with Jonathan Larson’s musical RENT, imagine Zola and Cézanne as a nineteenth century Mark and Roger. Zola needs to get a job to marry his fiancée, Alexandrine (Gloria Holden), so he takes work at a small publishing company. Zola comes into several conflicts at his job—he’s definitely a bit of an anti-authoritarian—and when his indictment of Parisian officials, The Confessions of Claude, is published, the author is fired from his job.

Zola continues to struggle until he strikes up a (non-sexual) relationship with a prostitute. The novel he writes based on her memoirs, Nana, becomes a runaway success. Nana, which is sympathetic and honest in its portrayal of the prostitute, captures the imagination of France and catapults Zola into riches (though the frank depictions of sexual acts such as ménage a trios contained within the text certainly helped to boost sales through both titillation and controversy). Zola continues to write about the hard lives of ordinary French citizens and the corruption present in their government. In a nicely constructed montage by director William Dieterle, the covers of Zola’s books pass by, and both Zola’s sense of activism and burgeoning celebrity are conveyed.

The Zola/Cézanne relationship isn’t the huge driving force of the film, save for one crucial scene. Zola is being awarded the Legion of Honor. He has many guests at his now vast home—in stark contrast to his meager dwellings shared with the painter—though Cézanne is the only guest who seems unhappy. He warns Zola that he is getting “too fat”—in appearance for sure (Muni puts his body through a fantastic transformation, and the makeup in the film convincingly ages him)—but also a gluttony that has shoved Zola’s idealism aside for wealth. Cézanne and Zola never meet again (this is historically accurate), and while never explicitly alluded to, Cézanne’s words haunt and guide Zola’s actions throughout the remainder of the film. The crucial theme of The Life of Emile Zola is expressed thusly: What makes an artist more successful—the amassing of popularity and riches (surely, no artist wants to be starving) or the ability of one’s work to truly make a difference in the world?

Concurrently, a subplot involving Alfred Dreyfus is introduced. Dreyfus was a Captain in the French army of Jewish heritage (note that aside from a very short, brief visual reference, any mention of Dreyfus being a Jew is omitted from the film, though ultimately Dreyfus’ innocence trumps the issue of anti-Semitism in the film). He was wrongfully accused of spilling French army secrets to the Germans, and though there is clear evidence that Dreyfus is completely innocent of any wrongdoings—the film even establishes the true guilty party—Dreyfus is sentenced to a brutal imprisonment on Devil’s Island in what is now Suriname. Joseph Schildkraut won a Supporting Actor Oscar for his portrayal, which memorably depicts Dreyfus’ suffering and dignity.

Dreyfus’ wife (Gale Sondergaard) vows to clear her husband’s name. After most of the traditional avenues become closed off to her, she turns to support from the intellectual community in Paris and eventually to Zola himself. Zola is initially reluctant to help, and his true motivations are left up to the viewers to decide, but eventually, Zola becomes Dreyfus’ champion. The rich writer is reminded of his days as an upstart, and this time, he has true authority in which to rebel against in the French army. The military officials in the film are portrayed as uniformly clueless—the Minister of War in the film is quoted as saying, “Books? Books? I don’t read books!”—and they adhere to a strict good-ol’-boy network where the fear of losing face is far more important than exposure of the truth. Zola then publishes his most famous piece of writing, his “J’Accuse” (“I Accuse”) letter, published in newspapers across France which declares Dreyfus innocent and accuses the French army of a conspiracy to cover up the truth. The letter is the impetus for Dreyfus’ case to be re-tried, and the climax of the film comes when Zola himself is put on the stand, where he gives an impassioned summation saying:

At this solemn moment, in the presence of this tribunal, which is the representative of human justice, before France, before the whole world, I swear that Dreyfus is innocent! By all that I have won, by all that I have written to spread the spirit of France, I swear that he is innocent. May all that melt away; may my name perish if Dreyfus be not innocent. He is innocent.

Zola’s efforts though are for naught, and Dreyfus is not set free. However, it is Zola who rekindles the fire in his belly for justice. In his defense of Dreyfus, Zola is lured out of complacency. Though Zola’s words of “may my name perish” prove prophetic—he becomes exiled from France—ultimately, his passion and quest for the truth win out and Dreyfus is released from prison and his full rank is reinstated. Tragically, Zola dies in an accident involving carbon monoxide poisoning, and he never get to see the man he fought so valiantly for set free.

I didn’t come away from the film thinking it was at all a tragedy. Instead, The Life of Emile Zola becomes a triumph of art used for activism—this is a film that celebrates the power of writing over injustice. It powerfully told me that while a writer may become rich and celebrated, that wealth is hollow unless the art behind it is used to effect positive change—often in the face of what would be easy, what is popular, and what seems impossible.

As a biopic, it met my criteria and then some. I knew nothing of Zola or the Dreyfus Affair before watching the film, and it made the case that this story was absolutely necessary. Muni is almost chiefly responsible for creating a character on film that makes believable changes and grows as a human being, and the script is wisely focused on how Zola’s career unfolds because of the choices he makes. Though the film includes details about his personal relationships and also shows a window into the inner workings of the French government—Zola remains the primary focus of the film. Not once did The Life of Emile Zola feel outdated to me, and while Muni, Dreyfus, and Emile Zola himself have each passed on decades ago, the film makes a case for their story—their lives—to be immortal.

The Great Ziegfeld: Ars Gratia Artis

Director: Robert Z. Leonard

Starring: William Powell, Myrna Loy, Luise Rainer, Frank Morgan, Ray Bolger, Fanny Brice

Studio: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer

Total Oscars: 3 (Best Picture, Best Actress—Luise Rainer, Best Dance Direction—“A Pretty Girl Is like a Melody”) out of 7 nominations (Best Director, Best Original Screenplay, Best Art Direction, Best Editing)

Art for art’s sake. That is the English translation of the Latin motto encircling Leo the Lion of the MGM logo. For The Great Ziegfeld—not at all coincidentally a MGM picture—that motto has the utmost veracity.

The Great Ziegfeld is one of the more unique films I have ever seen. Nominally, the film is a biopic with early 20th century Broadway impresario Florenz Ziegfeld as its subject. Chronicling the rise and decline of Ziegfeld, the film documents his two loves—the women in his life and the spectacular Broadway productions he masterminded. Ziegfeld’s women—particularly Anna Held—and his shows are in this film rendered with immense artistic quality. Luise Rainer (the oldest surviving Oscar winner who celebrated her 100th birthday this year) makes an astonishing debut as Held, and the recreation of Ziegfeld’s shows simply must be seen to be believed.

The crucial problem with the film is exactly what I liked best about it. Rainer is transcendent as Held and the song and dance numbers are so spectacular that they completely overshadow the story of Ziegfeld. The musical numbers are especially superfluous, ballooning the running time of the picture to an unnecessary three hours and six minutes. Instead having a spotlight shine on Ziegfeld, the film ultimately becomes a celebration of artistry itself, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Let’s delve into the biopic part of the picture. The story very much takes a “rise and fall” approach with the life of Florenz Ziegfeld. Ziegfeld (Powell) is shown to us at the start of the film as a young man, at odds with his father, who is the headmaster of a music conservatory. “Flo”, as he is referred to, is a carny. His big attraction at the Chicago World’s Fair is the strongman Sandow, but his rival (Frank Morgan, best known as Oz from The Wizard of Oz) is pulling in a far vaster audience with his exotic “Egyptian” girl show. Everything changes when Ziegfeld learns how to exploit the strongman. An elderly woman asks to feel his muscles, becomes titillated, and the light bulb goes off over Ziegfeld’s head. Sandow makes Ziegfeld rich, though he is shown to have a penchant for squandering his fortune.

Eventually, Ziegfeld makes it to Europe. He sees Anna Held (Rainer) sing, and becomes immediately smitten. Penniless though he may be—and facing stiff competition from the Frank Morgan character—Flo is able to woo Held to sign with him. This is one of the more unbelievable (though based on true events) parts of the story, as Held is presented as rational and in control—and smartly played by Rainer. She doesn’t even seem to like Ziegfeld, but yet she too is captivated by him. Ziegfeld makes her a huge star shortly after they return stateside, but he resorts to pulling stunts like telling the press Held takes milk baths to look beautiful in order to keep her name in the papers. If Ziegfeld has a true talent, it is promotion. Though Held objects to being objectified, the pair marries.

Ziegfeld has greater ambitions. He wishes to create a show dedicated to “glorifying the American girl”, and invents his Follies—a song and dance revue featuring beautiful women in spectacular and ornate costumes. It is here that the film veers, as whole parts of Ziegfeld’s Follies are recreated on film. The acts themselves contribute nothing to the screenplay, but costume lovers have a feast of eye candy to drool over, dance lovers will have breathtaking routines to admire, and the music is pleasant to all ears. Besides, there is true, extraordinary talent on display.

Ray Bolger—best known as the Scarecrow (another Oz alumnus) is one of the talents showcased. He plays himself in the film, and if you’ve only seen him as the Scarecrow, you’ll marvel at his rubber-legged tap routine here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5LJuBL7RTjg

Fanny Brice is also featured in the film—in one of her few film appearances, and when you watch the movie, you’ll understand why Barbara Streisand was an ideal choice to play Brice in Funny Girl (a role for which Streisand won an Oscar). There are also several elaborate musical numbers, the piece de resistance being the performance of “A Pretty Girl Is like a Melody”.

The number begins with Dennis Morgan (dubbed by Allan Jones), singing the song onstage. As the huge curtain slowly opens, a tiered, rotating platform (my wife says it looks like a cupcake) begins to rotate, and girls, clowns, dancers, a big band—nearly every kind of performer imaginable—adds something to the act as the platform slowly spirals upward. At the top is a girl in an ornately feathered gown, then the camera pulls back to reveal the magnificence of the entire set as viewed from the highest seats in the theater. It is a truly breathtaking sequence—the most expensive MGM filmed at the time—and although it has absolutely nothing to do with Ziegfeld’s story (aside from his masterminding of the idea) the magic of performance and spectacle is captured on film. You can view it here:
http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x3ick8_a-pretty-girl-is-like-a-melody-the_shortfilms

Eventually, Ziegfeld’s marriage to Held disintegrates—mostly because Flo is a cad who simply cannot keep his dick in his pants. Not with all of the beauties he has ready access to. They divorce, but a scene where Held tries to reconnect with him is achingly played by Rainer.

And now a digression on Luise Rainer, if you don’t mind. The Viennese actress’ greatest admirer was Irving Thalberg, who insisted on casting the relative unknown in The Great Ziegfeld. Her screentime in the film is brief, but the telephone scene has such immediate impact that it sealed a Best Actress victory for her. Rainer won in the subsequent year, playing a mute Chinese peasant in an adaptation of Pearl Buck’s The Good Earth. The roles—one chatty, the other silent—proved her incredible range and defined Rainer as a serious actress. Thalberg died in 1937, and with Rainer’s champion gone, she made only a few more films for MGM. Louis B. Mayer tried to typecast her, but Rainer resisted his efforts and insisted on quality material and a higher salary. Mayer’s response: “We made you and we are going to destroy you.” Mayer never got the chance, as Rainer quit the business in 1938. On leaving the business, she commented, “I talked serious instead of with my eyelashes and Hollywood thought I was cuckoo.” She told Mayer: “Mr. Mayer, I must stop making films. My source has dried up. I work from the inside out, and there is nothing inside to give." For Rainer, integrity as an artist meant more than commercial success.

I greatly admire this decision, and the rest of her life was filled with adventure. She had two marriages; helped victims of the Spanish Civil War, helped playwright Bertolt Brecht escape the Nazis by obtaining a visa simply because she “loved his poetry”, studied medicine, lived in New York and Europe, and lived life on her own terms. Perhaps this is what is still keeping Rainer alive today, at the age of 100!

The last third of The Great Ziegfeld follows Flo’s final marriage to Billie Burke (a Follies girl who would most famously be known as Glinda the Good Witch—yet another Oz connection in this film). Burke is played by Myrna Loy, who costarred with Powell in fourteen features (most notably as Dashiell Hammett’s crime solving married couple Nick and Nora Charles, whom Powell and Loy played in The Thin Man and its five sequels). Flo finally finds true and equal companionship, but his financial mismanagement catches up to him and his shows become less popular. Ziegfeld vows to be on top again, and he opens four shows on Broadway at the same time, but the stock market crash of 1929 proves to be his ultimate doom.

Ziegfeld’s story is the story of how to make a buck in America, and I think every successful businessman also needs to be part showman. The story—though presented in a clichéd, predictable manner, has many modern day parallels. I couldn’t help but think of Vince McMahon—owner of World Wrestling Entertainment—in Ziegfeld. Both men have a knack for exploitation, showmanship, manipulation of the media, and self-promotion. Both men rose up out of the shadow their fathers cast, eventually eclipsing them. There is also a whole lot of Flo Ziegfeld in Harvey Weinstein.

His story is also about a love affair with art and spectacle, and the thrill of an audience that delights in being entertained. Though Bolger’s tap dancing, Brice’s comedy, and a huge, twirling platform filled with dozens of singers, musicians and dancers contribute nothing to the forward momentum of Ziegfeld’s story, a film about Ziegfeld’s life would not be whole unless the acts he loved were also celebrated. The story meanders and often stops dead in its tracks to show us yet another recreation of Ziegfeld’s Follies, but there is an awesome power in seeing the past preserved and come to life. Where the rules of screenwriting and filmmaking become broken, art is triumphant. Art for art’s sake indeed.

It Happened One Night: K.I.S.S.

It Happened One Night: K.I.S.S.

Director: Frank Capra

Starring: Clark Gable, Claudette Colbert, Walter Connolly, Jameson Thomas

Studio: Columbia Pictures

Total Oscars: 5 wins (Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actor, Best Actress, Best Adapted Screenplay) from 5 nominations

Thus far, the films I have discussed have had an air of self-importance about them. Whether they are historical spectacles, dramas with an all star cast, technical marvels, or films making political statements—each of the previous six films to win Best Picture were in some ways designed to be important pictures, flagships for their studios. It Happened One Night was seen as just another one of the fifty-two pictures a studio would release each year. This was not a film from which all-time greatness was expected. Yet, thanks largely to director Frank Capra, who—in adhering to the mantra Keep It Simple, Stupid—made the first film to sweep the five major Academy Awards and set a rarely matched standard for the romantic comedy.

To tell the story of It Happened One Night, it is necessary to tell the story of its studio, Columbia Pictures. Today, Columbia is now owned by Sony, and is considered to be one of the premier studios in Hollywood, but in the 1930’s it was considered to be on “Poverty Row”. Poverty Row studios were home to films and shorts that could be cheaply made—lots of Westerns, romances, exploitation films—and unlike a major studio, Columbia could not afford to keep a large roster of major stars under contract. MGM referred to Columbia as “Siberia”. While Columbia’s status as a minor studio can be in some part attributed to its owner—the notorious meddler and fussbudget Harry Cohn—in many ways it was the perfect place for an ambitious director to operate free of the expectations and baggage that often came when staging a gargantuan production at a major.

Capra began his career in Hollywood in 1915 working as a prop man. The Sicilian-American filmmaker bounced around several production companies—directing documentaries and silent films before landing with Columbia in 1928. Capra had a reputation for making films quickly and economically while retaining a strong voice and style. While MGM made pictures that celebrated royalty and opulence, Capra’s films with Columbia were characterized by depicting ordinary Americans (and later, his work would become unabashedly sentimental and patriotic). He frequently collaborated with screenwriter Robert Riskin, and the source material for It Happened One Night came from a source wholly opposite of the great and popular novels the major studios had access to—a short story, “Bus Stop” written for Cosmopolitan magazine.

For whatever reason—the status of Columbia as a Poverty Row studio, the lack of prestige in the source material, a script that called for only a few costume changes for the leading lady (in the film Ellie Andrews wears only four outfits—a nightgown, the traveling suit, Peter Warne’s pajamas and a wedding gown), or simple disdain for the script (many actors are quoted as saying it was the worst thing they had ever read)—Capra could not attract a star to his production. Clark Gable—easily MGM’s biggest leading man and arguably the biggest star of the decade—was loaned to Columbia for $2500 dollars per week. Unlike reports that say Gable was lent to Columbia as punishment, the actor was moved for simple profit. At the time the film was being made, MGM did not have a project lined up for Gable, and he was being paid $2000 a week to sit on his ass and do nothing. MGM made an extra $500 bucks a week by loaning Gable to Columbia, and Capra had his male lead.

Finding Gable’s opposite was much more problematic. Capra originally wanted Myrna Loy, but she hated the script. Several other actresses turned the part down, for a variety of reasons. Constance Bennett wanted to do it, but also wished to produce the film herself. Carole Lombard (who received a marriage proposal from Robert Rifkin and would later be the future Mrs. Clark Gable) had a scheduling conflict. Bette Davis wanted the role, but was under contract to Warner Brothers and Jack Warner did not want to have the career of one of his leading ladies diminished by appearing in the film and refused to loan her.

Ultimately, Harry Cohn suggested Claudette Colbert, who after making a disastrously unsuccessful silent picture with Capra in 1927, vowed to never work with the director again. Urgently needing a leading lady, Colbert’s demands were met. She was paid a salary of $50,000 dollars to make the picture, along with the demand that filming be completed in four weeks to accommodate a pre-planned vacation. Her salary represented over a sixth of the film’s estimated $325,000 dollar budget, meaning that Capra not only had to work economically, but also on a limited timeframe.

He also had to deal with a couple of unhappy costars. Both Gable and Colbert were reluctant to be filming the picture at all, but Gable was eventually won over by the director and tried his best to have fun with Colbert, playing practical jokes on her and encouraging a lighthearted mood on set. While Gable was able to establish a rapport with Colbert, she generally acted like a haughty bitch on set. One example of her legendary bitchiness involved filming the famous hitchhiking scene, where Ellie outsmarts Peter by pulling up her skirt and flashing her leg to flag down a ride. Colbert outright refused to do the scene—in the 1930’s, flashing a leg was equated with flashing a breast—but upon seeing the leg double Colbert became indignant, harrumphing “That’s not my leg!” and ultimately filming the scene herself. Even after the film was wrapped Colbert expressed her displeasure with the picture, remarking to her friends “I just finished the worst picture in the world.” But hey, fifty grand buys away discomfort.

Ultimately, it is Capra who made the film a success. In many ways, having to win over Colbert during filming mirrors the plot of the reporter ultimately winning over the reluctant heiress. Whatever tricks Capra and Gable used to make Colbert cooperative worked, because in the picture she is charming, funny and gorgeous. Ellie Andrews is also a bitch herself, but when matched with Peter Warne played by the cocksure Gable, it is easy to see why she melts for him (and he too for her). Gable and Colbert define movie star chemistry on screen. It is a foregone conclusion from the moment the characters meet that they will fall in love by picture’s end; the joy in the film is seeing how the actors play off one another. Capra was wise to give the film an uncluttered feel. The sets are very simple—a bus, simple hotel rooms, a car. Even the Andrews mansion at the end is understated. This allows the audience to focus on the actors and the wittiness of Riskin’s script (Example—Ellie: “You’ve been telling me what to do ever since I can remember.” Her Father: “That’s because you’ve always been a stubborn idiot.” Ellie: “I come from a long line of stubborn idiots.” Also: Ellie: “I proved once and for all that the limb is mightier than the thumb.” Peter: “Why didn’t you take off all your clothes? You could have stopped forty cars.” Ellie: “Oh, I’ll remember that when we need forty cars.”).

The story is also uncomplicated. Ellie, an heiress whose life has always been controlled by her father, escapes to elope with a man her father disapproves of. Peter is a newspaper man fired for being a drunk. The father has put out a reward for anyone who can return Ellie to him. Both Ellie and Peter are both headed from Miami to New York and meet on a bus. Ellie is an inexperienced traveler, so Peter agrees to chaperone her—and keep her identity a secret by posing as a married couple—if he is allowed an exclusive scoop to his former employer. On the way there the opposites attract and they fall in love. Simple stuff, beautifully and perfectly executed by cast, screenwriter and director.

Initially, It Happened One Night was only mildly successful in the first run theaters. In the 1930’s films played the venues in the larger cities first then rolled out to the rest of the country (a practice commonly used today by independent or prestige films). During the second run of the film It Happened One Night became a runaway smash. I think a huge reason for the popularity of the film with rural America was that it took time to showcase the Depression era. The characters in the film are all, in one way or another, down on their luck. Even Ellie—spoiled rich girl personified—has to wait in line to use the showers at the motels. Ellie also shows tremendous kindness, giving the last of their money to a mother and child in need, even after Peter chastises her for it. Many characters are driven to odd extremes. The driver who picks up Peter and Ellie actually robs them, inverting the cliché of hitchhikers being dangerous to drivers. As the scene plays out, Capra is sympathetic to the robber. The fact that two of Hollywood’s hugest stars were slumming it to make the picture endeared them to the ordinary moviegoer. Capra makes Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert just like us, and because they are like us, we make a greater emotional investment into their relationship. The film ended up becoming the biggest hit Columbia had to date.

The momentum gained by the film carried all the way into the Oscar ceremony, where it won every award it was nominated for and swept the five major categories (Best Picture, Director, Actor, Actress, and Screenplay). It Happened One Night singlehandedly raised the prestige of Columbia Pictures, lifting the studio out of poverty row and establishing Capra as a major director (he would win two other Best Director Oscars in the 1930’s). Funnily enough—and true to bitchy form—Colbert was still unimpressed with the picture. On the day of the Oscar ceremony, she was so sure she wasn’t going to win (ironically, Bette Davis was the favorite in a write-in campaign), that she made travel arrangements instead. Upon her victory, Harry Cohn had Colbert dragged off her train and she accepted her Oscar in a business suit, not forgetting to thank Frank Capra in her acceptance speech. Gable, in a noble gesture, gave his Oscar away to a young boy who admired it, saying that the winning of the award mattered more than the statuette (the Oscar was returned to the Gable estate after his death, ended up being purchased by Steven Spielberg in an auction, and he donated it to the Motion Picture Academy).

So, seventy-six years later, does It Happened One Night hold up? Absolutely. Many film critics bemoan the lack of great romantic comedies being made. I agree. The vast majority of the films released in the genre today are uniformly insipid and charmless, the entire story can be gleaned from the trailer, and more often than not the films feed consumer interests by having a soundtrack filled with pop hits and designer clothes. When an audience goes to see a movie to admire the wardrobe of the actresses, which is a sign of a terrible film. Unfortunately, the clothes are often the most interesting part, with the plots of the films being ridiculous and stupid, the actresses relying on the usual shticks of being overworked and underappreciated (Meg Ryan, Jennifer Aniston, Katherine Heigl, Sarah Jessica Parker and Sandra Bullock are the worst offenders of this), the leading men indistinguishable, there is a montage where someone sings into a hairbrush, and the biggest laugh comes from the heroine falling in the mud.

Modern audiences that have never seen It Happened One Night may probably think it is filled with clichés, but let’s face it; Capra’s film invented the clichés. Maybe—and that is a big maybe—ten romantic comedies since its release have been the equal of It Happened One Night. I daresay that none have surpassed its quality.

This is one of the finest films to ever be awarded Best Picture—easily the best film of the 1930’s accorded the honor—and when I make a list ranking all of the Best Picture Oscar winners, It Happened One Night will be amongst the top five. Next time you (or your girlfriend or wife, and girlfriends and wives, listen up) want to check out the latest romantic comedy at the multiplex (or are dragged there), resist the notion, stay in, and watch It Happened One Night instead. It is well worth 105 minutes of your time.