I'll Never Forget You (1951) and Berkeley Square (1933)

I’ll Never Forget You (1951) is one of those quiet movies that if you catch it on a rainy day, the gentle memory of it will stay with you for a long, long time.  It’s a time-travel romance, and like all time-travel stories, from Edward Bellamy’s Looking Backward: 2000-1887, which was published in 1887 and has never been made into a movie, to Portrait of Jennie, to Somewhere in Time, the “present” depicted as the point from which the story is launched is as integral to the adventure as the final destination.  The “present” is the locale—or state of mind—from which the protagonist is trying to escape, and interestingly, because the past is fixed for us, the “present” is the part of the story that inevitably becomes dated. 

Long post.   Best to make some toast and let the dog out now.  Also a few well-meaning spoilers, for which I beg your pardon.

The “present” for I’ll Never Forget You is post-World War II, and the protagonist is a nuclear physicist.  The movie is a remake of Berkeley Square (1933), the “present” for which was 1933.  It was based on a play of the same name that was produced in London in 1926, and on Broadway in 1928, so the “present” from which to escape was one of Jazz Age frenzy, of motor cars and shallow society, and the memory of the Great War. 

The Broadway version of John L. Balderston’s play was co-directed by Leslie Howard who also starred.  It was a hit, and Mr. Howard reprised his role in the 1933 movie, for which he was nominated for an Academy Award.  I’ll Never Forget You is one of those times where the remake is better than the original, partly because of technological advances in filmmaking, and partly because I think the story benefitted, was really fleshed out, when launched from a more somber and mature “present”.  The 1933 version shows a fitful, restless dissatisfaction with the “modern age,” but the 1951 version has nuclear annihilation as its “present,” with the prospect of no future at all.  Curiously, I’ll Never Forget You is a brighter, more hopeful movie despite this.

Tyrone Power plays Peter Standish, the atomic scientist burdened with guilt and despair over the enormous ethical and moral consequences of his work.  The story is set in London.  He is an American helping with the British nuclear program, and he lives in an 18^th century townhouse in Berkeley Square, a home he inherited from a distant cousin.  The furnishings of the house are original, and with the exception of modern plumbing and electricity, the rooms look pretty much as they did in the late 1700s.

On the wall above the fireplace is a large painting of his distant relative, painted in 1784, a man also called Peter Standish.  He looks exactly like Tyrone Power.

One of the intriguing aspects to the movie is that we never really slip off into a ghost story, though it feels like this could happen any moment.  However, Tyrone Power finds reality far more haunting than any supernatural elements of the story.  Tyrone orchestrates his trip to the past as carefully as he would conduct an experiment in the lab—or nearly so; he does make mistakes, and they cost him. 

Along with the furnishings, he has discovered this 18^th century Peter Standish’s diary, which tells of his life in this house.  He was an American, too, a veteran of the Revolutionary War.  In 1784, the war over, he traveled to Britain to meet his cousin, Kate Pettigrew to complete an arranged marriage with her.  It was through his marriage to her that he came to live in this, her family home.

The last few entries of the diary are strange, as this Peter Standish fancies he has seen into the future, experienced life in the 20^th century. 

Tyrone Power, so absorbed by the past of this house, and armed with the diary of Peter Standish, concludes that he and Standish will switch places, that it is inevitable that they do so, for a limited time.  Then, as noted in Standish’s diary, Standish will return to his own time and marry Kate, have children, and live his life here.  Tyrone Power therefore believes that he, too, will return to his own time, but not before he enjoys one heck of an adventure.

He needs some time off, anyway.  He’s been working too hard.

We begin at the lab, with concrete walls and eerie glowing dials, an experiment in some reaction of two substances that cast off a white glare, gauges that measure in Röntgens, and serious men doing unfathomable science.  It’s a slow start to the movie, but curiously intense.  At one point, Tyrone pushes an experiment to the danger zone, and his boss has to remind him not to take chances.  He thinks Tyrone needs some downtime.

Handsome Michael Rennie is his co-worker and the closest thing Tyrone has to a friend.  Mr. Power is a loner, and his socially awkward manner with Rennie, who has also been trying to introduce him to his sister, is a really good fit for the character.  (In Berkeley Square, Leslie Howard just seems like a boyish eccentric with too much nervous energy.  Tyrone Power’s brooding introspection is more appealing.)

But having said that, I love the comic moment when Leslie Howard delightedly discovers his pony tail.

“What about going away for a while?”  Rennie asks companionably.  Power replies, “I am.”  It’s a long shot with the room, cavernous, foreshadowing his portal to the past.  He confesses his theory about his upcoming time travel to 1784.  He explains, much as other writers have sought to explain, that time is not a straight line, the way we might draw a chronology of events.  It co-exists in another dimension.

“I believe the 18^th century still exists.  It’s all around us if only we could find it.”  What particularly appeals to him is the break from nuclear annihilation, although, despite the scary lab at the beginning, this is never spoken, only implied, as are the horrors of World War II, and the Holocaust.  The director knows the audience doesn't need reminding.  Indeed, they've come to the movie theater to forget the front page.  Similarly, Tyrone Power looks forward to returning to “The age of reason, of dignity and grace, of quietness and peace.”

A thunderstorm is brewing outside, and the lights go out.  Tyrone lights a candelabra and takes Mr. Rennie upstairs to see the diary.  Creepy music as they climb the stairs—shades of a ghost story, but not quite.

Michael Rennie thinks he’s nuts, but he’s a tactful guy and worried.  He implores Tyrone to leave the house, as it seems to have cast a spell on him.  Tyrone sees him to the door, and stands outside a moment on the steps as a thunderstorm moves in.  Time travel in this story is done by thunderstorm. 

A clap of thunder, a bolt of lightning, and Tyrone falls, collapsing on the landing.

The camera draws our attention to the door of the house, as the metal mail slot begins to disappear.  Then an arm reaches up from the landing—Tyrone’s arm, grasping for the knob to pull himself up.

 

 

A tuft of lace protrudes from the sleeve of his coat, a striped pattern—and it's--in color!  Upon opening the door of his own home, he sees Kate, his intended, here played by Beatrice Campbell, lowering herself to a deep curtsey in a hall of soft colors and the muted gentle sound of a harp playing a light air (or ayre, we are in London).  Tyrone’s in 1784.  (Oooh!  Pretty!)

This Wizard of Oz-style use of a dreary black-and-white existence and escape into a Technicolor world is only one of the technological improvements on the original Berkeley Square of 1933, though to be sure, it is the most spectacular. 

Counting the original stage play, these three incarnations of the story are interesting for what their medium allows them to convey.  The original stage script is tight and very witty, with one character, Kate’s brother Tom, who is a rogue, getting a crack at some risqué dialogue.  One can sense the inventive use of present/past on a fixed set.  I don’t know if this old chestnut is staged anymore, but I’d love to see it.  I enjoyed reading the lively script very much.  (By the way, I understand there was a TV version in March 1949 with Richard Greene and Grace Kelly in the lead roles.  Wish I could see this.)

Berkeley Square the movie is toned down both in language (less saucy) and action, and has a somewhat confusing beginning showing Leslie Howard as the original Peter Standish enjoying the fellowship of his new friends in a pub.  Then we must work to accept him as the 20^th century version.  The movie attempts to follow the play, with only a few scenes out of the house, but what might be called stagey I think is really just downright static.  There is very little movement, and we could attribute probably a lot of that to early sound camera issues which kept the actors practically bolted to where the mic was.  As it is, the sound is scratchy and the film quality is somewhat poor.

I’ll Never Forget You takes up the script from the previous movie and the stage play and to a much farther place, a poignant, dreamlike scenario that is continually punctuated, as all time-travelers find out, with the ultimate knowledge that the past wasn’t such a great place.

Tyrone Power meets the family he’s pretending, as the 1784 Peter Standish, to marry into, and we can see his interest, his sense of adventure, even his latent sense of humor warming to the occasion.  He has trouble relating to people in his own time, but here he is allowed to be a different man, and he bravely attempts sociability like a shy boy eager for friends at a party.

Irene Browne plays Lady Anne, Kate’s mother, who, like any good mother in a Jane Austen novel of the period is desperately trying to marry off her daughters.  Her husband is deceased and left them with debts.  Her rascal son, the indolent gambler, drinker, and chaser of servant girls, Tom, is played with irresistible panache by Colin-Keith Johnson. 

“What do you call the colonies now?” he asks Tyrone.

“The United States of America.”

“Trifle pompous, don’t you think?  But after all, it’s only temporary.”  He refers to constantly putting his boot-in-mouth, but we sense that saying the wrong thing at the wrong time is Tom’s favorite hobby.  He is particularly pleased to have Tyrone marry his sister, because Peter Standish is said to have 10,000 pounds a year income.  Tom wants to mooch off him.

Then Tyrone is introduced to the younger sister, Helen, about whom he knew nothing, as the original Peter Standish did not write of her in his diary.  She is played here by Ann Blyth, who becomes an ally of Tyrone’s when she generously covers for him as he blunders about knowing something he really can’t have known.  Before long their curiosity for each other turns to love.  At first she resists, because he is to marry her sister, but when she learns from him—and more importantly, believes—that he is a different Peter Standish from the future—she allows herself to enjoy a sweet, passionate, and ultimately hopeless love for him.

Miss Blyth is fascinating to watch—all the cast are excellent—but she has a lot to convey and make us believe and she has to do this under acting restrictions that the other more emotional and physically expressive characters don’t have.  Her character is sheltered, demure, gentle, all qualities which can only be indicated by her posture, her voice, and disciplined economy of movement.  She walks softly, sits and stands with a ramrod-straight back, lowers her eyes at moments of mature discretion, a minimalist way of telling us who she is and what her world is like.  Her lovely face melts into a smirk at one of Tyrone’s naïve attempts to “catch on” to this old way of life.  She also has intelligence, and a sense of humor, making her the most reasonable and capable member of her family.  In trusting Tyrone and his tales of a future world, she is also the most courageous.  Like Tyrone, she silently carries burdens, the chief of which is the pressure by her mother to marry a much older man who is also a self-important jerk.

He is played by Raymond Huntley.  Something about the voice was tantalizingly familiar, and then I remembered him from the BBC series Upstairs/Downstairs.  You’ll recall he was the family solicitor, Sir Geoffrey.  Here he is a man always clinging to this family, trying to work his way in, and becomes jealous of Tyrone’s easy friendship with the beautiful young woman he had culled out of herd for himself.  His resentment will lead to revenge.

By the way, the role of Helen was played on Broadway with Leslie Howard in 1928 by Margalo Gillmore, who we met here as the superior officer in Skirts Ahoy from 1952, the year after I’ll Never Forget You was released.

Tyrone navigates through parties where he meets the greats of the age, including James Boswell and Samuel Johnson, and sees enough of the wretched filthy streets of London, including a glimpse of children being abused in a workhouse, to understand that life in the 18^th century was not without its misery.  He becomes disillusioned. 

 

He also makes more and more blunders, and people begin to pull away from him in fear of his seeming ability to predict events.  He becomes just as isolated as he was in his lab (feeling comfortable in the lab environment, he even attempts to recreate it by performing simple experiments in a rented basement).

The date in Peter Standish’s diary that marks the end of the adventure is drawing near, but Tyrone does not want to leave Ann.  The authorities, when he has been accused of sorcery, will have the ultimate power over him.

Director Roy Ward Baker tells the story with exquisite cinematography and actors that are beautifully choreographed, not just the requisite Austen-like ball scene, but in ordinary circumstances.  When Tyrone Power hands Ann Blyth out of a coach, her long dress ripples to the ground, dripping down the metal fold-out coach steps. 

Shots of the rooms in the house, the stairway, the halls, convey mood and the house becomes like another character in the story.  The muted colors are lovely.  A bowl of colorful flowers catches our eye in the foreground as the actors stand behind, held together by the pastoral scenes on the wallpapered panels in the background.  The outdoor shots of London streets, of the quiet square, of the peaceful countryside, of Tyrone Power gazing out the window at night with satisfaction on his first day in the Age of Reason.

 

 

I like how Tyrone and the other men have a slight five-o’clock shadow in the color sequences that looks very much like men in the 18^th century oil paintings.  This is a really nice piece of detail.  I don’t think this would have shown up well in black and white.

There are some major scenes that are handled differently in I’ll Never Forget You than they were in Berkeley Square, with very good effect, and turn the ending from a flat tragedy to a more hopeful, romantic, if equally gut-wrenching ending.

First, the crux ansata (more commonly known as an ankh) is a symbol of eternal life and was a trinket brought back from Egypt by Helen’s deceased father.  In Berkeley Square, Leslie Howard has this item from the beginning of the story as something he found in the house and wonders what it is.  Later on in the story, when he is in 1784, the Helen character shows it to him, and says she will leave it in the house as a symbol of their eternal love and connection.  At the end of the story, when he has returned to 1933, he holds it mournfully as a symbol of his lost love.

I’ll Never Forget You uses the crux ansata in a more romantic and suspenseful way, when at the point Ann Blyth realizes Tyrone Power must return to his own time, she shows him the object, tells him of its significance, and demonstrates that she will hide it in a secret compartment in a desk for him to find one day as a reminder of her.  At the end of the story, when Tyrone is back in 1951, he has a fleeting few time-travel hangover moments where he thinks his adventure was all a hallucination. 

Then—aha!  He remembers the object, and runs to the hiding place.  He fumbles a few moments, not able to locate the hidden drawer.  Will he find it?  Is it there?  Please let this not be a dream!  (If we just wasted 90 minutes of our life on a dream sequence we are not going to be happy.)  And then—bingo!  His recovery of the crux ansata is joyful.

Another scene played very differently is when the Helen character, who hints that she has envisioned Peter coming to her before they met—she had a vision of him walking down the staircase holding a lighted candelabra as we saw him in modern times—and she wants to see into the future.  She looks into his eyes and through what is, I guess, meant to be a telepathic communication between them, she sees fleeting images of his world as he thinks of them.  In Berkeley Square, Helen is played by Heather Angel (We last saw her here in Cry Havoc), who though a lovely young woman, has a bit of a deer-in-the-headlights look in this movie which I think is meant to be shorthand for her soulfulness.  Her visions are splashed on the screen as stock footage of skyscrapers, locomotives, racing cars (racing cars?) biplanes, warships, gangsters, and finally World War soldiers in gas masks, bayonets drawn, flamethrowers—and she is horrified.

“Devils!  Devils!  God, would not put us here to suffer for a race of fiends like that to come after us!”

Powerful sentiment, and the image of gas masks, that iconic, ultimate horror of World War I, lingers even today as we lately hear about the threat of chemical warfare.

I’ll Never Forget You has a drastically different take on this scene.  Instead of the horrors of World War II and the nuclear age, Ann Blyth sees only beautiful cities lit by electric lights in Tyrone Power’s dark, sad eyes.  There is no stock footage superimposed over her beatific expression, we have only the trust we have invested in her, and the trust she has invested in him, to know that her wondrous visions are real. The message here is not to pound us with our recent horrors, but to count our blessings. 

“What a beautiful dream of heaven.  Who would want to leave a world such as that?”

Tyrone returns to his own world, by force, when magistrates drag him down the staircase, off to the lunatic asylum, and we see a magnificent shot from Ann Blyth’s vantage point on the upper landing to the hall below.  The great double doors close behind Tyrone Power and his captors. 

 

 

Then more flashes of lightning, and the warm colors fade into crisp black and white.  The door slowly opens again, and Tyrone is in modern dress, his hair cropped, his arm tentatively reaching for the light switch.  As he enters the house, looking all around at these rooms that have not changed with the centuries, we hear a soft, plaintive reprise of an 18^th century flute piece.  Truly, the past is alive around us if we are perceptive to it.

How we perceive our own times is the spectrum through which we judge the past.  How fascinating that the modern Peter Standish’s perspective of his own era (or rather, the filmmaker's perspective) could change so much in the eighteen years from 1933 to 1951. 

There is more to the ending that I won’t spoil for you, but it is open to our imagination, and imagination is the very essence of time travel. You can watch both Berkeley Square and I’ll Never Forget You on YouTube.  I’d love to know what you think.

Our friend Laura at Laura's Miscellaneous Musings discusses I'll Never Forget You here.

 

Cry Havoc - 1943

Cry Havoc (1943) transports us to a strange world.  We cling to what little seems familiar, and are forced to either bravely face the terrifying unknown, or just close our eyes to it, waiting to submit to it when it catches up with us.  A compelling stage play/film, it teeters between the rigid spatial boundaries of theatre, and the anything-is-possible artifice of Hollywood.  Most unusual, we are given a glimpse at world where the courage and fortitude of women are honored, and men are largely absent or helpless victims dependent on the women.

Tomorrow is the anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and we continue our four-part look at women in the armed services, begun here Monday with Keep Your Powder Dry (1945).  Where that film shows us the sorority atmosphere of basic training for the new Women’s Army Corps (WAC) in the clean and orderly world of stateside army posts, Cry Havoc drops us in the maelstrom of the Philippines during the Japanese invasion. 

Even the title card means business.  I won’t go play by play, but there’ll be some spoilers.

Only two of the women here are military.  Fay Bainter and Margaret Sullavan play Army nurses.  The rest of the ladies are refugees, most Americans, two British, and one Filipina, from towns farther north who were evacuated to the last American stronghold on Bataan.  They become volunteers at the jungle hospital.

It’s a varied lineup.  Marsha Hunt as the head volunteer with hospital experience to show them the ropes.  Ella Raines is a glamour girl, Ann Sothern is a smart-mouthed dame down on her luck who loves to give the others a hard time.  Joan Blondell is the sassy ex-stripper with the heart of gold.

We have the usual innocent Southern Gal played by Diana Lewis, with the most adorable dimples.  She reminds me of Judy Holliday.  Wife of William Powell, it was her last film before she retired from acting. 

Two sweet, gently bred British sisters played by Heather Angel and Dorothy Morris, both students of art and music seem more suited to a rose garden than this hell on earth. 

Connie Gilchrist is on board as the camp cook, dishing out sympathy and lots of rice.

Young Robert Mitchum has a brief spot as a wounded soldier, but the men are the little seen in this film. 

However, it’s worth noting that among the men they treat in the camp hospital are several Filipino soldiers.  The most intriguing male is one we don’t see, except in a distance shot. He is the lieutenant in charge of the communications shack.  We see his name painted roughly on his crude office door in the hut where the women relay radio messages.  Ann Sothern is interested and visits him in his lair, but learns she has competition for his affections from Margaret Sullavan.

It’s not really Sullavan’s film, despite the top billing and the character of central importance that she plays — the head nurse in charge of the women.  Her screen time is intermittent; we spend a lot of time on the back stories and interactions between the other women.  However, Margaret Sullavan captures our attention, and our understanding, every time she pops her head in the room. 

Miss Sullavan brings her long stage training with her; you can see she does not play to the camera, rather she plays off her other scene partners.  That’s a trait among stage-trained actors.  Also, because she is stage-trained, she uses her whole body to express herself, whereas screen actors of the time with no stage experience tended to emote more with the face, which was sort of a technical requirement, and style then, anyway.

She did not make many films, as she really preferred the theatre, but what a great thing it is watch her move from patient to patient when we first see her.  Slumping, slouching, no rigid graceful posing from her.  Nothing seems choreographed.  Her movement is completely natural and appears unrehearsed.  A quick, impatient glance at a chart, a darting glance around the hospital hut.  When she smiles briefly at a patient or a fellow worker, it is a flash, a sparkling nanosecond of some self-deprecating mirth that tells us there is a great deal of charm and a possibly a goofy sense of fun buried in this overworked, intensely focused woman.

We would never know she is dying of malignant malaria.

As we mentioned in the previous post, “Cry Havoc” has many similarities with So Proudly We Hail, but Sullavan is a far more stressed leader than the always-elegant Claudette Colbert, and her charges are far more ill-equipped to this life of service.

Though we have scenes of soldiers lying in the dirt by the hospital tent awaiting treatment, and huts in the background ablaze from the latest bombing run by the Japanese, most of the movie takes place in the underground bunker that serves as the women’s dorm.  Crude bunk beds around a common table, a few lanterns hanging from the log roof.  We can sense the dankness and chill in this room, even in the heat of the jungle.

The women have their personal struggles to overcome: the need to conquer fear, the need to feel useful, the need to give back, the need to prove themselves.  Ann Sothern comes the farthest in her character development.  She starts out as rather sullen and bitter, ever spoiling for an argument.  A poignant scene where she must collect the personal belongings of deceased patients and catalogue them for shipment back to their families in the States helps to knock the chip off her shoulder a little.  She is not completely converted to a mensch until the very end when she and Sullavan face some hard truths.

The younger British girl gets to give “The Speech” about why we are fighting, in a soft-spoken, cultured voice that is notable for its matter of factness in someone who seems to have had such a sheltered life.  She talks of the survival of the free people of the world, and her words may echo in our heads when she is lost during a bombing raid.  She is found, days later, half crazed in a tangle of dead bodies.

Her anguished older sister can hardly bear the heartache, but amazingly rebounds with a warrior’s enthusiasm when she grabs an anti-aircraft gun from a wounded soldier and shoots down an enemy plane (off camera).  She glows when she describes her deed to the others, like she’s won a carnival prize.  If this were an English foxhunt back home, we might say she had been “blooded.”  No one ceremoniously smears blood on her forehead, but it seems as if someone should.

Just as in Keep Your Powder Dry we have another scene of water nymphs bathing in the river.  No Cokes to drink here; just strafing from the enemy that results in the murder of one the girls.

We get “The Speech” again at the end of the film, this time a hard-as-nails version from Ann Sothern, who uses a map of the Pacific as a visual aid for her show-and-tell.  No dewy words of inspiration this time.  The ladies, by now, understand full well that the only way to win the war is to make the enemy work twice as hard for every inch of ground.  “A delaying action,” Claudette Colbert put it in So Proudly We Hail, but here the reality is put more bluntly.  The Japanese are getting closer and closer to their position, and there is no longer any hope of escape, or of reinforcements to wage battle.  They are starving, the hospital is overrun with wounded and malaria cases, and General MacArthur left for Australia.  The ladies will be killed or taken prisoner in a matter of days.  The most noble sacrifice they can make for the war effort is to just wait for it.

Earlier Miss Sullavan gave them the chance to escape to Corregidor (not much of an escape it would prove to be anyway), but they all refused.  As Joan Blondell replies, “A man died in my arms tonight, and now I wouldn’t leave if I knew it was my last day on earth.”

Sullavan remarks to Fay Bainter, “They’re Americans.  They believe in happy endings.”

Miss Bainter responds quietly, “I’m an American.  I don’t.”  She is the picture of a career nurse, an officer in the Army who has seen too much to believe in miracles, but carries on with thoughtful, gentle stoicism.

The Japanese invasion of their camp is dramatically effective, the more so because we do not see caricatured villains.  We see nothing; we only hear single rifle shots, snipers in camp.  The ladies, gathered in their underground quarters, perk their ears and listen.  They know what it is.  Then a sudden burst or two of machinegun fire, and they know the enemy is “mopping up” outside.  Then a shout, an order for them to identify themselves and come out.

That the movie ends with the slow procession of tired, dirty females, arms raised, quietly submitting to a fate they’ve been imagining for the last hour and a half is a tribute to all the times this actually occurred in war zones all over the world, to women all over the world.  I suppose we can’t blame Hollywood for throwing in a few strains of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” as former enemies and romantic rivals Ann Sothern and Margaret Sullavan walk out together.  Most of the film has been fairly schmaltz-free.

Another scene admirable for its restraint — when the male lieutenant is killed, and we have already been told that he is really Margaret Sullavan’s husband, she quietly enters his crude office and we see his world without him in it.  Maps, documents, radio equipment — and his officer’s cap left on a shelf.  Sullavan, a picture of stunned grief and stillness, regards his cap.  It represents him in this matriarchal jungle world where men are hardly seen.

There could have been a greater dramatic exploitation of the story of these women, and would be if this were filmed today — however, that’s one of the elements of this movie that makes it refreshing.  But it was not the director’s forbearance keeping the movie from showing more fear, more vulnerability, more skin, more torture, more rape.  It was the studio’s delicacy in fearing to offend the public.   

What we do see are a group of women we never really get to know well, but we know enough.  Sullavan is an intriguing mystery.  The others are too weary and too wary of attachment with death hovering in the bush to get to know each other that well.  We settle for a few common gripes, and a few helpless tears.  We never really get to know what happens to them when they leave the bunker at gunpoint.

Maybe it’s better that way.

Though we are presented these women as flawed but ultimately grand girls representing the best of civilized democratic nations — most of them American, we are not given the same idealistic message we see in so many other war films of the period.  Instead, we are haunted by what we see, and if that’s not a reason to buy war bonds, I don’t know what is.

Also refreshingly absent are condescending platitudes about women taking only gender-appropriate roles in the war.  These kids may have arrived in summer frocks with Panama hats or picture hats with floppy brims, but they slip into over-sized coveralls and spend the rest of the film with their hair tied back and a constant grimy film of perspiration on their faces.  No crisp uniforms for them, they look like garage mechanics. 

The well-trained WACs of Keep Your Powder Dry only wore such outfits when they were fixing the general’s car on the post.  Even if they serve overseas, will likely never find themselves close enough to the battle lines to be overrun by the enemy. 

Both films, along with So Proudly We Hail, for any flaws we see at the distance of more than six decades, lend dignity to their varied representations of women in war.  Next week, we’ll take two films made in the early 1950s, Never Wave at WAC (1953) and Skirts Ahoy (1952).  Though the Korean War was going on at the time, these films do not present a serious discussion of women serving their country, but rather take a lighter tone.  The first is a comedy, the second a musical.  We might never know we were at war.

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Jacqueline T. Lynch is the author of Ann Blyth: Actress. Singer. Star. and Memories in Our Time - Hollywood Mirrors and Mimics the Twentieth Century. Her newspaper column on classic films, Silver Screen, Golden Memories is syndicated nationally.