Trooper Hook - 1957

We’re going to spend this week talking about two films that both mythologize and yet seem to deconstruct how classic film depicted the American West. This was accomplished, however, by way of telling a more intimate story about men and women.

The two movies show a world that is certainly rugged, but is supremely romantic in a way we don’t usually see the Old West. These two movies feature relationships between men and women that are introspective beyond stereotype, and brave in attempting understanding beyond the usual bravery needed to face the bad guy.

Today’s film, “Trooper Hook” (1957) was based on a short story, and Thursday’s film, “Shane” (1953) was based on a novella. Both were written by the same man, Jack Schaefer, who was among the first writers to create Western literature above the usual pulp novel standards. He claimed at the time of his enormous success with “Shane” to never have read those pulp Westerns, and approached his story like a literary novel, feeling that the American West was a topic worthy of great themes and not such shoot-em-up action stories.

At the time he wrote “Shane” he had never even visited the West. It was a world both of his research and his imagination. By the time his story “Sergeant Houck” had been made into the film “Trooper Hook”, he had moved to Arizona, settling in the great West he admired. His books, though touching on the familiar themes of cattlemen versus homesteader, the gunfighter, the vanishing American Indian culture, he did not eulogize the West, nor did he intend to mythologize it. It was simply his canvas to write about men and women.

In the case of both of these two movies, “Trooper Hook” and “Shane”, it is the story of one woman and two men in a painful, and poetic, romantic triangle.

Interestingly, and perhaps the most glaring departure from lusty romance and bold adventure in a savage land, these romances are depicted without the usual trusty script convention (and real life reaction) of healthy lust or demonstrative desire. The Production Code may have required discretion back in the day, but there was still plenty of room for suggesting lust. The romance here, however, is envisioned more through tenderness and respect, as a union of soulmates.

“Trooper Hook” takes place in the Southwest, where Apache warriors, under their chief, Nanches, execute a group of cavalry soldiers on a cliff. They are subdued by another troop of soldiers, lead by Joel McCrea. The soldiers burn the Apaches’ village in revenge, and send them to a reservation. We see the cruelty of both adversaries.

Among the Apaches, the soldiers discover a white woman, played by Barbara Stanwyck, who was captured from a wagon train some years before. She has a small son by Nanches. Joel McCrea takes her back to the fort, with her son, to be hopefully be reunited with her white husband.

We start off with what will be a litany of bigotry, racial and sexist, against Barbara Stanwyck for having borne a child by the Apache chief. Though we understand from the beginning that she was taken against her will and she had no romantic feelings for Nanches; we are made to understand she was raped; nevertheless she is treated by the white community as one who should have committed suicide before she allowed herself to submit to an Apache, or at least had the decency to kill herself after she discovered she was pregnant.

“You mean you let yourself whelp that buck’s kid? You ain’t no white woman, no more you ain’t,” one of McCrea’s soldiers says to her. With terms like “whelp”, “mongrel” and “Indian leavings” to refer to the child, we see that Stanwyck’s humiliation as a captive is going to only continue even though she is now free.

It’s a powerful way to examine a slice of America’s history of prejudice. Had there been a romance between Stanwyck and the Apache chief, the writers might be inclined to show him as noble and heroic, and make him, rather than her, the greater victim of prejudice in a star-crossed romantic tale of intolerance between races.

But, making Stanwyck the abused possession of a man who was cruel and dangerous, and having the settlers’ and soldiers’ bigotry directed at her for being victimized, we see prejudice that is salacious as it is mean, as commonly and cheaply sexist as it is intolerance twisted beyond the logic of normally decent people.

A few will show her kindness. The first and foremost of these is Joel McCrea, as the stoic career soldier who is assigned to escort and her child back to her husband. Quito, her poker-faced little boy, is played by Terry Lawrence. Rodolfo Acosta, who moved from Mexican cinema to American movie and TV westerns, is Nanches. He breaks free from his shackles, and wants his son back.

Every once in a while Tex Ritter sings another verse of the ballad that reminds us what’s going on, a-la’ “High Noon.” It’s just not a Western without Tex Ritter, nor without dependable Royal Dano as the stagecoach driver. With his goatee, mustache, and flowing gray hair, he looks like Colonel Sanders without the bucket of chicken.

The West as a place of redemption is also hinted at in this movie, not just redemption for Miss Stanwyck or Mr. McCrea, who bears a past humiliation of his own, but of the nation. We see McCrea’s blue (yes, it’s a black and white movie) soldier’s kepi, but Royal Dano, who is the other man to treat Miss Stanwyck with open-minded gallantry, wears a gray kepi. Union and Confederate team up to get this lady and her boy home.

Barbara Stanwyck is withdrawn, emotionless, having learned from her years as a captive to repress her feelings in order to survive. The first words we hear from her are threats when she attacks a bully with a shovel for harassing her son. It draws admiration from Joel McCrea, who is her protector from one threat after another for the remainder of the story.

We get hints of his own past, and we are led to believe that he has a family somewhere, but we see another kind of family coming together in the long, arduous stagecoach ride across the open desert. Time and space is telescoped in the narrow, jostling confines of the stagecoach. Another passenger joins them, a nosy salesman who, among other things, notes that Stanwyck’s hair is “cut a might short to me.”

Later on McCrea will comfort her that it will grow out as she self-consciously brushes her hand through her fetching bob (which looks like she had a perm somewhere along the trail), and perhaps we are meant to infer that her hair was shorn to subjugate and humiliate her in the custom of degrading female prisoners and social outcasts for centuries. She spits the venomous explanation, “Lice!” at the rude man.

She also gives him a look that seems to say, “Yeah, and my hair’s gray, too. You want to make something of it?”

The hairdo was more likely an affectation of 1950s feminine coiffure, and we could also comment on Jean Arthur’s similar short hairstyle in “Shane”. In her case, her hair might have still been growing out from her successful Broadway gig as “Peter Pan” months before “Shane” began shooting (see our reference on that here in our discussion of her co-star, Boris Karloff, also here); her character in the novel is described as having her hair piled on her head.

Short hair for married women in the 19th century was not unheard of, but most certainly was not common. I think we’re looking at the 1950s taking the forefront over history here. It’s interesting that a producer and director will take such pains to make a film historically authentic but leave a glaring anachronism, either for modern women moviegoers to identify with the heroine, or to accommodate the comfort of the actress.

McCrea soon banishes the talkative salesman to the driver’s box, because really, can you imagine traveling through the hot desert in a bone-shaking conveyance with a guy who just won’t shut up?

When they make their first stop, the half-Apache child and his practically-a-prostitute mother are not allowed in the hotel dining room, so Joel McCrea takes them on a picnic, where Stanwyck and her boy bathe in a lake. She becomes more confidential with McCrea, having observed his unexpected traditionally feminine ability to nurture as well as his traditionally masculine trait to protect, and she tries to explain her captivity in terms of her strong desire to just live through it. Bearing humiliation was a tool to do this.

He understands. In a scene moving for its frank honesty as well as its simplicity, McCrea recalls his experience as a young soldier during the Civil War, when he was imprisoned at Andersonville. For those unfamiliar, this Confederate prison had the infamous reputation of being one of the worse hell-holes imaginable, where overcrowding led to men lying on the ground out in the open in the mud and their own filth, being barely kept alive on small rations of putrid food.

A fellow prisoner, sick out of his mind with fever, hallucinates about having a dog with him. Joel explains, “He had a love of dogs, and I found if I barked once or twice, he’d give me some of his rations.”

He got down on his hands and knees, pretending to be this feverish man’s submissive, loyal pet, letting the man feed him. “For a whole month I was a dog.”

Then his master died of the fever.

McCrea goes beyond sympathizing with her humiliation by sharing his own, and the practical lengths he had gone to survive.

The stagecoach trip resumes and the new passenger is a young Earl Holliman, a hung over but still pretty happy-go-lucky cowboy with nothing but his saddle to his name. They ride through the night, and we are given a sublime picture that seems to sum up the movie in a cozy image. Holliman hunkers on his bench in the stagecoach, with McCrea’s outstretched leg extending across and bolstering up the sleeping Holliman with his boot to keep him falling.

McCrea and Stanwyck are on the other seat, with the sleeping boy sprawled across both their laps. Stanwyck is asleep, slumped against McCrea’s chest, and Joel McCrea is the only one awake, with his two arms outstretched to grasp either side of the stagecoach, the linchpin that keeps everyone from rocking too much, from having their sleep disturbed. He is keeping watch, and also, we may imagine, savoring the sensation of warm bodies who need him. He is heroic in his simple thoughtfulness. He is the picture of the family man we thought he probably was, but there is something different about him now, something more wistful than stoic. Perhaps he has lost his family and is remembering times past. Perhaps he never had one.

Nanches is free and stalks the stagecoach.

New passengers include an aristocratic Spanish matron played by Celia Lovsky, and her convent-schooled granddaughter, played by Susan Kohner, who is on her way to an arranged marriage. Holliman falls in love and we have the makings of a subplot. Also along for the ride is a big blow-hard rancher who brags about risking everything in a poker game to attain his immense wealth. When trouble comes, we see he has lost his bravado for risk, but doesn’t mind risking the lives of others.

Tex Ritter sings another verse.

Nanches and his warriors catch up with the stagecoach, and there is a standoff, temporarily won by Mr. McCrea when he plays a curious and fairly sickening game of “chicken” with Nanches by having Holliman hold a gun to the boy’s head.

It buys them time, and they arrive in the settlement where Miss Stanwyck’s husband awaits. He has been notified of her arrival, but not told about the boy. He is horrified.

“What about other people? What do I tell them? How do I even face them?” He tells Stanwyck she should have left Quito with “his own kind”.

Sergeant McCrea stays for supper. One could make a comparison with the scene in “Shane” where Shane is the stranger for supper at the homesteader’s cabin of Van Heflin and Jean Arthur, with their boy. But McCrea and Alan Ladd as guests with a lonely and troubled past is the only similarity. Heflin’s and Arthur’s relationship is close, and their boy is openhearted and happy.

Actually, there is another similarity and that is the niggling romantic triangle that grows so quietly that we may not notice it among greater passions until there is nothing left to do but have a showdown.

McCrea, now that his duty is done, tries to be on his way, but first has a man-to-man talk with the angry husband. “The boy gave her a reason to live, and she’s lived through an awful lot.”

But her husband, played by John Dehner, is adamant that she will stay with him and the boy will be sent back with McCrea.

“I was ready to forgive you about the Indian,” he says.

“Forgive me?!” Stanwyck finally opens her eyes, and gives free rein to her anger.

“What kind of man do you think I am?” he fires back.

Yes, we were wondering that ourselves, for in both these films we cover this week there is a subtitle, something along the lines of “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

McCrea, no marriage counselor, decides mother and child are unsafe here, and helps them to escape. Dehner follows with his gun, but then, right about this time Nanches shows up. One angry man wants the woman, but not the boy. The other angry man wants the boy but could care less about the woman. Both have guns, so there’s little room for compromise and the result is a too-convenient ending.

Still, there is time for one more confession, and one more act of love. As McCrea and Stanwyck, and Quito, ride off into the sunset on a buckboard, McCrea remarks, “I’m 47. Nearly 30 of that in the Army makes a man rough. Got four months ‘til the end of my last hitch.”

It is a marriage proposal, in case you missed it, and she questions about the family she thought he already had. He confesses he was never married and only lets people think that.

“I think I always knew,” she says, smiling, and all through this shy exchange neither has shared even a look, let alone a kiss. Yet we don’t doubt the outcome because somewhere down the dusty trail they have already become a family.

Come back Thursday for another Western romance with what has been called one of the best Westerns ever made: “Shane”.

(Sorry the screen captures are so poor. I was working off a VHS tape that had seen better days.)

Here Comes the Groom - 1951

“Here Comes the Groom” (1951) can be viewed through a prism of different spectrums, first and foremost perhaps, as the first in the last handful of movies directed by Frank Capra. There are pieces of Capra’s canon here: a smidgen of screwball comedy, a bit of social commentary. But, as if not too deeply touched by the great director, the film summons up all its parts and walks away on its own, flawed but triumphant just for getting there.

Maybe you could say the same for Frankenstein’s monster. It got up and walked away on its own, too. But, I have a fondness for the monster, and I have a fondness for this pretty delightful movie that tries hard to be more than it is.

Here we have Bing Crosby as a happy-go-lucky foreign correspondent in Paris writing about war orphans. Capra reminds us that we are still in the mopping up stage in the aftermath of World War II, when some six years after the war ended, Americans are getting a bit weary of it.

“The war orphan racket’s milked dry. It’s not news anymore,” Bing’s editor says, played by Robert Keith, who we last saw here in “I Want You” (1950). Words like UNESCO, the United Nations, the Atlantic Charter are bandied about, reminding us of the timeline this movie places us.

We even get a generous dose of the young Anna Maria Alberghetti as a blind orphan (her mother refused to “entertain” the enemy, we are told) singing “Caro None” from Verdi’s “Rigoletto” in an audition to be adopted by Alan Reed and Minna Gombell.

She is very sweet, and very good, and Alan Reed (AKA Fred Flintstone, as if you didn’t know), an opera impresario, adopts her and promises her not only a home but a bright career. The movie is barely ten minutes old and we already have our first happy ending.

(Does anybody else automatically think of the old line from the “Mary Tyler Moore” show, “Anna Maria Alberghetti in a taxi, honey…”?)

Perhaps Mr. Capra, too, is weary of the aftermath of World War II, because this is all that constitutes social commentary in this breezy musical, and we move on, tentatively, to the screwball comedy.

Bing Crosby, despite his efforts at finding homes for war orphans, is not really as much a hero as a lazy fellow for whom things always work out. Doing good comes as a coincidence.

Two of his orphan friends become his own adopted children (eventually): a rascally little boy played by Jacques Gencel, who displays admirable stewardship over the ever-adorable Beverly Washburn, who being younger and not really being French, doesn’t have much to say. We saw her last, I think in this post on “Old Yeller”, where she was a bit older and had a bit more to do.

I like little Jacques’s mimicking of Crosby on the phone.

Crosby receives a letter in the form of a recording, an interestingly used holographic image, from Jane Wyman, the gal he left behind. If he doesn’t high-tail it home, she’s going husband-hunting elsewhere.

Crosby flies home to stop her, with his two orphans, and we get a sudden smidgen of vaudeville right out of left field when several passengers erupt into song with Bing on the plane. “Misto Cristofo Columbo” is a bouncy, fun song about discovering America, as the orphans are about to do, and opening up freedom’s door for war refugees. It is sung by real-life impromptu USO troupe of Frank Fontaine, Phil Harris, Cass Daley, Dorothy Lamour, and Louis Armstrong. Nothing fun like that ever happens when I fly.

When he arrives with the kids in Boston, he discovers that Miss Wyman’s already bound for the altar that week with a millionaire, played by Franchot Tone. Mr. Tone makes a refreshing nemesis; he is handsome, intelligent, kind, and superior in every way. Crosby realizes he has his work cut out for him and he must be especially devious to steal Wyman away from this great guy.

But there is chemistry between Miss Wyman and Mr. Crosby that we discover right off the bat, despite her criticism of his maddeningly casual take on life. When she brings him to the office building of her real-estate investor employer, who is also her fiancé, to help Bing find a cottage for his young-uns, they demonstrate rapport and sparkling musicality in the number “In the Cool, Cool, Cool of the Evening”, which they warble from the office, to the elevator, and out into the street.

The song immediately became a big hit on the radio. Some of the audience then, and perhaps more so today, who had become used to thinking of Jane Wyman as a dramatic actress may have forgotten she started out a chorus girl and could belt a song out with the best of them.

Another fun “the gang’s all here” kind of aspect is engendered by so many familiar faces getting a piece of the action: James Barton and Connie Gilchrist as Jane’s “wrong side of the track” parents. (It was disapprovingly noted in a recent viewing of this film by one of my relatives that though Jane’s family is from Gloucester, Mass. and the movie takes place in Boston, nobody here has the proper accent. I don’t hold it against anybody, though. I can be big.)

We also have dear old Adeline De Walt Reynolds, who we featured once in this post, who gets a couple of funny lines. Charles Halton, who last showed up as the detective in “The Shop Around the Corner” shows up here as an immigration agent. H.B. Warner is one of Franchot Tone’s stodgy wealthy uncles.

The magnificent (so says anyone carrying a torch for him) Charles Lane as the FBI agent makes my day.

Chris Appel, who surprisingly made only two films, appears here as the frantic wedding arranger who cannot get anyone to cooperate during the wedding rehearsal.

Check out Jane Wyman’s wedding apparel, particularly the tiara and recall our series on the 1950s princess here, here, and here.

I’m saving the best for last. Alexis Smith. She plays the distant cousin of Franchot Tone who agonizingly harbors a secret crush on him. Her awkward, blue-blood tweediness has left her ignored by him and her family, until Bing Crosby takes her in hand and teaches her how to flirt, and how to wrestle, in order to give her the confidence to go after Franchot Tone, so that Crosby may have Miss Wyman to himself. Though it’s a preposterous scene, it’s also touching when we realize that Crosby is the only one to understand her feelings and to give her the confidence she desperately needs.

“You are beautiful. You’re a knockout,” he says, and especially compliments her height, something all shy tall girls need to hear.

Alexis Smith blooms under his rough-and-tumble tutelage, and becomes a bombshell. Later she will wrestle with Miss Wyman (or the stunt doubles will, actually), and declare her worthiness both as a member of the clan, and as an object of lust. She even gets to sing her own verse of “In the Cool, Cool, Cool of the Evening” a cappella.

I like when editor Robert Keith, who is a conspirator in her “education”, leaves to head back for the office and one of Miss Smith’s stockings snags a ride on the back of his hat.

At the 11th hour, amid busybody government officials, wisecracking newspapermen, a congregation of elite Boston society at the televised wedding of the year, Crosby’s conniving plans gel as everything else falls apart. Franchot Tone and Jane Wyman choose other partners, and it’s a happy ending where nobody is foiled, not really, because there were never really any bad guys.

Have a look below for “In the Cool, Cool, Cool of the Evening”. Note how it’s sung “live” and not lip-synched.

Below that, our USO troupe singing “Miso Cristofo Columbo”.

(Don’t forget to scroll down to the bottom and mute the music so you can hear the video.)

Preview - Film Noir Blogathon

To start this year off right, let’s first remind all readers and fellow bloggers of the second film preservation blogathon hosted by Ferdy on Films, and by the Self Styled Siren, with some details here.

This year’s blogathon is scheduled for February 14th through 21st, and the topic is Film Noir. Please have a look at those two ladies' blogs in February for what I’m sure will be a fabulous list of blog posts, and please donate to support the Film Noir Foundation. Send your contributions here.

And though it’s a little early, I’m calling dibs on “The Prowler” (1951) with Van Heflin and Evelyn Keyes. I expect to post it on Monday, February 14th. Nothing says “Happy Valentine’s Day” like killing your girlfriend’s husband on the front lawn while he’s in his jammies.

Did I give too much away? Doah!

Happy New Year

Happy New Year!  Thank you for the pleasure of your company this past year.  See you in 2011.

Off Topic - Children's Books during World War II

This is to pick up the thread of a conversation we began in the comments section of this post a month ago that introduced the series on home front “war stories”. I’ve had another project on the back burner for some time with which some of you might be able to help.

This involves a possible book about children’s books written during World War II, about that war. We’re not talking about any classics of children’s literature here, no Caldecott or Newbery Award winners; what I mean are those series books, the pulp novels that engaged teens and pre-teens with a weird combination of childlike adventure and all-too adult angst about the consequences of not doing one’s patriotic duty during the war.

Some of these were a series featuring the same character, like the “Dave Dawson” books, where he and his pal, Freddie Farmer, fought the enemy pretty much all over the globe. Likewise “Red Randall” who began his teenage trial by fire at Pearl Harbor. Both series were written by R. Sidney Bowen.

“Cherry Ames” went from nursing school into the Army, served in Panama, some non-disclosed islands in the South Pacific, flew through a hailstorm of gunfire over Germany, and finished up her tour of duty as a nurse in a veteran’s hospital. I won’t guess how many girls pursued nursing careers because of this series, but I know there are some out there who admit to it.

Other series followed a theme of wartime service but featured different characters. Whitman Publishing, who practically cornered the market in children’s series books at the time, produced several pulp novels under their “Fighters for Freedom Series”. This gave us “Nancy Dale - Army Nurse”, “Dick Donnelly of the Paratroops”, “Norma Kent of the WACS,” “Sally Scott of the WAVES”. “Kitty Carter of the Canteen Corps” showed us we didn’t necessarily have to be in the military to help the war effort.

The publisher touted these as “Thrilling novels of war and adventure for modern boys and girls.”

It was a tough being a modern boy or girl when war might be all you remembered, and would determine a future you could not imagine, a future which seemed to hang precariously on whether or not you displayed your full measure of devotion and courage. Just eating your vegetables wasn't good enough anymore.

There are several elements to these stories which are quite striking. One is the, in some cases, unsparing description of death and cruelty, and the fatalistic manner in which the tone of these stories seems to indicate the young reader should accept these conditions. Nancy Dale’s troop ship is torpedoed, and she spends several days in a lifeboat with a handful of other nurses and crew members. One dies and they dump the body overboard.

At one point in the story she receives word her brother is missing in action and presumed dead. A family friend, comforting her, tells her not to hold out much hope of his survival. “Don’t let wishful thinking keep you from facing reality, my dear. There’re many things worse than death in this war.” How would a kid, who had relatives in the war, take this message?

On the frontispiece of “Red Randall at Pearl Harbor”, published by Grosset & Dunlap, we are reminded that “This book, while produced under wartime conditions, in full compliance with government regulations for the conservation of paper and other essential materials is completed and unabridged.” Even the book itself has the imprimatur of self sacrifice.

If you find these books today, the pages are yellowed, few of them have book jackets left intact, but many of them have the signatures of the children to whom they belonged. Or, in this case of this flyleaf of “Norma Kent of the WACS” - “To Shirley from Grandma - December 25, 1944”.

What I’d like to know from you is your memories of reading these books, how you discovered them, and what impressions they had upon you. Perhaps you were, like Shirley, a child at Christmas. Perhaps you were Shirley’s younger sister or brother, getting her hand-me-down books five or ten years later, when the aftermath of the war was known and the wartime service remained a badge of honor out of reach for this first succeeding generation. Maybe you were her daughter, or grandson, and found these books in an attic. You could have read them when the war was current events, or something that came alive for you one rainy afternoon in the 1970s.

I’d like to know about that particular American generation, who became adults in the early 1950s, perhaps still “shell shocked” by a childhood of vicarious victory and defeat, who found themselves taking places of responsibility in a society where, though regimented, not everyone played by the rules.

I’d like to hear from the all the nurses, the sailors, the fliers, who became what they did because of a book they’d read when they were fourteen.

I’d like to hear from the romantic nostalgic buffs who learned history from flea market artifacts like a written-to-formula kid’s novel about a world turned terrible where the monsters were real, and you never read “and they lived happily ever after” at the end.

If you have any thoughts to contribute, please email me at: JacquelineTLynch@gmail.com, with the understanding that any communication might be used for possible publication, though all requests for anonymity will be honored. No email communication will be published on this blog.

Thanks.

"Holiday Affair" - 1949

“Holiday Affair” (1949) could almost be an extension of the “war stories” series we did a couple weeks ago, with its examination of a war widow still fighting the good fight on the home front. The trouble is, the war’s over and she cannot make herself move on.

Janet Leigh plays the single mother of little Timmy, played with all-American boy golly gosh sweetness by young Gordon Gebert. Master Gebert has a cute line when, given a present he especially wanted, replies, “I’m so happy if I was a dog, my tail would be wagging.” It’s something a six-year would say.

A war widow, Janet Leigh still keeps the lamp in the window by subconsciously, and sometimes consciously, raising her boy to be a replacement for his father, and by not allowing a new husband and father a place in her heart.

Not that Wendell Corey isn’t trying. He plays her attorney beau, a steady, nice guy with an easy, intelligent manner who waits patiently for her to accept his marriage proposal, washes the dishes with her, and meanwhile works hard at being Timmy’s pal. Timmy is ambivalent, for his mother is raising him to be, like her, self sufficient and needing nobody but each other.

Enter Robert Mitchum, just as good at being a charming sweetie as he is being a sadistic scary guy. Who’d have thought? He and Miss Leigh cross paths in a department store, and continue to cross paths throughout the movie in situations both coincidental and contrived. He wins Timmy over first with his playfulness and man-to-man camaraderie, but Janet Leigh is more resilient. He has to hammer home some painful truths to her before she allows the war to be finally over.

I like the scene where Mitchum and Corey ruminate on how it doesn’t seem to snow as much as when they were kids, and how Corey muses it might have something to do with the atom bomb.

As we mentioned in our last post on “The Shop Around the Corner”, we’re looking at a commercial Christmas in these posts. What had been a cozy and quaint 1930s gift shop on a snowy Budapest side street in that movie becomes a bustling downtown post-war department store here. The kind of scene for which many old movie buffs are, in these days of mega malls and online shopping, nostalgic for, despite how the inconvenient dressing up and taking a cab downtown would seem today.

We love this old stuff, but I wonder if we have the guts and stamina, and patience for it?

Particularly clever is the use of electric trains, the iconic Holy Grail of Christmas presents, and also a foreshadowing of a cross-country train trip Mr. Mitchum intends to take to start his life over.

When the opening credits roll, we are shown a train barreling by, and as the camera pans back from the countryside, we see that it is nothing more than a toy electric train setup in a store toy department. Robert Mitchum takes center stage, part Pied Piper and part pitchman, as he demonstrates the marvelous toy trains to the rapt audience of kids. He is a salesman here, a hero to his young customers, a bane to the suspicious floorwalker who keeps an eye on him.

Janet Leigh buys a train, but not for her little boy who would kill for one. She is a comparison shopper incognito, a kind of commercial spy who investigates prices, quality of merchandise, buys trains and then returns them. Mr. Mitchum is on to her, but when he fails to report her to the manager, his floorwalker nemesis turns him in, and he’s fired. Out of job at Christmas.

His dream is to travel to California and work at a boat building business, but he needs the dough to get there. Still, he buys Timmy the train he won’t otherwise get for Christmas, and puts himself next in line behind Wendell Corey for Janet Leigh’s hand in marriage. If she can just realize the fact that she’s free to marry.

A couple of good scenes are the Christmas dinner with Janet Leigh’s in-laws, a kindly elderly couple, played by Esther Dale and Griff Barnett, doting on the grandson who reminds them so much of their deceased son. Wendell Corey and Robert Mitchum also have seats at the table, and for a while it’s very pleasant how these grownups behave so grown up, suppressing their own angst and desires for the sake of Christmas.

They give toasts, and when it’s Mr. Mitchum’s turn, he frankly states his case, in lawyer-like fashion, to the lady and her lawyer that he wants to marry her. Rarely has a personal confrontation come off as so classy.

It’s also a punch in the gut for Wendell Corey to have to sit through it, for Janet Leigh who fears it, and for her in-laws, who gamely suffer the logical discussion of who is better to be their grandson’s next father, a replacement for their son.

Another good scene is when Mitchum calmly blasts her between the eyes with self knowledge at its most uncomfortable, of what she is doing to herself and her son by not letting go of her widowhood.

Likewise when Wendell Corey breaks off with her, acknowledging to her what he has known for some time, she just doesn’t love him. It’s killing him, but he faces it stoically. Neither men try to beat each other’s time; they just want the facts which Janet Leigh is too frightened, or guilty to face.

Just before the end credits roll, we see a real train trip and watch Robert Mitchum take off on his new life adventure, but not alone. Just as at the beginning, the camera pulls back and the train cleverly becomes a toy again on a new train setup with tiny palm trees of his California destination. It’s like “Holiday Affair Meets Gumby.”

By the way, this film was released on Christmas Eve, 1949. In this previous post, we covered how most Christmas-themed movies were not released during the holiday at all.

Thanks for shopping with me this week. And for carrying the packages. You can put them down, now. For those who celebrate Christmas, I wish you a peaceful and pleasant holiday.

For all readers of this blog, I have a gift (should you choose to accept it, as they used to say on “Mission Impossible”). For today only you can order my novel “Meet Me in Nuthatch” FREE from Smashwords. This is an ebook, which can be downloaded to any ebook reader in different formats, and can also be downloaded to your computer and read on your computer without needing any Kindle or Nook or other ereader. When you go through the checkout, put in this coupon code: JQ29S -- and your book will be free.

Merry Christmas.

The Shop Around the Corner - 1940

The Shop Around the Corner (1940) nostalgically shows us the finely delineated everyday moments that are more trying, require more patience and courage, give more delight and a bigger emotional rush than even the most hectic modern countdown to Christmas. Reportedly director Ernst Lubitsch’s favorite film, it is no one wonder, for there is so much of his personally constructed Gemütlichkeit. It begins with the lilting, breezy dance orchestra music we hear at the opening and closing credits.

We’re going shopping this week with a look at the commercial aspect (though incidental) of Christmas as seen through this film, and on Thursday, with Holiday Affair (1949) here.

There are so many charming aspects to The Shop Around the Corner, most especially that the minor character actors play major roles, including many beautiful solo moments that complement the major stars here: Margaret Sullavan and James Stewart.

You’ll remember Felix Bressart from a slew of films, even if you don’t know his name. Here he is the elder shop clerk who assiduously avoids the blustering boss with whom he knows he can’t win, and seems to bring the warmth of his simple home where he is “Papa” to his wife and children, into the gift shop where he and his fellow employees have a kind of second home. We last saw him in this post on Portrait of Jennie (1949) where he played the befuddled movie projector operator.

You’ll remember Sara Haden as Aunt Milly from a long parade of Andy Hardy movies. She is the old maid secretary here instead of the old maid aunt. Charles Halton is the detective, also seen in dozens of movies in minor roles, probably you’ll recall him as the bank examiner in It’s a Wonderful Life (1946).

William Tracy is a standout as the clownish, clever delivery boy, likable and conniving, who eventually gets a promotion and lords it over the new delivery boy.

The new boy is played by a young Charles Smith, who could tear our hearts out with his gentle innocence and hopefulness.

Josef Schildkraut, who won the Best Supporting Oscar for The Life of Emile Zola (1937), continues to prove his versatility as the two-faced sales clerk always trying to stab his fellow employees in the back (we’ve all known them).

There is Frank Morgan, just off The Wizard of Oz (1939), who skillfully trades his customary comic confusion for a more dramatic role as the fussy boss, Mr. Matuschek, whose personal anxieties and ultimate near-tragedy affect his entire staff.

All these players make the movie seem like an ensemble piece, where the last shall be first. Still, there is a major plot line for the two stars apart from the goings on in the store.

Especially good in his role is James Stewart, the head sales clerk, a man who must be a buffer between the mercurial whims of the boss, and the helpless junior staff. Mr. Stewart has the ability to play that kind of young man who, while being street-wise and knowing the odds of life are stacked against him, manages to balance his wry pragmatism with a brave idealism that buoys him. He walks a fine line in his relationship with his boss, and with his secret love, a woman he knows only by her letters. We saw recently with Love Letters how much can be won, and lost, in precious correspondence and the allure of a well-turned phrase.

Margaret Sullavan plays the newest member of the staff, who cleverly and with chutzpah manages to charm a disinterested lady customer into buying unmovable merchandise, thereby getting herself a job and starting her role as a thorn in the side of James Stewart. They are combative throughout the film, but each has a secret. Eventually, we come to understand that the anonymous pen pal letters they write to prospective sweethearts are actually written to each other.

The story has been remade in several incarnations, including the post here on In the Good Old Summertime (1944). But this version has a charm all its own, and I think a good part of it is Lubitsch’s setting the story in Budapest during the Depression. I love the signs all written in Magyar, including our many peeks at the currency tabs on the cash register.

Miss Sullavan, with her Dresden doll features and her precise stage speech with her throaty voice seems to carry the illusion of Europe, as does, ironically, James Stewart. We may see him usually as his “Mr. Smith” icon, the all-American idealist. But there was also something, as mentioned above, of a practical, doubting, soberness to James Stewart’s portrayals, as if he is someone who was fooled once and is determined not to be taken in again. His gentlemanly reserve fits well here in this middle European gift shop.

I love Felix Bressart’s low bows when shaking hands. The Americans and the Europeans in the cast seem to blend well together, without parody.

Made in 1940, while World War II stripped away the independence and the lives of many, many Europeans, we may well guess that this is Mr. Lubitsch’s tribute, and perhaps farewell, to a more peaceful era in Europe. Hitler may have been well forming his plans in the 1930s, but there is still in this movie something decidedly nostalgic, something Habsburgian about this setting. It might be the cigarette boxes that play “Ochi Tchornya” (Dark Eyes), or the courtly shrug of the shoulders attitude that one must make the best of things in this troubled world.

The commercial aspect of Christmas here is gently expressed. Certainly, Frank Morgan exhorts, and bullies, his employees into gearing up for the hoped-for Christmas rush. Christmas Eve, a light snow without sleet or the slightest breeze falls on the shoulders of the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd in the street, teased by decorated window displays. Mr. Morgan’s gift shop does the best business since 1928, the last Christmas before the Wall Street crash.

I like James Stewart’s line to Felix Bressart when they discuss the excitement of getting a bonus, the anticipation of opening the pay envelope and wondering how much. “As long as the envelope’s closed, you’re a millionaire.”

We sense the boss is made the happiest when, after inquiring after the Christmas Eve plans of his employees, who all have somewhere to go, his newest staff member, young Rudy, is all alone this night. Boss, alone himself, joyfully invites delivery boy to a first-rate restaurant feast as Mr. Morgan learns the true spirit of Christmas, not from ghosts, but by his own errors, his near-tragedy, and his gratitude that life does go on in spite of how much of a mess we make of it sometimes.

If you’ve not seen The Shop Around the Corner, TCM is showing it tonight.

Come back Thursday for Robert Mitchum and Janet Leigh in a much larger department store setting in Holiday Affair here.

*********

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.