We Gab Hard for the Money

Werth: Hullo, Wise.

Wise: Hi, Werth?  What's wrong?  You look like you're about to eat my brains.

Werth: Work has been really busy of late. It's totally getting in the way of my watching old movies and scouring the internet for pictures I don't already have of Joan Crawford.

Wise: I'm sorry to hear that, but I can totally sympathize.  Sometimes work feels like it's swallowing up the best of me and only leaving scraps behind.

Werth: You know what would make me feel much better?

Wise: Winning the lottery and being named Robert Osborn's successor?  

Werth: Yes, but in the meantime I was hoping we could try some good ol' Hollywood escapism and gab about great movies where people's lives take an interesting turn because of their jobs.

Wise: You know I'm game.  Cinema therapy is the great cure-all.

Werth: And nothing cures quite like a Billy Wilder comedy—although 1960's The Apartment would be better classified as a comedy/drama. C.C. Baxter (Jack Lemmon) is an employee of the massive Consolidated Life Company. Shown sitting at his desk in a cavernous, industrial-style common workroom whose lights and desks seem to stretch off into infinity, C.C. is already primed to move up the corporate ladder. To curry favor with his bosses, C.C. makes his W. 67th St. apartment available to his superiors as a destination for their clandestine quickies with women other than their wives.

Wise: Poor wives. They never get the clandestine quickies.

Werth: Unfortunately for C.C., this means a lot of time spent loitering outside his building or walking in Central Park in the dead of night waiting for his bosses to finish with their floozies. 

But it all appears to be worth it when the head of PR, Mr. Sheldrake (Fred MacMurray at his slickest) offers C.C. a promotion and his own office—provided Mr. Sheldrake can get in on the love nest action.

Wise: Wow, the absent-minded professor not only invented flubber, but was also a dog.

Werth: C.C. accepts, of course, and is anxious to share his promotion news with the elevator-girl of his dreams, Miss Kubelick (the recently turned 78 Shirley MacLaine). But what C.C. doesn't know is that Miss Kubelick is actually the chippie Mr. Sheldrake is having an affair with in C.C.'s apartment.

Wise: It makes sloppy seconds so much easier when the girl is already in your bedroom.

Werth: It gets even sloppier when Miss Kubelick finds out that she is merely the latest girl in a long string of receptionists and actuaries for Mr. Sheldrake, so she attempts suicide Christmas Eve in C.C.'s apartment.

Wise: Okay, what happened to the comedy?

Werth: That's what's so refreshing about this movie. In the hands of a director like Blake Edwards this would be a door-slamming sex farce. But in Wilder's hands, the comedy and drama weave together to form something that, while not real enough to be called "realistic," is tender enough to be human. 

Both MacLaine and Lemmon are perfectly cast for this blend of loneliness and levity. MacLaine's typical kooky pluckiness is more reserved than usual—but still endearingly charming—hiding an inner sadness borne of broken trust. 

And Lemmon's brilliance at finding comedy in the smallest of motions and moments is utilized to its fullest, giving his lonely C.C. depth, even while he is straining his spaghetti with a tennis racket.


Wise: I use my tennis racket as a cheese grater.

Werth: Nominated for 10 Academy Awards and winning five—including the biggie, Best Picture—The Apartment would be the last truly great film that Wilder would make. But in a career that included such classics as Double Indemnity (1944), The Lost Weekend (1945), Sunset Boulevard (1950), and Some Like it Hot (1959), The Apartment is the epitome of Wilder's ability to make us laugh one moment and sniffle the next. 

Wise: Witticisms and the workplace also combine perfectly in It (1927), a confection starring silent screen mega-star Clara Bow as Betty Lou Spence, a shop girl just bursting with "It." 

Werth: I'm assuming you don't mean she dresses like a clown and kills people through the sewage system.  

Wise: Of course not.  It is based on a short story by Elinor Glyn who defined "It" as "That quality possessed by some which draws all others by its magnetic force," and Clara Bow had that in spades.  

Propelled to Hollywood stardom by winning a nationwide Fame and Fortune contest, Bow became one of the defining faces of the silent era and It became one of her defining roles.  The film has occasionally been dismissed as a Cinderella story, but Bow shows a lot more pluck and ambition than the stereotypical fairy tale princess.  

She falls for her boss, Cyrus Waltham (a dreamy Antonio Moreno), the scion of Waltham's Department Store where she works.  Realizing that he will never notice her as a salesgirl, she strikes up a friendship with Cyrus' best friend Monty (William Austin inhabiting the fey dandy role later perfected by Edward Everett Horton) and convinces him to escort her to the Ritz where she engineers a meeting with Cyrus and he promptly becomes smitten by her.  

Werth: Now all I can think about is a delicious, buttery cracker...

Wise: She makes a wager that he won't recognize her the next time they meet, and the following day at the store, he does just that.  When he realizes his mistake, he offers to make good on their bet, and she suggests a trip to Coney Island.  After a happily romantic excursion, things turn sour when she rebuffs his aggressive advances, only to turn even worse when a tabloid reporter (a young Gary Cooper in a non-speaking role), two priggish social workers, and the baby of 

Betty's unmarried roommate incite a mix-up that convinces Cyrus that she is nothing but a golddigger.  Furious, Betty hatches a plan to make Cyrus fall in love with her despite what he thinks are her failings and to humiliate him when he proposes.  Since this is a comedy, her scheme doesn't come off as she plans, but a roundelay of mistaken identities, comeuppance for snobs, and a yachting accident ensures a happy ending. 

Werth: You used roundelay and comeuppance in the same sentence. Are you going for a double word score or something?

Wise: It's interesting to compare It with a lot of contemporary romantic comedies because most of snafus that fuel the plot in this kind of film stem from Betty's principles rather than the sniveling humiliations in, say, your typical Katherine Heigl film.  Betty is never less than her most authentic (and rambunctious) self, and if she is reduced to tears near the end of the film, it's not because she's missed out on some idealized prince, but because she has failed to find her equal.  And that's why this film feels so satisfying despite its age: Betty finds her happy ending because she's earned it, and not because a romantic golden goose plopped in her lap totally undeserved. 

Werth: Sorry, Wise. I hate to stop you, but I gotta get back to work. 

Wise: Just don't forget to punch the clock for next week's Film Gab.

  

12 Step Gab

Wise: Hi there, Werth!

Werth: Please, stop typing so loud.

Wise: Did someone celebrate his faux Irish heritage too much last night?

Werth: There’s some Irish on my Grandfather’s side... and yes.

Wise: You know the best cure for a hangover?

Werth: Four Tylenol washed down with a fifth of Cointreau?


Wise: Alcoholic Movies!

Werth: Ah! The hair of the Hollywood that bit you.

Wise: Indeed. When I’m getting my fix of over-imbibing on the silver screen, I like to serve it dry with a twist of old Hollywood glamor and a splash of 80’s bitters.  

Werth: Sounds like you’re going to dunk Joan Collins’ “Dynasty” shoulder pads into a mug of Old Grandad. 

Wise: Close, but actually I’m thinking of Postcards from the Edge, Mike Nichols’ film version of Carrie Fisher’s thinly veiled roman a clef about the excesses of an actress as she struggles with addictions, a turbulent love life, and the unending and unhelpful razzmatazz of her screen legend mother.  

Werth: Razzmatazz that will drive a body straight to Jenny Craig.

Wise: Meryl Streep plays Suzanne Vale, an effervescent actress with a few hits under her belt and a few bumps up her nose.  After a stint in rehab, and before the insurance company will allow her to start her next film, she moves in with her mother and is forced to negotiate both her recovery and her complicated maternal relationship.  Of course that relationship is even more difficult when your mother is played by Shirley MacLaine in Debbie Reynolds drag.  

Werth: That would make a great Halloween costume. 

Wise: Postcards isn’t a perfect film, but it is loaded with great performances and some genuinely funny jokes made at Hollywood’s expense.  Annette Bening, Richard Dreyfuss, and Gene Hackman all have small but pivotal roles, and their presence gives the movie a kind of insider-y feel.  It’s fun to watch the fictional world of movie-making bleed into Suzanne’s real life, just like it’s fun to play a guessing game of how much of the story is based on Carrie Fisher’s own experiences.  

Werth: I liked seeing Conrad Bain get some post-“Diff’rent Strokes” work.

Wise: Both Streep and MacLaine get to sing a couple of numbers which adds extra zest to the affair.  Plus Dennis Quaid does a lot of shirtless smirking while causing a lot of trouble for Suzanne.  He’s at the height of the golden, good-time boy era of his career and he cheerfully lures Suzanne into and out of the bedroom before eventually dumping her at the emergency room after an overdose.  

Werth: I find that the best way to cure a Dennis Quaid overdose is to hit rock-bottom with the drunkenly delightful Dudley Moore in 1981’s Arthur.

Wise: Not to be confused with the Russell Brand re-make that comes out April 8th.

Werth: Of course not. Arthur is a wealthy, lovable, ne’er-do-well lush who spends his nights at the Plaza eating dinner with lycra-clad street walkers and his days waking up in a bedroom with a trainset.

After taking a bath wearing a top hat, he can be found traipsing through New York department stores with his British-ly acerbic manservant, Hobson, played with hilarious elan by the Oscar-winning John Gielgud.

 

Wise: Isn’t that how you spend your days?

Werth: Just Saturdays. Arthur’s boozey life gets a wake-up call from his father, however, when he is told he has to marry heiress Susan Johnson (a pre- L.A. Law Jill Eikenberry) or be written off without a sou. 


Wise: There are worse things than marrying an heiress. 

Werth: Only Arthur has just found love in the Bergdorf’s tie department care of sassy shoplifter, Liza Minnelli.

Wise: What’s a drunk millionaire to do?

 Werth: What really makes this movie work is its total devotion to its lead character. Dudley Moore waltzes effortlessly across the screen as a winsome drunk. His pathetic-ness is charming, his social faux pas endearing, his care and love for Hobson heart-touching. The film doesn’t make us pity Arthur’s drunkenness. In fact, we wait anxiously for his next bender. But it also doesn’t glorify his drinking problem. As grand a caricature as Arthur is, he feels utterly human. And with spot-on supporting performances from Gielgud, Minnelli, Barney Martin and Geraldine Fizgerald, Arthur’s life doesn’t make us want to run to an AA Meeting, but to the arms of someone we love.

Wise: It sounds like you got caught between the moon and New York City.

Werth: And if any theme song could give you a hangover, Christopher Cross’ could.

Wise: No worries. You and our faithful readers can just put an ice pack on your heads and tune in next week for more intoxicating Film Gab!

Gab for the Border!

Werth: Hola, Wise!

Wise: Hola, Werth. Why are you wearing a sombrero?

Werth: Because, dear film friend, I want to go South of the Border!

Wise: Did you OD on your Lupe Velez pills again?

Werth: No. Tuesday was National Margarita Day so I’m dreaming of Mexico—land of endless beaches, shady palms, and—

Wise: —bottomless drinks.

Werth: —bottomless cheap drinks.

Wise: You know, when I hear “Mexico” and “bottomless” in the same sentence, I’m usually hoping that it refers to nachos—

Werth: No comment.

Wise: —but lately I’ve been thinking about one of my favorite movies from Mexico that features bottomless despair.  

Werth: I take it then you are not going to be talking about Dolores del Rio doing the samba on the wing of a bi-plane.  

Wise: The film’s called Silent Light, or Stellet Licht, directed by Carlos Reygadas, and it stars Cornelio Wall as Johan a Mennonite farmer in Northern Mexico trapped between the wife and children he loves and the woman he feels is a spiritual gift from God.  He agonizes over what he’s going to do, discussing the situation with both his father and his steadfast wife.  Most of the cast members are non-professional actors and they speak a dialect of German particular to the Amish and Mennonite emigres who came to North America for religious freedom and continue to eschew most of the technological advances of the 20th century.  To Reygadas, this lack of training is an asset because he doesn’t have to contend with any actor-y mannerisms.  Instead he allows the camera to linger on faces, allowing the scenes to build toward an emotional crescendo.  

Werth: Subtle acting, visual storytelling.  I’m in! Tell me more.

Wise: As you can probably guess from the title, Reygadas uses light to either illuminate his characters or to shroud them in darkness.  There’s an amazing scene of Johan and his family bathing in a stream.  There’s not much dialogue, but the way Reygadas captures the sun’s rays shimmering on the water and the sound of the children laughing is simply heartbreaking.  Later, in a scene between Johan and his mistress, the light is amber and golden and also heartbreaking because the audience realizes just how crushing it would be for Johan to surrender either.  

It’s a wrenching examination of a man as he struggles to decide whether this other woman is a wicked temptation or a boon from heaven destined to deepen his faith.  I know it sounds like the kind of pompous self-torture typical to a certain breed of art house flick, but Silent Light is truly mesmerizing from the opening shot of the mute night sky receding to reveal the cacophonous day to the final shot of the inky twilight shrouding the world in silence again.  

Werth: I think you’re just partial to Mennonite fashion.

Wise: Sure, that has something to do with it, but I think anyone can recognize the agonies faced by these characters and can celebrate how they’re transformed.  

Werth: My favorite Mexican cinematic treat doesn’t have any Amish people, but it does have two donkeys. Picture it—1860’s French-ruled Mexico. A lone gunman in the desert comes across a group of nasty outlaws raping and pillaging a defenseless, naked lady. Knowing the effects of sun-damage on the skin, our hero dispatches these curs with his trusty gun, his trademark grimace and a world-weary bon mot. He saves the grateful girl, who, it turns out, is a sassy nun. Yes, I’m talking about 1970’s Two Mules for Sister Sara starring Clint Eastwood and Shirley MacLaine. In this clever convergence of the Italian spaghetti western and a Hollywood battle-of-the-sexes, Eastwood and MacLaine take on Native Americans, banditos, the French army, one awful rattlesnake and each other.

Wise: You watched a rattlesnake scene?

Werth: Please, I can barely type the words without passing out. Popular director Don Siegel shot most of the film in Morelos, Mexico, so the set is designed by God. The arid, sparse desert is beautiful in its seemingly endless bleakness and the rough charm of Clint Eastwood’s iconic loner character feels like an outgrowth of the sagebrush and rocky buttes. MacLaine’s Sister Sara is a pale and beautiful misfit, horribly out of place in the middle of this godforsaken wasteland. But with her righteous piety and typical pluck, MacLaine proves she is an able match for Eastwood and the desert. 

Wise: Does she sing “I’m Still Here” to Clint and the cacti?

Werth: No. Apparently she didn’t feel much like singing because she didn’t get along with either Eastwood or Siegel. Nonetheless, she adds a touch of class and humor to a genre that was characterized by abject poverty, senseless violence and sparse dialogue.

Wise: What about the two mules?

Werth: They’re adorable plus the always brilliant Ennio Morricone gives them a musical theme that you won’t be able to stop eee-yaw-ing.

Wise: So does this mean we’re going on a Mexican vacation to visit the Amish and some donkeys?

Werth: Only if I get a large sun hat... and they get rid of all of the rattlesnakes.

Wise: I guess that means we’ll see everyone next week North of the Border for our Film Gab with Werth and Wise Post-Oscar Wrap-up!