The Sheila Variations

Roger O. Thornhill: "Now, what can a man do with his clothes off for twenty minutes?"

The following essay is about the emotional journey of Cary Grant's suit through North by Northwest.

The essay worked slowly on me. At first I resisted it, maybe it seemed too silly (although there was nothing silly about clothes to the impeccable Grant)? But I was wrong - I figured that out once I succumbed to the essay. It's a keeper. Well worth reading the entire thing.

I loved this bit:

In the suit are a number of subtle tools for Cary. It’s so well cut you can’t tell if he’s even carrying a wallet (turns out he is). Here’s what he’s got in that suit! He goes all the way from New York to Chicago to the face of Mount Rushmore with: a monogrammed book of matches, his wallet and some nickels, a pencil stub, a hanky, a newspaper clipping and his sunglasses — but these are shortly to be demolished when Eva Marie Saint folds him into the upper berth in her compartment. (Really this is a good thing, because Cary Grant in dark glasses looks appallingly GUILTY.) All this stuff fits into the pockets of the most wonderful suit in the world. Does the suit get crushed in the upper berth as his Ray-Bans are smashed? No. Cary keeps his jacket on in the make-out scene that follows. The suit defines him, he’s not going to take off that jacket. I know this feeling.

Beautiful (and surprisingly deep) essay. Well done.

Only Angels Have Wings: the atmosphere in the first 10 minutes of the film

Only Angels Have Wings is not just a great movie because of the marvelously macho (and almost unbearably cranky) performance of Cary Grant. It's not just great because of the scintillating sexy romance between Cary Grant and Jean Arthur. It's not just great because of all of the spectacular (to this day) flying sequences. It's not just great because of the supporting cast, full of classic character actors - Thomas Mitchell, Richard Barthelmess, in a comeback - and then a young and wonderful Rita Hayworth in one of her first major roles. All of these things do make the film great. But if you watch the first 10 minutes, when the ship pulls into the port of Barranca - and you are immersed in the crazy third-world environment of some Latin American country (unnamed, of course) - it is the details and the reality that Howard Hawks puts into those first 10 minutes that elevates the film from something that could be either mawkish, or cliched, or over-the-top, into an almost-documentary setting. He has said that all of those pilots were based on people he once knew. Howard Hawks flew planes (and his brother was killed flying a plane) - Hawks knew these people. And he did not populate this film with extras from "Central Casting". He seemed to actually find Mexican and Latin peasants to populate the crowd scenes. There's a bustle and unselfconsciousness to the extras in this film - which is way ahead of its time. It's like Lumet's use of extras, it's a very modern thing. Jean Arthur, the showgirl, gets off the boat - staring around her at the chaos - the bunches of bananas going by, the girls dancing, the little kids begging, the tables with tacos for sale, things she can't even interpret yet ... and she starts wandering, not realizing (at first) that two guys are following her. We learn very soon that they are two of the "fliers" who work at Cary Grant's small airport - and so they are reckless, and fearless, and macho - just like all of those guys were (and had to be). But before she realizes she is being followed, she just wanders around. And Hawks appears to let his camera just sit ... and people appear to be just behaving as they would if there were no camera there - and let me tell you - with huge crowd scenes, full of extras, that is no small feat. Only Angels Have Wings works on a documentary-level, and even though you know that what you are looking at is a set - and that those people are paid to be in the movie ... it doesn't seem like it. The illusion is total and complete. Hawks starts it out in the streets, and so we always feel the entire world that is surrounding these guys - we always feel the jungle pressing in on them - and also how ODD they are, in that environment. They were daredevils, they died every other day trying to deliver the mail via plane thru mountain passes, they were completely "other", in comparison to the townsfolk around them. The first 10 minutes sets that up perfectly. It sets up everything. Jean Arthur's "game"-ness - she's not a silly woman, a girlie-girl, who needs protection. She can take care of herself. She peeks into saloons, and stares around her, grinning like crazy, loving it.

The film would not work without the first 10 minutes. If the film started with Jean Arthur's first entrance into Dutchie's bar - without that prelude of her wandering the streets - we would not feel that we were looking at a world, rather than a movie.

Happy birthday, Archie Leach!

Today is Cary Grant's birthday. So unfurling below are a ton of quotes, anecdotes, excerpts - about my favorite actor of all time!

Archie Leach day: Cary Grant's streetcar

Cary Grant and Peter Bogdonavich were very good friends, despite the age difference, and also their wildly different ways of handling celebrity status.

Cary Grant kept as low a profile as he possibly could, and did his best to avoid scandal and bad publicity. He kept his personal life as hidden as he was able, although inevitably people were interested in his marriages, divorces, etc. But he never willingly opened up his personal life to the tabloids.

Peter Bogdonavich, while certainly an incredible director, kind of went off the deep end with the personal publicity- and he courted it (during his romance to Cybill Shepherd). Shepherd broke up his marriage (to his long-time creative partner - many people credited much of his success to her - so it wasn't just an anonymous wife he dumped. She was a part of the industry, people knew her, respected her, worked with her ... Bogdonavich made a lot of enemies when he dumped her). So Cybill Shepherd (barely out of her teenage years) had an aura of "the other woman" around her through the whole thing, and scandal swirled about the pair, and there they were - out at every party, at every awards show, grinning, and gushing, and laughing at the camera.

Cary Grant, with his sense of propriety, etc., thought it was unseemly. While Bogdonavich and Shepherd were doing the talk-show circuit, and flaunting their happiness, Cary Grant pulled Bogdonavich aside and said something like: "Peter, nobody cares that you are happy. Stop telling everyone how in love you are and how happy you are. It will make people hate you, because in general, people are NOT in love and people are NOT happy." And very soon, that publicity onslaught crashed, and inverted, and Bogdonavich sunk down into a morass of his own making, when the circumstances of his life went catastrophically bad. (The whole Dorothy Stratten thing. Awful.)

Bogdonavich related this story much later in his life, saying that only with time passing could he realize how right Grant was. Grant always held stuff back from the public, knowing how fickle the public was, and how easily tired the public got. Grant was completely open and available in his acting, and then was reserved and withdrawn about his private life.

Cary Grant stuck by Bogdonavich through his troubles, and at one point, Grant shared with Bogdonavich an analogy he came up with for how Hollywood operated. I love it. And I also love the very end of it. Typical Cary Grant humility.

Check it out:

Becoming a movie star is something like getting on a streetcar. Actors and actresses are packed in like sardines.

When I arrived in Hollywood, Carole Lombard, Gary Cooper, Marlene Dietrich, Warner Baxter, Greta Garbo, Fred Astaire, and others were crammed onto the car. A few stood, holding tightly to leather straps to avoid being pushed aside. Others were firmly seated in the center of the car. They were the big stars. At the front, new actors and actresses pushed and shoved to get aboard. Some made it and slowly moved toward the center.

When a new "star" came aboard, an old one had to be edged out the rear exit. The crowd was so big you were pushed right off. There was room for only so many and no more.

One well-known star, Adolphe Menjou, was constantly being pushed off the rear. He would pick himself up, brush himself off, and run to the front to fight his way aboard again. In a short time he was back in the center only to be pushed off once more. This went on for years. He never did get to sit down.

It took me quite a while to reach the center. When I did make it, I remained standing. I held on to that leather strap for dear life. Then Warner Baxter fell out the back, and I got to sit down.

When Gregory Peck got on, it was Ronald Colman who fell off.

The only man who refused to budge was Gary Cooper. Gary was firmly seated in the center of the car. He just leaned back, stuck those long legs of his out in the aisle, and tripped everyone who came along.

When Joan Fontaine got on, she stood right in front of me and held on to one of those leather straps. I naturally got to my feet, giving her my seat. Joan sat down and got an Academy Award!

HA!

Archie Leach day: the Howard Hawks woman

Howard Hawks directed Only Angels Have Wings in 1939, and To Have and Have Not in 1944. In between he directed His Girl Friday, Sergeant York, Ball of Fire, and Air Force. In these films, he was still working on the male-female dynamic, what he saw, what he looked for, what he loved about women, the kind of men he admired ... searching for the perfect woman. His tastes were very specific, and now we can even call them "Hawksian".

Many of the ideas about all of this were touched upon in Only Angels Have Wings - but in To Have and Have Not - all of that stuff takes center stage. Hawks has gotten clearer about what he wants, and clearer about how to EXPRESS all of it.

Only Angels Have Wings feels a little bit like a rough draft of To Have and Have Not.

In both films, Hawks has the lead female character say to the lead male character:

"I'm hard to get. All you have to do is ask me."

Same exact line. The line is deceptively simple. There's a lot going on there. It seems, at first, that what it SHOULD say is: "I'm not hard to get. All you have to do is ask me." But it doesn't, it says "I'm hard to get." Which makes a much deeper kind of sense.

Jean Arthur (as Bonnie Lee in Only Angels Have Wings) finds herself in love with the Cary Grant character (Geoff Carter) - but he's so independent, so macho, and he says over and over, like a mantra: "I'd never ask a woman to do anything!" that Jean Arthur is left twisting in the wind. He's obviously interested in her, they kiss a couple of times, they have major sexual tension ... but he makes a big point of showing her:- You are free to come and go at any time. I will never ask you to do ANYTHING! Which is all well and good, but Jean Arthur is tormented trying to play by his rules, trying to hold herself back, trying to be all tough-guy and nonchalant about him ... when she's obviously crazy about the guy. Finally, by the end of the film, Bonnie has practically fallen apart (in a comedic way, though - Jean Arthur is beautiful!! So funny!) and she decides: "Fine. If he won't point-blank ASK me to stay on here with him, then I am GONE. I will take the next boat out." When Cary Grant finds out she's leaving, he gets - of course - kind of cranky about it - like: I didn't think she'd actually BEHAVE that freely!! Very funny. After all his boasting and bragging ("I'd never ask a woman to do anything!!") - he looks suspiciously crestfallen when Jean Arthur decides to leave, and he says something to her, tentatively, like, "Why don't we flip a coin to see if you stay or not?"

By that point, she has had it. Here's the tension of the moment, captured:

She throws her head back and says, angry, but with tears: "I'm hard to get, Geoff. All you have to do is ask me."

He ignores this, it's a hurried scene, people pulling him every which way ... he's about to run off and fly the mail-plane ... so he needs to go ... He ignores her tears, takes out a coin, says, "Heads you stay, tails you go!" - flips it, looks at it, exclaims happily, "It's Heads! You stay!!" He hands her the coin, gives her a huge juicy kiss on the mouth, orders her: "Keep that coffee warm!" (his way of saying: "Don't get on that boat, I want you to be here when I get back") and dashes out the door, leaving her stunned, and HURT.

Until she looks down at the coin. The coin has a head on both sides. No tails. So no matter which way it fell, she would be staying. That is the closest Geoff Carter will ever come to asking anything of anyone. This huge goofy happy grin breaks across Jean Arthur's face ... it's very funny. Moving too, in a weird way.

There is an almost identical situation in To Have and Have Not, only with different characters. Steve and Slim (Bogie and Bacall) have this INSANE sexual tension ("You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow..." Mmmmmm) ... but Steve is very independent (in a typical Bogart "I stick my neck out for nobody" way) - and, finally, in this film, Howard Hawks had found a heroine to match his hero. A woman AS independent and AS free as the man.

In Only Angels Have Wings, Jean Arthur has to learn the ropes the hard way, she has to get burnt, she has to lose the guy, she has to realize, the hard way, that typical female games will not work with him.

But in To Have and Have Not, from the second Lauren Bacall appears ("Anybody got a match?") - we can see that this is a different kind of woman altogether. Her voice is low, and un-girlish, she never seems perturbed, she's got that insolent little grin on her face - the same way Bogie does. Slim would never crumple into a million pieces because of the imperturbability of Geoff Carter. Geoff Carter would be mince-meat in her insolent hands. What Carter is really looking for is not total independence, but a woman who can really "handle" it, a woman who can really go the distance with him. Slim appears, beats Bogart at his own game, Bogart has met his match.

Slim is stuck in Martinique, with no money to get out. (Similar situation to Bonnie being stranded down in Peru, or wherever it was that Angels took place)

Steve (Bogart) - perhaps afraid that he will fall in love with this woman - buys her a plane ticket out of there. Both of these men push these women away, not because they don't need them, but because they fear they need them too much. (Hence, the red-hot sexiness of the performances. It's sexy because everyone's fighting with themselves about their own desires ... I don't know why that is sexy, but it is. Perhaps it's only when human beings are faced with obstacles, either inner or outer, can they truly come alive. And that's sexy.)

Slim, during their conversation about whether or not she should leave, is trying to get a sense of where Steve is coming from. Slim is no dumb girlie-girl woman. She's talking to him - she keeps asking him - "Do you want me to go? Do you want me to stay?" (But not in a needy way, of course. She's calmer than that.)

Finally, Slim says, flat-out, "I'm hard to get, Steve. All you have to do is ask me."

Funny - the way Bacall says it gives it a bit of a different spin. There's a bit more self-knowledge behind it, perhaps. Jean Arthur is saying it out of hurt, and out of self-protection, although it is sincere enough. Like: "I am not gonna sit around panting at your heel, Mister. I'm hard to get. All you have to do is ask me."

Slim says it more like - she's giving Steve a helpful tip on how to seduce her.

Like - "You want to get into my skivvies? Here's the deal. I'm hard to get. All you have to do is ask me."

I think, too, that these women are looking for these men to step up to the plate and state their intentions. Worthy sparring partner.

Because Geoff Carter and Steve are who they are, it's not that simple. Something in them resists declaring themselves. Also, something in them so believes in man's essential freedom, that they yearn for a woman equally as free. Make your OWN choice, sister, why are you waiting for me to do all the work??

So there they are - the male, the female - across a divide - sparring about all of this - beautifully - and at the ends of these films, these issues are STILL unresolved, to some degree.

Carter DOESN'T ask Bonnie to stay. Slim tricks Steve and "misses" her flight out of Martinique ... she refuses to disappear. The men and women still circle each other, warily, but with desire as well. Always with desire.

Hence: Drama. Sexual tension. People NOT getting what they want (which is always far more interesting to watch than people getting what they want).

"I'm hard to get. All you have to do is ask me."

Much to ponder in that one simple line. Obviously Howard Hawks thought so, too - otherwise why would he have used it twice?

Only Angels Have Wings is my favorite of all of Grant's movies. He has never been better.

Archie Leach day: Billy Wilder's fantasy movie

Billy Wilder had a fantasy of the ultimate movie he wanted to do, starring Cary Grant (he and Grant never worked together - even though Wilder never gave up hope. They were friends. Grant seems made for Wilder pictures ... but it never happened). Wilder had the entire fantasy-movie shot in his head. And Cary Grant, because he was Cary Grant, never would have grown out of the part, even though he was 60 years old. He was always a leading man.

So anyway, here is the first 10 minutes of Billy Wilder's dream-movie, the movie he always wanted to do, but never did, starring Cary Grant:

-- It takes place during the Crusades.

-- There is a long sweeping shot through the muddy streets of a medieval town. Something is obviously about to happen, much activity.

-- A series of shots of the men of the town putting on coats of armor. Buckling up, raising flags, putting on helmets, getting the swords ready ... Okay. So we get the picture. The men are going off to the Crusade.

-- Another series of shots ... showing the men of the town locking their wives into chastity belts. They all have huge keys, their wives are crying, pleading not to be locked up, also not to go away ... but the men are firm. Their wife must be protected! She must be locked up! So a series of shots ... throughout the town ... lock, lock, lock, lock, lock, lock, lock. (You got it? A montage.)

-- Then, leaving their crying locked-up wives behind them, the men all leap onto their horses and, holding up flags and swords and shields, gallop out of town.

-- The camera follows the horses through the town, the galloping, the mud flying ... and as the horses pass by, out of frame, the camera rests on a small storefront. Unassuming. Medieval. And on a small sign by the door are the words: "Locksmith". And the camera slowly pans by the window, and we see the locksmith at work at his table inside. The locksmith is Cary Grant.

Archie Leach day: 5 favorite moments

Here are 5 of my favorite Cary Grant acting moments in films: This list is in no way definitive:

1. Bringing Up Baby - The nightclub scene - when he slips on the olive dropped by Katherine Hepburn and his feet fly out from under him, and down he goes, crushing his top hat under his ass. I guffaw every time I see it.

2. Philadelphia Story - the great 2-way scene between Grant and Jimmy Stewart when Stewart shows up at his house wasted in the middle of the night. I especially love when Jimmy Stewart hiccups, and Cary Grant says, "Excuse me." That moment was improvised.

3. Notorious - the last scene (my post about it here). Cary Grant's acting has never been better. Especially the look on his face when he holds her and says, "I was a fat-headed guy full of pain." Such understatement, but so pained.

4. Holiday - er ... practically the whole movie. It's one of my favorites. I love his lonely little one-on-one scene with Hepburn up in that attic room, when they dance, and banter, and skirt around the sexual tension ... Beautiful work. He's beautiful in that movie.

5. Only Angels Have Wings - the first scene when he and Jean Arthur are alone, in the empty juke joint, at 1 in the morning. The sexual tension and repartee in that scene are out of this world. Out of context it might not read as well as seeing it - but they have the following exchange. She says, as he pours her a drink, "When are you going to get some sleep?" He says, "After your boat sails." (It has already been established that her boat is sailing at 4 a.m.) Cary Grant makes "after your boat sails" sound positively primal.

Ack! But where's His Girl Friday?? And North by Northwest? So much more!!

Archie Leach day: "Me jujitsu too!"

The Awful Truth has been described as a "tuning fork" for other comedies, and it's obvious why. The tone of this film is so light, so crazed, so assured - the laughs come like clockwork - you know you are in great hands.

You can see the set-ups for disaster and comedy a mile away, but instead of the plot feeling predictable, you just start to get excited, like: "Oh God, this is gonna be bad ... how are they gonna get out of this one??" You watch with ghoulish delight as other people's lives fall apart spectacularly.

Apparently, Cary Grant and Irene Dunne both wanted to walk off the picture. They had no script. Leo McCarey, the director, would walk onto the set every morning, and say stuff like, "Okay, so you come through that door, call the dog, and .... just stand over there ... and we'll see how it goes." They had no script. Cary Grant wrote an 8-page letter to the head of production at Columia, Harry Cohn, and he entitled it: "WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE".

But eventually - Cary Grant saw that McCarey had a method to his madness, that his approach WASN'T random, and that he was asking the actors to trust the craziness of the situation, rather than trying to control it. Grant and Dunne, after commiserating with one another miserably about how insecure they felt, finally succumbed to the process - and thank God they did.

Half of the film is improvised. Which is so amazing, because it is so freakin' funny. Like - laugh-out-loud funny. And it's subtle behavioral humor for the most part:

-- Irene Dunne playing piano as Ralph Bellamy sings "Home on the Range" very very very badly. Her FACE.

-- Cary Grant's little mannerisms, that go on throughout EVERY SCENE, in a private running commentary. His "tsk tsk tsk", and "Hmm", he always seems to be muttering to himself about the events around him. It's hilarious. Even when he's not the focus of the scene, he has 5,000 things going on with him.

-- When Irene Dunne breaks into laughter during a recital where she is singing - she sees Cary Grant fall off his chair in the back of the room - she's singing - and ... hard to explain ... but she laughs ... ON KEY ... and then somehow finishes the song. For me, it was the funniest moment in the movie (clip below - the fall comes about 3 minutes in. And just watch Irene Dunne laughing ... on key. I adore it so much!)

-- The woman who played Irene Dunne's Aunt Patsy ... This woman was a comedic genius. She hit a home-run with every one of her jokes. "Here's your diploma." I still can't stop laughing about her deadpan reading of that line.

The Awful Truth is about a married couple, who are obviously crazy about each other, but who fight all the time. He's suspicious that she's cheating on him, she's suspicious he's cheating on her. She seems to have more reason to be suspicious than he does. (After all, the first scene is Cary Grant lying underneath a sunlamp at his athletic club, trying to get a tan quickly, in order to convince his wife he had actually been in Florida for the past week like he told her - he says to his buddy, "Of course I lie to her - I don't want her to be embarrassed!").

He has a lot of "broad-minded" ideas about marriage - that the couples should keep having separate fun, not be so conventional, not get all caught up in having to be together all the time - (he has a big monologue about it: "The road to Reno is paved with suspicion...") However, he can't actually LIVE with a "broad-minded" marriage, and actually - HE just wants to have fun, but SHE can't start gallivanting about with other men - THAT isn't cool with him, and so when he thinks she's having an affair, due to some screwball misunderstanding, he flips OUT.

They decide to get divorced. They begin to fight for custody of their dog, Mr. Smith (the same dog Cary Grant chased around in Bringing up Baby). Both get involved with other people. And both start campaigns to mess up the new romances of the other.

Hilarity ensues.

Cary Grant has one pratfall (in the clip) which is one of the funniest things I have ever seen. You KNOW it's coming, but you still are not fully prepared for the funny. He falls once, and then the fall just keeps going and going and going ... and of course, he is in a situation where he is supposed to be very very quiet. It's riotous. You just LOVE him. I LOVE him for giving me joy like that.

And the last scene is rightly famous. They are (for various and sundry lunatic reasons, involving a crashed car, a busted-up dinner party, and rides on motorcycles) stuck out at her Aunt Patsy's house in the country, and their divorce is going to be final at midnight. She goes to bed in one room, he goes to bed in another room - both of them wearing borrowed pajamas. The sexual tension is huge. You are dying for them to make up, to kiss, something!!

A couple of screwball things happen - and he finally stands there in her doorway, staring at her - she's lying in bed, he looks ridiculous in his borrowed nightshirt - and they start to try to talk about their marriage, and where it went wrong, but basically what is REALLY going on, is that he is trying to figure out a way to say to her: "Can I get in that bed with you?"

It's even more amazing to look at the dialogue in this last scene, knowing that most of it is improvised. No wonder the two of them loved to work together so well. They're so in tune with one another. It's like a dance.

Here's a snippet of that exchange. The entire thing is done with desperate seriousness. That's why it's so funny:

Jerry: I told you we'd have trouble with this...In a half an hour, we'll no longer be 'Mr. and Mrs.' Funny, isn't it?

Lucy: Yes, it's funny that everything's the way it is on account of the way you feel.

Jerry: Huh?

Lucy: Well, I mean if you didn't feel the way you do, things wouldn't be the way they are, would they? Well, I mean things could be the same if things were different.

Jerry: But things are the way you made them.

Lucy: Oh no. No, things are the way you think I made them. I didn't make them that way at all. Things are just the same as they always were, only you're the same as you were, too, so I guess things will never be the same again...You're all confused, aren't you?

Jerry: Uh-huh. Aren't you?

Lucy: No.

Jerry: Well, you should be, because you're wrong about things being different because they're not the same. Things are different, except in a different way. You're still the same, only I've been a fool. Well, I'm not now. So, as long as I'm different, don't you think that, well, maybe things could be the same again? Only a little different, huh?

(I believe the spirit of this confusing conversation is also the inspiration for another one of the exchanges in What's Up Doc. She says glumly to him, "I know I'm different, I know. But from now on, I'm gonna try to be the same." He asks, "Same as what?" She says, "Same as people who aren't different.")

What started out as an annoyance to Cary Grant (the fact that there was no script, not really) ended up being the thing, the element, that shot him (and his career) off into the stratosphere. It was after The Awful Truth that Cary Grant became "important".

It's interesting: sometimes the things we resist most ferociously (in this case, improvisation) is EXACTLY what we need to do in order to succeed, fulfill our destinies, etc.

Other actors freeze up, or start to behave in highly conventional (read: BORING) ways when they don't know what they're doing, when they don't have a script. Their imaginations aren't fluid, they're too afraid that they're going to look foolish. Well, as we know, Cary Grant had no fear of looking foolish - that was part of his appeal. Improvisation is a gift and Cary Grant had it. He was, obviously, not just a funny man because the SCRIPTS he got were funny - he obviously was a funny man in real life, he had a relatively comedic outlook on things, and this was the first film where he really got to let that loose.

His fear at the beginning of the shoot ended up being a blessing: He just had to leap off that cliff, and stop trying to control everything.

Miracles of comedy followed. Zany, wacko, and still funny today.

Amazingly - everyone was nominated for Oscars except for Cary Grant. This is the price he paid for making it look so easy!!

Watch this movie and then watch Notorious and you'll realize: damn, this guy is without peers.

Archie Leach day: improvising with Jimmy Stewart

I love this story.

Jimmy Stewart says in re: Philadelphia Story:

I play a writer who falls in love with Katharine Hepburn. The night before her wedding I have a little too much to drink. This gives me the courage to go and talk to Cary, who's playing her ex-husband. So I go to Cary's house and knock on the door. It's obvious I've had too much to drink, but he lets me in.

It was time to do the scene, and Cary said, "George, why don't we just go ahead? If you don't like it, we'll do it again." So, without a rehearsal or anything, we started the scene. As I was talking, it hit me that I'd had too much to drink. So, as I explained things to Cary, I hiccuped. In answer to the hiccup, Cary said -- out of the clear blue sky -- "Excuse me." Well, I sort of said, "Ummm?" It was very difficult for me to keep a straight face, because his ad-libbed response had been so beautifully done ... Cary had an almost perfect humor.

Watch that scene again. It's the first take. You can almost see Jimmy Stewart lose it at Grant's improvisation - but he keeps it together. Brilliant acting, from both of them.

Archie Leach day: The Awful Truth

That's a scene from The Awful Truth. Sylvia Scarlett was the first inkling of the success that was to come - but the movie itself was a flop. The Awful Truth was an enormous success and it made Cary Grant a huge star.

Garson Kanin says:

The Awful Truth was enormously successful, and the studio was eager to come up with a second picture for Cary and Irene [Dunne]. Leo McCarey had a contract with the studio but, for complicated business reasons, did not want to direct. He asked me if I would like to do it. And of course, I was delighted. They were both big stars, very able, and full of personality. They had developed instinctively a fascinating team rapport -- something that cannot be directed, written, or inspired.

Irene Dunne said:

I loved working with Cary -- every minute of it. Between takes he was so amusing with his cockney stories. I was his best audience. I laughed and laughed and laughed. The more I laughed, the more he went on.

Garson Kanin remembers the My Favorite Wife shoot:

Cary was not one of those movie stars who gets out there just because he's handsome and has a flair for playing one key or another. He worked very hard. I remember that indelibly. Almost more than any other quality was his seriousness about his work. He was always prepared; he always knew his part, his lines, and the scene. And he related very well to the other players. He took not only his own part seriously; he took the whole picture seriously. He'd come and look at the rushes every evening. No matter how carefree and easygoing he seemed in the performance, in reality he was a serious man, an exceptionally concentrated man. And extremely intelligent, too. Still, he played far more on instinct than he did on intellect. I don't recall him ever intellectually discussing a role or a scene or a picture or a part. He trusted his own instincts, which had worked for him so well. He just polished that up and used it.

Archie Leach day: "You must be laughed at."

Cary Grant said:

Comedy holds the greatest risk for an actor, and laughter is the reward. You must be laughed at. You know right away that you're a flop if no one laughs. An actor in a drama doesn't get that kind of immediate feedback. Unless it's a great tearjerker, you can't tell how you're doing. People think it's easy to get a laugh. It's not. There's a story about a dying actor who was asked how it felt to die, and he said, "Dying's easy; comedy's hard."

I liked making comedy films even though there was little flexibility. Your timing had to be modified for the screen. Since a laugh rolling up the aisles of a big city movie theatre took longer than one bouncing off the walls of a tiny rural vaudeville house, you had to time what you thought would please all audiences. And you had to think about theatre audiences because the film crews don't laugh. They are too busy doing their own jobs."

Archie Leach day: "He suddenly seemed liberated."

That's Cary Grant in his breakthrough part - Monkley the Cockney con-artist in George Cukor's Sylvia Scarlett.

Random quotes about this weird little film which was a flop - but which changed Cary Grant's life:

Katharine Hepburn: "That was really the beginning for Cary. George Cukor had seen him and thought he was wonderful. George told me, 'We're going to have this unknown fella, but he's absolutely great. Cary was grateful to George for that."

Cary Grant: "Sylvia Scarlett was my breakthrough. It permitted me to play a character I knew. Thanks to George Cukor. He let me play it the way I thought it should be played because he didn't know who the character was."

Hepburn, again: "He was the only reason to see Sylvia Scarlett. It was a terrible picture but he was wonderful in it. He was very secure in his work. And God, he was fun. He had a tremendous vitality. He was heavier and huskier then. I liked the way he looked when he had that chunky, slightly pudgy face."

George Cukor, director: "Sylvia Scarlett was the first time Cary felt the ground under his feet as an actor. He suddenly seemed liberated. It was very exhilarating to see."

Wonderful film. It's not awful - sorry, Hepburn - you're wrong. Grant is, indeed, the reason to see it - but as a whole: I find the film haunting, bizarre, unclassifiable, and completely ahead of its time.

It's also GREAT to see Cary Grant so unplugged.

Archie Leach day: "Bowlegged."

The Fox talent scout saw Archie Leach's screen test and was distinctly unimpressed. Wrote on the sheet of paper:

"Bowlegged. Neck is too thick."

This is right up there with the notes written on Fred Astaire's first screen test: "Bald. Can't act. Can dance a little."

Archie Leach day: Playing himself

Here are Cary Grant's words on "playing himself" (I find it annoying how critics - and people who aren't actors and know nothing about acting - seem to think that's an insult. "He's just playing himself!") Yeah? So?

"Playing yourself" truthfully is one of the most difficult things an actor can do. Many of them canNOT do it - and that's fine, it's not a skill every actor needs to have. But the ones who do have it? The John Waynes? The Clark Gables? The Humphrey Bogarts? You mean to tell me you think there's something "less" about those guys because they played themselves? You're ignorant and you don't know what you're talking about. If I tried to pontificate with expertise on topics about which I know nothing, like hedge funds or genetics or brain surgery, then you can bet that I would be called on my bullshit. "Playing yourself" is not an insult, nor is it easy.

Here's Grant:

To play yourself -- your true self -- is the hardest thing in the world. Watch people at a party. They're playing themselves ... but nine out of ten times the image they adopt for themselves is the wrong one.

In my earlier career I patterned myself on a combination of Englishmen -- AE Matthews, Noel Coward, and Jack Buchanan, who impressed me as a character actor. He always looked so natural. I tried to copy men I thought were sophisticated and well dressed like Douglas Fairbanks or Cole Porter. And Freddie Lonsdale, the British playwright, always had an engaging answer for everything.

I cultivated raising one eyebrow and tried to imitate those who put their hands in their pockets with a certain amount of ease and nonchalance. But at times, when I put my hand in my trouser pocket with what I imagined was great elegance, I couldn't get the blinking thing out again because it dripped from nervous perspiration!

I guess to a certain extent I did eventually become the characters I was playing. I played at someone I wanted to be until I became that person. Or he became me.

His process sounds so self-conscious, doesn't it ... so NOT natural. THINKING about how he was going to put his hand in his pocket, IMITATING guys he thought were suave ... and yet, the end result, finally, was total naturalness. He became that guy better than those he was imitating, if that makes sense.

How many times have you seen someone who is basically POSING their way through their life? You know? And maybe it started out that way with Mr. Grant ... he wanted to APPEAR relaxed, hoping that that would relax him INSIDE. And eventually, it worked. I mean ... nobody lights a cigarette, comes through a door, takes off his jacket, kisses a girl ... with as much naturalness as he does.

And yet ... he created "that guy" from scratch.

Amazing.

Archie Leach day: on being the straight man in comedy

Cary Grant met George Burns back in his vaudeville days, when he would go on tour as an acrobat, or with stand-up comedians. He said that one of the greatest influences on him was George Burns. Cary Grant would stand backstage and study what it was that made George funny, how he did it. It was quite technical. Grant studied timing, the way laughs came, how you had to pause, etc.

Cary Grant reminisced about George and Gracie:

I watched him and Gracie ever night I could when they were at the Palace. For their opening night five of us got together and chipped in five dollars apiece and bought them twenty-five dollars' worth of flowers, a princely sum in those days. I asked George when we should have the usher bring up the flowers, and he said, "After the third encore!" Now, that's confidence! George is an absolute genius ... timing his laughs with that cigar. He's brilliant."

And about that cigar. Here's what George Burns had to say about THAT. Now ... here's the deal. He's talking about something magical, he's talking about TALENT ... Like, any Joe Schmoe could follow George Burns' instructions below. Sure. Sounds simple. But to have it be so funny that you basically have sell-out shows for 40 years? That can't be taught.

What is timing? Timing is this. You're working with somebody. When the people laugh, I smoke. When they stop laughing, I stop smoking and I ask the questions. I talk. So what's so great about timing? If I talk while the people are laughing, they'd have to put me away. So I use the cigar. It works for me.

Love that. "It works for me." Uh, yeah, George, I would say it did.

Cary Grant had started to get cast as "the straight man" in these vaudevillian touring acts. The "straight man" to the comic. The straight man's job is basically to set up the jokes by asking the questions. That's how Cary Grant studied all of these fantastically funny people.

Cary Grant had more to say about Burns.

George was a straight man, the one who would make the act work. The straight man says the plant line, such as "Who was that man I saw with?" and the comic answers it: "Oh, that was not a man, that was my uncle." He doesn't move while that line is said. That's the comedy line. The laugh goes up and up in volume and cascades down. As soon as it's getting a little quiet, the straight man talks into it, and the comic answers it. And up goes the laugh again.

George Burns read Cary Grant's words on being a "straight man" and he had this to say:

Now, that's one way of being a straight man. Another way is to do nothing. Gracie and I worked together for forty years. I said to Gracie, 'How is your brother?' And Gracie talked for forty years.

Archie Leach day: "the fine art of pantomime"

Here is Cary Grant's description of what he learned touring the English provinces with the tumbling troupe, when he was 13, 14.

He learned lessons that he used in his acting - years later, when he was a huge star. And of course, he was always famous for his acrobatics.

Touring the English provinces with the troupe, I grew to appreciate the fine art of pantomime. No dialogue was used in our act and each day, on a bare stage, we learned not only dancing, tumbling, and stilt-walking under the expert tuition of Bob Pender, but also how to convey a mood or meaning without words. How to establish communication silently with an audience, using the minimum of movement and expression; how best immediately and precisely to effect an emotional response -- a laugh or, sometimes, a tear. The greatest pantomimists of our day have been able to induce both at once. Charles Chaplin, Cantinflas, Marcel Marceau, Jacques Tati, Fernandel, and England's Richard Herne. And in bygone years, Grock, the Lupino family, Bobby Clark, and the unforgettable tramp cyclist Joe Jackson; and currently Danny Kaye, Red Skelton, Sid Caesar, and even Jack Benny with his slow, calculated reactions.

Surprisingly, Hitchcock is one of the most subtle pantomimists of them all.

Archie Leach day: the Hippodrome

Cary Grant describes being a little kid (named Archie Leach) and having his chemistry teacher (a sort of mentor to him) take him to see the acts at the Bristol Hippodrome. This was a revelation to the young Archie Leach. He lived a poverty-struck narrow life, in the slums of Bristol. But when he went "backstage" - he saw another world entirely - a world where class distinctions blurred (something very attractive to him until the end of his life):

The Saturday matinee was in full swing when I arrived backstage; and there I suddenly found my inarticulate self in a dazzling land of smiling, jostling people wearing and not wearing all sorts of costumes and doing all sorts of clever things. And that's when I knew! What other life could there be but that of an actor? They happily traveled and toured. They were classless, cheerful, and carefree. They gaily laughed, lived, and loved.

Archie Leach day: Grant's mother

From Evenings with Cary Grant - the story of Grant's mother, which obviously had an enormous and long-lasting impact on Grant:

In 1913 Grant's mother disappeared. One day she was there squabbling as usual with Elias. The next day she was gone. When she didn't return, he naturally asked why. He was told his mother had gone for a rest at a nearby resort. Grant thought this unusual but accepted it. As the weeks went by, however, he realized that she was not coming back at all. There was no further discussion of her absence. Henry Gris describes Grant's bewilderment: "Cary told me it wasn't until many years later that he realized the depth of his guilt complex about his mother's disappearance. He believed he was the subject of his parents' many bitter quarrels."

By the time he learned his mother had been committed to a sanitorium for the mentally ill, following a nervous breakdown, Grant was an adult.

Cary Grant: I was not to see my mother again for more than twenty years, by which time my name was changed and I was a full-grown man living in America, thousands of miles away in California. I was known to most people of the world by sight and by name, yet not to my mother.

Archie Leach day: Archie Leach

From Evenings with Cary Grant:

His parents named him Archibald Alexander. Vicar EW Oakden baptized the child in the Episcopal faith on February 8, 1904, in the Horfield parish church. His baptismal certificate (which Grant said was lost in a Bristol fire during World War I) identified it as Alexander. Nonetheless, it was a child called Archie Leach who would become a man known as Cary Grant and achieve international fame.

Possibly because Grant himself had a lasting affection for his original appellation (he even named one of his dogs, a Sealyham terrier, Archie Leach), the public has long been aware that Cary Grant started out life as Archie. When he ad-libbed lines in His Girl Friday and Gunga Din referring to Archie Leach, they were inside jokes the audience understood. And when John Cleese played "Archie Leach" in A Fish Called Wanda, it was an homage to a beloved thespian.

Archie Leach day: warm sun ....

"I first saw the light of day -- or rather the dark of night -- around 1:00 a.m. on a cold January morning, in a suburban stone house which, lacking modern heating conveniences, kept only one step ahead of freezing by means of small coal fires in small bedroom fireplaces; and ever since, I've persistently arranged to spend every possible moment where the sun shines warmest."

-- Cary Grant

Picture above: Archie Leach at five years of age.

A goldmine

Fantastic essay on Cary Grant. A couple excerpts - although the whole thing is a must-read. I loved this observation:

An insipid, undefined pretty boy on screen, he appeared in twenty pictures in four years, nearly a quarter of the films he’d ever make, and failed to distinguish himself—though he woodenly received Mae West’s most famous, and most misquoted, line: “Why don’t you come up some time and see me?” Indeed, his pervasive, obvious discomfort in these creaky movies is the only evidence of his innate intelligence and taste as an actor.

What a wonderful and insightful thought - that his "obvious discomfort" is evidence of his "innate intelligence"! I believe that's right on the money. It would take Sylvia Scarlett to release him.

This:

That same year, though, he also made The Awful Truth—and seemingly from nowhere the Cary Grant persona gloriously appeared, fully formed. All at once there was the detached, distracted wit; the knowing charm; the arch self-mockery; the bemused awareness of his audience, with whom he was sharing a joke (a quality that made him simultaneously cool and warm); the perfectly timed stylized comedic movements—the cocked head, the double takes.

I love the "simultaneously cool and warm" observation. So true. So original - can't think of anyone else who quite had that same quality.

And this:

But whereas Astaire favored the small, very high armholes of the fitted Savile Row look, Grant’s suits, while usually English tailored, had a more relaxed, slightly American cut—a transatlantic fusion that gave him a silhouette both clean and nonchalant. Grant achieved his easy look and manner only through meticulous planning and attention to detail (from his years in vaudeville he learned to choreograph his performances with clockwork precision—he was always known as a perfectly prepared actor), and he believed that the right presentation on- and offscreen was the result of 500 details—hence his corrective missives to his shirtmakers when his collar points were an eighth of an inch too short. Gorgeousness requires the soul of an old lady.

But oh, so much more!!

Here's all the stuff I've written on Cary Grant, if you have a free year and a half to read it all. (But - to paraphrase James Joyce: If it took me a year and a half to write it, then you can take a year and a half to read it.)

Cary Grant in "Holiday"

Kim Morgan's wonderful post about her favorite New Year's Eve scenes in movies is a must-read. Her words on The Apartment gave me chills:

Running out of her New Year’s celebration, she pulls the iconic movie moment of rushing to Lemmon’s apartment (where he sits alone) with smiles and tears in her eyes – she’s done the right thing. And it’s blissfully powerful -- especially when MacLaine's response to Lemmon's affirmation of amour is simply “Shut up and deal.”

But Morgan also covers Holiday, a personal favorite of mine - perhaps my favorite of all of Hepburn's performances. Morgan writes:

As Johnny and Linda clearly fall for each other, even literally tumble for one another (in a jubilant scene, the two stars perform a beautiful bit of acrobatic talent) they leave us buzzed and charged up for something ourselves. But what? Is it possible to ever feel elation like that? Is it? I guess I can always hope for next year but…doubtful. We can always do as Cary Grant does and try a little blind faith.

And so I'll re-post what I posted last year on January 1.

It's always a good idea to start off the new year ...

... with a back flip of some kind.

Mitchell, my circus performer best friend, has described to me, in detail, why the back flip of Cary Grant's in the last scene of Holiday is so unbelievable. Back flips are bread and butter to circus folk - but this one is extraordinary because of how he sees her approaching - while he is upside down and in mid-air - and then - instead of landing on his feet - like most backflips end - he falls flat onto his body from a height of 3 feet in the air. Mitchell has never seen a back flip like it.

It sure as hell makes me laugh every time I see it.

He starts with a hand stand. Then he jumps back onto his feet and launches into his backflip from there.

Right around in here is where he sees her - he cranes his neck up - and catches a glimpse of her which makes him NOT complete the backflip and instead fall flat to the floor.

A montage of scenes from Holiday:

Happy place

... on this dreary grey November day.

I first saw the light of day -- or rather the dark of night -- around 1:00 a.m. on a cold January morning, in a suburban stone house which, lacking modern heating conveniences, kept only one step ahead of freezing by means of small coal fires in small bedroom fireplaces; and ever since, I've persistently arranged to spend every possible moment where the sun shines warmest.

-- Cary Grant

Wonderful

A wonderful analytic post about Bringing Up Baby. I've seen the movie probably once a month in the last 5 years - what can I say, I'm a sad woman, a dog with a bone (pun intended!!) - if something works, then it just keeps working for me, regardless of repetition. It's never not funny to me.

"You told them my name was Bone, and you didn't tell me."

"That was the loon's mating cry!" "Now don't be rude, Horace."

"I'll be with you in a minute, Mr. Peabody!"

"Now look here, young lady, that is my car!" "Your car, your golf ball. Is there anything in the world that doesn't belong to you?" "Yes - YOU. Thank heavens!" "Now don't lose your temper."

I love his thoughts there in that post - makes me see a couple of things anew. Especially the bits about Hepburn's character's amorality - definitely - the woman knows no societal restraints!! And how good Hepburn is in that realm!

Excerpt from the post:

Hawks here introduces us to his distinctive take on the comedy of power and powerlessness: he likes pushing the protagonist's loss of control into the realm of humiliation, and then, in a compensatory gesture of equal force, he shifts the focus to the humbled protagonist's recovery of his dignity and power - sometimes via detachment, sometimes via exasperation. In the other corner, Susan Vance is explictly amoral, in rebellion against every rule society is selling - and extremely feminine, her strategems couched in the language of girlish seduction, her threat coded as the threat of femininity. Somehow Bringing Up Baby seems more explicitly about sex than other screwball comedies: partly because the focus remains squarely on the boy-girl thing, and partly because Hawks pushes Susan's antisocial qualities so far that it's easy to imagine her breaking the Hays Code as well.

And also I love his observation about the entire cast basically tromping into the jail in single file at the end for the finale. It's hysterical!

Here's the whole post

via - the wonderful Girish

Mel Brooks meeting Cary Grant

Clip of Mel Brooks telling the story to Johnny Carson: Brilliant. So so funny

Thanks for finding such an awesome clip, Shamus! I love it!!!

Can't sleep.

And so ...

Penny Serenade. A sweet (meaning sometimes saccharine) and wonderfully acted movie - directed by George Stevens - starring Cary Grant and Irene Dunne. I love this movie. It was the first time Cary Grant was nominated for an Oscar - mainly because of the one scene where he goes before the judge to plead his case, and he starts to cry. You know ... why nominate Cary Grant for something like His Girl Friday when he was just playing himself??? (Like "playing yourself" is easy. I love it when people who aren't actors say "Bah, he was just playing himself" - as though that's easy, first of all. Or - as though it's some kind of a criticism. Huh? How on earth is "he just played himself" a criticism? John Wayne "just played himself". You gonna tell me that guy wasn't a superior actor?)

Penny Serenade is, in its own way, ahead of its time. It presents serious issues - miscarriage, infertility, what those things can do to a marriage, the whole adoption process, financial difficulties, what it's like to adopt a baby - the angst, the nerves - parenting, in general - feeling totally unprepared to take care of this little creature ... etc. etc. It treats these matters seriously, sensitively, openly - it's not coy at all. It's a real grown-up movie, if you know what I mean.

So. I pulled some screenshots. And I can't sleep. So here they are. I basically tell the entire plot of the movie below. So there are spoilers. Know that before you move on.

She works in a music store. He walks by one day. Music is playing out of a speaker onto the street and the record starts to skip. It calls his attention. He turns and stares in at her, like: "Uhm - you gonna fix that?" The second he sees her, though, a spark comes into his eye. He likes the look of this dame.

They start to date. I love this shot - they're dancing - music is playing - and the two of them are both whistling along with the tune, and making each other laugh. Totally real moment. I know that Cary Grant loved Irene Dunne best, in terms of leading ladies ... they were dear dear friends, and you so can see that here. He thought she was so funny.

They take a day-trip to the beach. It's night ... and it's time to catch the last train back to town. They're in love (but it seems like real people in love - not sentimental glowing light mushy movie love - like: he seems a bit antsy about sharing his feelings, he gets shy and weird, she doesn't push, or get mushy - she keeps her counsel) ... and here they start kissing by the dressing-rooms at the beach ... and it's pretty obvious that he's about to get rather hot and heavy. She gently stops him. The dialogue is all innuendo but it's still totally clear. "We need to get back ..." He leans in again. "Not yet ..." Etc. A totally real feeling scene. Not coy, like I mentioned before. He wants to sleep with her. She gently says no. That's basically what's going on here.

She throws a raucous New Year's Eve party. He shows up minutes before midnight and drags her out onto the fire escape. He is apologetic about being late ... but he has some news. Big news. I love BOTH of their acting in this scene. It's so deep. They're not saying what they're really feeling - but it's all in their faces.

Another shot from that scene. I love how we're looking at them thru the fire escape. He has been offered a job as news editor at his paper's operation in Japan. He is going to take it - it's a 2 year contract - and he is leaving that very night at 3 in the morning. 3 am train to San Francisco and then a boat to Japan. He's excited ... she's excited for him, too - but also ... you know. Upset that he's leaving. But she tries to hide it. Look at her face here. God, she just kills me. I love her acting so much.

Same scene. He finally gets to the point, the real point. He blurts out, "Let's get married. Right now. Before I catch my train. I have a cab waiting downstairs to take us to the justice of the peace ..." She is all flustered - now? what? Why the rush? He jokes, "You think I'm gonna let a funny little redhead like you walk around? What if some other fella came along??"

She says yes, yes, she will marry him. In that moment, it becomes the New Year - bells ringing, etc. A raucous family on the fire escape opposite come out - it's snowing - they're all in their pajamas, and hooting and hollering and banging pots and pans and celebrating. They all shout "Happy New Year" at each other. I adore this shot. Isn't it beautiful?

The two of them rush back through her apartment - which is even more raucous now - with revelry.

She goes with him to the train station after the marriage ceremony at city hall in the middle of the night. He will send for her in about 3 months time when he's all set up. She comes onto the train with him just to say goodbye. Neither of them want to say goodbye. And of course he has his own room with a bed. People traveled in style those days. They cling to each other.

She is supposed to get off the train before it leaves ... but they are sitting on the bed - embracing - and you can see out the window that the train is now pulling out of the station. She gasps, "Roger - the train is moving ..." He reaches out to close the door (the camera is out in the hallway, so he is essentially closing the door on us) - and he says what is the raciest line in the movie - unbelievable the censors didn't pick up on it: "We'll get you off." The next shot we see is the train pulling into another station - the sign says: "New York 115 Miles" - so that orients us, how long they've been traveling. Long enough for her to get pregnant ... we discover later. The two of them step out onto the deserted snowy platform - she's going to catch the next train back to New York - and now they really have to say goodbye. It's all silent. No dialogue. Very moving.

He sends for her in three months time and she travels to Japan. He is excited as a little kid to show her their new digs, etc. This is the moment where she breaks to him the news that she is pregnant. She's nervous. She thinks he doesn't like kids. He seems so gruff, and uninterested, and kind of selfish. His acting in this scene - and it's all reaction shots ... is as real as it gets.

And then: tragedy. In what is a terrifying scene (and very well done, actually - no special effects) - an earthquake hits the area where they live. She is trapped on the staircase of their house - as it wildly destroys itself around her - and she ends up buried in beams and boards and debris. The next thing we see is a steamer ship - then a shot of a port - then another shot of the side of a building with a sign: SAN FRANCISCO MEMORIAL HOSPITAL. Now THAT is efficient film-making. She lies in a hospital bed and the doctor has just told her that she lost the baby, and will not be able to have another. He finally lets Cary Grant in to see her. Cary Grant's character - a mover, a shaker, kind of irresponsible, impulsive - has no coping skills for this. He loves her. He can't believe that this tragedy has befallen her. He doesn't know how to make it better. All he knows is: he MUST make it better. But you can feel his helplessness in this scene.

Look at him.

The couple decide to start anew. Roger buys a small struggling newspaper office in a tiny town north of San Francisco. He calls on his old friend Applejack (a wonderful character - God, you just love him) to come out from New York and be the press manager. He's not sure when or if he will arrive ... and one day Applejack shows up. You can see how happy Roger is to see him.

There's a sadness between the couple now. Unspoken. They don't quite know how to deal with it, or each other. Gradually - with a couple of fits and starts - they start to talk about adopting a child. It's a tough decision. To them, (or mainly: to him) it's like admitting failure. Admitting that he can't have one of his own. It's all this messy STUFF that neither of them can even say. But eventually - they decide to make an appointment with the adoption agency. The two of them, on the drive over, are stressed OUT.

They have an interview with Miss Oliver (wonderful character actress, great character - you think she's an uptight spinster, but then you just fall in love with her) ... and she tells them the arduousness of the process - tells them they have to prove their fitness - and that one day she will just drop by their house, unannounced, to take a look. "We want to see your house as it really is, not when it's fixed up for company." She arrives one day ... and Irene Dunne takes her out into their tiny backyard where Roger has built a slide - this is what they see when they come out into the backyard. hahahaha

Miss Oliver has come to tell them that a brand-new baby girl is now up for adoption. Roger and Julie had said they wanted a boy. But obviously it is only ROGER who really wanted that - because Julie is all ready to take the baby girl. Look at them here.

They're scared. They're not "ready". Now? We are going to have a baby now? It had been a theoretical hope for them ... it's now becoming real. They're kind of panicking.

They go to the orphanage. The baby is brought out. Roger tries to seem uninterested. After all, it is a baby GIRL. NOT WHAT THEY WANTED. And then he reaches out ... and the baby grips onto his finger. There's no swelling music here, no close-up screaming at us: HE LOVES HER NOW ... it's all very subtle. But that moment when the baby grips onto his finger ... fuggedaboutit. He's toast.

They take the baby home. The whole long section of their first night with this baby is genius. They do not know WHAT they are doing. They are nervous, terrified - they bumble, fumble - check Miss Oliver's notes a billion times - they bicker - like YOU should know what to do ... oh yeah, well how come YOU don't know what to do? The baby wakes up and starts screaming. The two of them absolutely panic.

They pass the baby back and forth. DO something. No, YOU do something!

Terror. Sheer terror.

Next day. The high-comedy scene (mostly in one shot) of Julie trying to give the baby her first bath. She doesn't know what she is doing. She feels like she SHOULD know what she's doing. She tries to be cool, calm. But you can feel her panic (and self-loathing) grow. Applejack eventually takes over. He has some experience with babies. He swoops in and shows 'em how it's done. This is a great scene.

Applejack shows Julie how to pin the cloth diaper. Cloth diapers. God bless the mothers of generations past. Cloth freakin' diapers.

A year passes. They had their baby on a year trial ... and in that year, he lost the newspaper. His income is now zero. The court is going to take their baby away ... and Roger - kind of arrogant, Mr. I'm gonna be my own boss - has to go and plead his case to a very unsympathetic judge. This is the scene that got him the Oscar nomination. It brings me to tears every time I see it. It's all done in long-shots, too. Amazing. No close-ups of his emotional moment. Very rare.

"If you take her away now ... she wouldn't know what had happened to her ..."

He also has a great line (again, very insightful - and ahead of its time) - something like: "We have to put up with inspections - people checking up on us to make sure we're taking care of her properly - her vaccinations, her shots, her toothbrush ... How many 'real' parents have to put up with something like that?"

Home again. She's now theirs. For good.

Years pass. Trina (the baby) is now 6 years old. Daddy's little girl.

Trina is an "angel" in the Christmas play. Roger and Julie sit out in the audience, watching her - and their hearts are bursting with love. They can barely DEAL with it. Great great reaction shots from the two of them.

Tragedy strikes again. I love this shot. It says it all.

And the look on his face here says it all too.

She is going to leave him. The tragedy has ruptured their bond. It's too much. They can't take it. He says to her, "I'm licked." She has a great line, "You're not licked, Roger. The problem is with us, not you. When things got really tough, we couldn't face it together." He is so defeated. He can barely lift a finger to stop her from leaving.

And then ... from out of the blue ... a fateful call from Miss Oliver:

The movie is obviously sentimental. But not TOO much so. It's meant to be emotional, it's a "message" picture - but the strength of the script and the goodness of the acting keeps it from being schmaltz. A lovely little movie that I highly recommend if you haven't seen it.

And now. To bed. I think I'll be able to sleep now.

I always like to begin a new year ...

... with a back flip of some kind.

Mitchell, my circus performer best friend, has described to me, in detail, why this back flip of Cary Grant's in Holiday is so unbelievable. Back flips are bread and butter to circus folk - but this one is extraordinary because of how he sees her approaching - while he is upside down and in mid-air - and then - instead of landing on his feet - like most backflips end - he falls flat onto his body from a height of 3 feet in the air. Mitchell has never seen a back flip like it.

It sure as hell makes me laugh every time I see it.

He starts with a hand stand. Then he jumps back onto his feet and launches into his backflip from there.

Right around in here is where he sees her - he cranes his neck up - and catches a glimpse of her which makes him NOT complete the backflip and instead fall flat to the floor.

Happy place

Yet another photo of that "ordinary chap".

Yeah, you know. Totally ordinary. Uh huh. Reguluar dude.

Hitchcock saw something different in him. Suspicion (that's him with Joan Fontaine) was Hitchcock's first attempt to tap into the darkness beneath the gleam. It didn't work quite well although the film is SO worth seeing. Especially the spectacular shot of Grant ascending the staircase with the glowing glass of milk(Hitchcock put a lightbulb in the liquid.) But in Notorious - "ordinary chap" and Hitchcock really hit their stride together. I see Suspicion almost as a rehearsal for that other film (a film that I consider to be perfect. I don't say that about too many films. But to me - Notorious is without a flaw.)

Oh - and funnily enough - I get quite a bit of traffic to one of the quotes from my "movie quote" game - the one about "Your ucipital mapilary is quite beautiful". Ha! It's from Suspicion and I often wonder if people are looking for quotes from the film - or if they're looking for, you know, medical information: "My ucipital mapilary is swollen. Should I be worried?"

I guess I need a happy place because my gynecologist got kind of impatient with me today. Snapped at me a bit, and seemed like he didn't want to explain things more than once. And I feel really raw and upset about it. Like ... I just can't deal with that energy in that environment. It made me really upset.

Okay. Happy place.

"an ordinary chap"????

Here's a great anecdote from Kiss Me Like a Stranger, Gene Wilder's autobiography - which I am REALLY enjoying.

Silver Streak was a big hit and was chosen as the Royal Performance for the queen of England and the royal family. I couldn't go to London because I was filming The World's Greatest Love at the time, but a month later, when Prince Charles came to visit 20th-Century Fox, I was invited to attend a luncheon in his honor, to be held in the Fox commissary.

As I was walking along the small street that leads from the office buildings to the commissary, a taxi pulled up and I heard someone shouting, "Oh, Mr. Wilder! ... Mr. Wilder!" I turned and saw Cary Grant stepping out of the taxi. My heart started pounding a little faster, but I didn't throw up this time, as I did when I met Simone Signoret. Cary Grant walked up to me, and after we shook hands, he said, "I was sailing on the QEII to England with my daughter, and on the second day out she said, 'Dad-dy, I want to see the Silver Streak -- they're showing it in the Entertainment Room.' And I said, 'No, darling, I don't go to movies in public.' And she said, 'Dad-dy, Dad-dy, please - I want to see the Silver Streak.' So I took her to see your film. And then we saw it again the next day, and the next. Tell me something, will you?"

"Of course."

"Was your film in any way inspired by North by Northwest?"

"Absolutely! Collin Higgins, who wrote the film, loved North by Northwest. It was one of his favorites. I think he was trying to do his version of it."

"I thought so," Mr. Grant said. "It never fails! You take an ordinary chap like you or me ... (An ordinary chap like you or me? Didn't he ever see a Cary Grant movie?) ... put him in trouble way over his head, and then watch him try to squirm out of it. Never fails!"

Yeah, you know.

An ordinary chap.

Mm-hm. Completely an "Everyman".

I actually heard Gene Wilder tell this story in person when he came to my school - and it was hysterical because of his spot-on Cary Grant impression (the clipped syllables - "Dad-dy", etc.) - also the look on Gene Wilder's face after he said the words "like you or me" - hahahaha - Uhm -did Cary Grant just compare himself to me?? But I love it because part of what made Grant so amazing was his breezy obliviousness to his own extra-ordinariness and the fact that he is not, and had never been, an "ordinary chap"!!!!

Happy place

Two of my favorite actors ever. They starred in three films together - The Awful Truth, My Favorite Wife, and Penny Serenade. He always said, reluctantly because he didn't want to hurt his other leading ladies' feelings, that she was his favorite leading lady. Apparently he whispered to her once, "You're my favorite. You smell so nice."

There's something so ZANY about them together (uhm - Awful Truth??) - but also something so SWEET about them together (the scene at the beach in Penny Serenade when, frankly, I think he's never been sexier or more NORMAL. It's one of his only times playing a middle-class normal guy - and he's sooooo sweet and sexy). Clearly, they brought out the absolute BEST in one another.

Like another one of the big stars of the day - Bogart - Grant didn't really work with a floozy lady. There was something wrong in the pairing. Jimmy Cagney seemed suited to floozies - there was something about him (as an actor, I mean) that WORKED with a kind of floozy broad. But it didn't seem right with Bogart or Grant. They didn't do well either with domesticated pretty little things either. No. They did well (and by that I mean: shone - as actors) with women who were sharp-witted, pretty, independent, and gave as good as she got. Women who played the mating game really smartly and wittily (watch how Irene Dunne makes Cary Grant SWEAT IT OUT at the end of My Favorite Wife until he is finally reduced to putting on a damn Santa outfit in order to be allowed to get into bed with her.)

Bogart and Grant needed "ladies". And by "ladies" I do not mean "good girls" because those two guys didn't work well with that type either. I mean: women. They needed a very specific type of woman in order to bring out their special individual brand of masculinity (and star quality as well). Ladies. Not doormats. Not polite women, either. God save us from polite women. Not women who succumbed to the stupid rules of society. But women who had their shit together.

Irene Dunne was always the epitome of that. I love it when she gets silly and zany. But when she lets her guard down ... it's exhilarating. Because ... she makes you wait for it. She doesn't give it all away. She reminds me of my friend Kate. She has that same deep-down decency - it radiates off of her - and yet there is also such a streak of utter LUNACY that LOOK OUT when she gets going.