Saint Eva

Art by Robert Williams

Long ago, well before home computers, I lucked into a wonderful phone interview with Eva Marie Saint, who passed away recently at the remarkable age of 102. A search through my paper files has not (darn it!) turned up a copy of my published article. It appeared, I think, in the Hollywood Reporter, tied to Valentine’s Day.  But I’ve always remembered the words I chose to start the article: “Imagine kissing Cary Grant. Or being locked in a passionate embrace with Paul Newman.”  My focus was on how an actress manages to stay professional during a convincingly hot love scene. What was it like, I asked Saint, to play a mysterious Hitchcock blonde smooching Grant on a moving train in North By Northwest? With characteristic matter-of-factness she answered: her biggest concern in kissing Cary Grant was that she might accidentally step on his feet.

 Eva Marie Saint (what a wonderful name!) captivated Hollywood because she projected a unique combination of fire and ice. A natural blonde from a Quaker family, she seemed cool and reserved, but excelled at roles in which she was bowled over by passion. Her film debut, after some successful Broadway appearances, was opposite Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront. The role of Edie, whose beloved brother has been killed by corrupt union bosses, won her an Oscar for best supporting actress, and gave her lifelong respect for Brando’s unique film presence. The statuette was handed to her two days before the birth of her first child, and she quipped on stage, “"I may have the baby right here!”

 Practically unique for a Hollywood star, Saint was married for sixty-five years to her first great love. TV director Jeffrey Hayden. Her career might have been even bigger if she hadn’t insisted on putting family first. I never met her son, but daughter Laurette was a Roger Corman employee in the 1980s, between my own two Corman tenures. In researching my Roger Corman: Blood-Sucking Vampires, Flesh-Eating Cockroaches, and Driller Killers, I had a long, instructive chat with Laurette about life as a Corman assistant. Though she lacked her mother’s platinum hair, Laurette had some of Eva Marie Saint’s basic dignity. Which was why it was hard for me to imagine one facet of her job: helping with office “breast checks,” in which some leading ladies were asked to bare themselves above the waist to prove that their bosoms were suitably photogenic. For a while Laurette didn’t question the propriety of what she was being required to do.  Gradually, however, after working on Corman flicks like Slumber Party Massacre (1982), she came to feel that the New World Pictures attitude toward women and sex was tougher to justify, and that it was “harder to keep a sense of humor.” That’s why she moved on, first assuming executive posts at Lifetime Television and the USA Network, before quitting showbiz to evolve into a marriage and family therapist. Given that her father died at age 90 and her mother lived past the century mark, I send her condolences on her mother’s death and wish her long years of success in her chosen profession.

 Eva Marie Saint’s great era encompassed the years 1954 through 1960, when she was cast opposite Paul Newman as a romantic lead in Exodus. Thereafter she played smallish parts in big films like Grand Prix (1966) as well as bigger parts in smaller ones (The Stalking Moon, 1968), before taking a long break and then appearing mostly on television. (She played Cybill Shepherd’s mother for six episodes of Moonlighting.)  I’m certain she remained classy through all of it.

 

Jack Cole: The Jazz Dancer

Eons ago, when I was a small child, I was privileged to study modern dance at a West Hollywood mecca known as the Lester Horton Dance Theater. Among my early teachers was a lovely woman named Carmen de Lavallade, who would go on to have a solid career as a dancer and actress, and would take home a Kennedy Center Honor in the days before the fate of the center was headline news. I was thrilled, many decades later, to share a meal with the still-beautiful eighty-year-old Carmen in New York City. I was also thrilled that, at a reunion event in L.A., the great Alvin Ailey remembered my childhood nickname. Alvin, Carmen, and I were all, of course, huge fans of the creative work of Dance Theater’s founder, Lester Horton. So were the writers at the New York Times, one of whom wrote a rave review of the Horton troupe under the headline, “Genius on the Wrong Coast.”

 Back then I heard fleetingly about other L.A.-based dancers and choreographers, In particular I heard about Jack Cole, whom I associated with sexy movie routines. But I never considered myself knowledgeable about Cole’s contributions to the art of the dance, until now. I’ve just finished reading Debra Levine’s exhaustive (but hardly exhausting) new Jazzed: Jack Cole and Twentieth-Century American Dance, published by the University Press of Kentucky. Levine, a longtime dance writer whose lively prose contributes hugely to the success of this book, seems to have dug into every corner of Cole’s eventful life: his nightclub adventures, his years in Hollywood, his forays into choreography for the Broadway stage, where Man of La Mancha was his biggest hit. Having interviewed what appears to be everyone who ever danced under Cole’s tutelage—a group that includes Gwen Verdon, Barrie Chase, Alvin Ailey, and Carmen de Lavallade—she is also able to convey the complexity of Cole’s on-stage and off-stage personality. (He inspired love, fear, and pretty much everything in between.)

 Cole’s first contribution to dance lore was his invention of something called “Hindu swing,” which evolved out of his serious study of Indian dance, combined with a jazzy uptempo beat. Throughout his career he (like Lester Horton) explored dance forms from many cultures, then demanded of his dancers a grueling technique that few could master. But he also, in Hollywood, found himself obliged to create effective movement for non-dancers like Marlene Dietrich and Jane Russell. Levine credits him with significantly energizing Rita Hayworth’s portrayal of the title role in Gilda (1946): his uncredited staging of Hayworth’s “Put the Blame on Mame” in that film turned her into an unforgettable silver-screen vamp. 

 But most of all, Cole  was known for his work with Marilyn Monroe. Throughout her troubled career Marilyn trusted him implicitly as both a choreographer and a drama coach. Levine says Cole taught her how to move onscreen, and led her through her sexiest and most famous musical number, “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend,” from 1953’s Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. (He was responsible for every aspect of that number, including its bold red-and-shocking-pink color scheme.) Years later, he struggled to coach her through the troubled Let’s Make Love as well as Something’s Got to Give, which remains unfinished because of its star’s sudden death.

 Though Cole never won a major award for his choreography, Levine insists that such later greats as Bob Fosse learned from his stylistic experimentation. Count me as a new fan . . . of both Jack Cole and Debra Levine. Though Cole (1911-1974) is long gone, may they both keep on dancing.  

Marilyn Monroe sings "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend"

 

Visiting the Museo

The other day, I noticed in the L.A. Times an article about a major robbery at a small French museum, located in the lordly final home of Impressionist painter Pierre-Auguste Renoir. A pair of original Renoir paintings were taken by thieves, but the article speculated that these valuable works of art were unsellable in the world’s marketplace, because they were too well known to entice any would-be buyers to lay out millions. (See, by way of a comic contrast, the secret selling of the so-called Cellini Venus in one of my favorite romantic comedies, How to Steal a Million.)

 On the same day that I read the Times piece on the Renoir thefts, I chanced to watch a Mexican heist film from 2018. It chronicles, surely with some poetic license, an actual famous theft that took place on Christmas Eve in the year 1985. The two young robbers, both veterinary students,   snuck into Mexico City’s Museo Nacional de Antropología, and made off with a number of  priceless pre-Colombian artifacts. One of the thieves was eventually caught, though the other still, after all these years, remains at large. Thankfully most, though not all, of the national treasures they stole have been recovered in good condition..  

 The 2018 film starring the ubiquitous Gael Garcia Bernal changes various details, but remains true to the basic thrust of the actual story.  I remember particularly the striking contrast between the two young men. Juan Núñez (Bernal) is clearly the leader, both logistically and philosophically. He comes from a large and loving extended family, but seems to resent their Christmas Eve frivolity, particularly since he’s expected to take his dead uncle’s place in wearing a Santa suit and doling out gifts. By contrast, his sidekick, Benjamin Wilson (Leonardo Ortizgris) would clearly prefer to spend Christmas Eve quietly at home with his dying father. Still, at midnight, the two are on their way (in Juan’s father’s car) to the famous museum, where they remove numerous exotic treasures from their glass cases with exquisite care.

 But leaving town with their booty is only half the battle. They get some lucky breaks—like cops who pull them over but don’t realize the value of the trinkets in their possession—but it’s far more difficult than they assumed to find a buyer for priceless antiquities. Their road trip has its funny moments, including a visit to a seedy nightclub where one of the dancers is an ageing former Mexican film star. But tensions are growing between the two.

 Inevitably they end up back in Mexico City, where they need to return the car appropriated from Juan’s father. And, inevitably, the loot they’ve been spiriting around Mexico. I won’t go into detail about what happens next, except to mention a vivid moment in which Juan displays his reverence for one of the relics, the so-called Jade Mask of Pakal, as he returns it to its place of honor in the museum. It’s his salute, I feel, to the ancestors who long ago owned these treasures.

 The keepers of Mexico’s National Museum must care deeply about this story, because the magnificent museum building in Chapultepec Park is lovingly depicted on film. It’s a destination that should be part of everyone’s Mexican travel plans. And perhaps the film has the virtue of making us think, just a bit, about the complex—and sometimes bloody—history of the objects that two young men take such great pains to steal. The Aztecs and the Mayan committed their share of bad deeds, but they displayed a grandeur that these two young thieves sorely lack. 

 

The Rain Pounds in “Ponyo”

Of course I admire the films of Studio Ghibli, as led by the great Japanese animator Hayao Miyazaki, That being said, although I find much of the master’s work thrilling, I believe some of it is overly complicated and occasionally downright grim. But I’ve just seen Ponyo, a story oriented toward a young audience, and found it thoroughly charming, deftly blending a lively sense of magic with the studio’s long-time commitment to the wellbeing of the natural world.

 In watching Ponyo, I found myself thinking about “The Little Mermaid,” not the Disney animated film but rather the original Hans Christian Andersen story. That’s why I was pleased to discover that Miyazaki recalled reading Andersen’s tale as a young child and being bitterly disappointed by its ending. In Ponyo, which features along with the title character a good-hearted boy and his mother, five-year-old Sōsuke truly loves his mysterious playmate, and his devotion allows her to live on in his world instead of melting into seafoam. Ponyo takes place in and near the ocean: its young heroine evolves in the course of the film from a goldfish-like sea creature into a spunky little red-headed  girl. She’s magical both because of what she’s capable of doing (like expanding a toy boat until it’s large enough to sail on) and because she has an unstoppable love of life.

 In the early 2000s, Miyazaki was such a superstar that major English-speaking actors were eager to voice the characters for his films’ international versions. In 2004’s Howl’s Moving Castle, based on a British children’s novel, the central figure, Sophie, is played as a young girl by Emily Mortimer and as a much older one by the ageless Jean Simmons. Christian Bale voices the exotic Howl, and none other than Lauren Bacall is the Witch of the Waste.  

Four years later,  the English-language dub of Ponyo was directed by John Lasseter and other Pixar honchos. Ponyo herself is voiced by Miley Cyrus’s young sister, Noah, Sōsuke by Nick Jonas, and his mother by the indomitable Tina Fey. Key smaller roles are played by Matt Damon, Liam Neeson, and Cate Blanchett as an ethereal Goddess of Mercy. And the clutch of colorful oldsters (a popular element in many Ghibli films) is voiced by some of Hollywood’s finest: Cloris Leachman, Lily Tomlin, and Betty White.

 As always in Ghibli films, characters reflect anime traditions and do not look especially Asian. For central roles, wild red hair and a tall, thin frame seem particularly popular. For instance, these traits help to identify Neeson’s character, the ambiguous semi-human Fujimoto, who considers himself Ponyo’s father as well as the protector of the natural world. But the film’s landscape, full of seaside crags. step promontories, and wild waves, unquestionably reflects Japan’s own dramatic topography. As, in the wake of Ponyo’s adoption of life on land, the natural order gets skewed, the ocean boils up into a terrifying maelstrom, threatening both ships at sea and homes on the shore. Giant waves rock tiny boats full of fleeing citizens, capturing the sense of heightened natural turmoil we know from Tokugawa-period Japanese woodblock prints (One classic example: Katsushika Hokusai’s iconic 1831 “Great Wave Off Kanagawa”). Meanwhile torrential rain pounds the land, submerging whole villages. The animation in these scenes is powerful indeed, adding hugely to the dramatic force  of what could in other hands be a sugary-sweet little tale.

 The weather gods tell us to expect intense El Niño conditions later this year. That means, at least where I live, heavy rains pounding the very dry earth. Who know? Maybe more Ghibli inspiration. 

 

When a Face Emerges from the Crowd

When I was in, perhaps, the seventh grade, I enjoyed a weekly trip to the local library with my mom and little sister. As a voracious reader with a special appreciation for stage musicals and comedies, I would curl up in the theatre section and read to my heart’s content. One day I came across a work I didn’t know: A Face in the Crowd, by Budd Schulberg. The title and the author’s  name were both unfamiliar to me. But I was well-acquainted with the star of the production. Andy Griffith, who had appeared on the Broadway stage and then the film adaptation of No Time for Sergeants. This was the comic tale of a hillbilly bumpkin drafted into the U.S. Army during World War II. My father, a veteran himself, loved good-hearted humorous takes on military protocol, and so I saw—and adored—the film at an early age. With Andy Griffith as the leading man, I  assumed A Face in the Crowd would be equally lovable and funny.

 Wrong! This 1957 work (which turns out to have been a film script based on Schulberg’s original story) does star Griffith as a country boy not much used to sophisticated folk. But he’s far from good-hearted. When we first meet him, he’s drunk and disorderly in a smalltown Southern jail, one that just happens to be visited by an attractive young radio producer (Patricia Neal) searching out local color. Discovering his gift of gab and his easy way with an acoustic guitar, she christens him “Lonesome” Rhodes, and helps turn him into the star of his own local radio show. Then TV comes calling. Soon he’s attracting serious attention, especially from women of all ages. When I discovered his sexual adventuring, both with Neal and with a young high school cheerleader (Lee Remick was introduced in this role), I was seriously shocked. (Needless to say, in the late-1950s, the physical nature of these relationships was not shown on screen, but I certainly got the message. And I’ve always considered A Face in the Crowd  my jump into adult reading material.)

 Today I’m a lot less easily shocked. But A Face in the Crowd still startles in its prescience about the way demagogues get started. Lonesome Rhodes is not simply interested in pretty women. He also quickly realizes that, thanks to the new medium of television, his homespun charm is his ticket into the halls of power. We see him instinctively discovering how to spread a sponsor’s message for an essentially worthless product. And before long he’s advising a major U.S. Senate candidate on how to improve upon his stuffy image, by way of a cute nickname and some new folksy mannerisms.  

 Essentially, the country boy is turning into a monster, one who is well aware that—thanks to the hold he has on his enormous TV audience—there’s nothing to stop him from making his own power grab in the near future. Surely we can well imagine him joking and crooning his way into the White House. Sound familiar? Back in the day, screenwriter Budd Schulberg and director Elia Kazan pointed to Will Rogers, Arthur Godfrey, and other media folk of the era as partial models for their central character, along with preacher Billy Graham and populist politician Huey Long. Today there are some obvious celebrity types who’ve made far bigger gains in the political world. Thanks to their street smarts as well as their ability to break all the rules and come out smiling, it sometimes seems as though nothing can stop them. 

 

Ingrid on Insta

There’s a special kick in discovering a modest indie previously unknown to me. Ingrid Goes West sounds, at the outset, like a folksy comedy tracing a young woman’s arrival in a small western town—an update on Cat Ballou, maybe. Hardly! This modest 2017 release starring Aubrey Plaza (whom I realize now was the engaging star of My Old Ass) mashes together laughs and chills in a wonderfully contemporary way. Though in 2017 Plaza herself was hardly a newcomer to showbiz, the writing/directing team of Matt Spicer and David Branson Smith were total newbies, who deservedly took home the Waldo Salt Screenwriting Award at Sundance, as well as an Independent Spirit nod for Best First Feature. As the instructor, through UCLA Extension, of many aspiring filmmakers, I love seeing what can be done with a small but talented cast and a timely premise.

 Ingrid Goes West is a darkly comic satire on the way social media feeds can ruin young lives. Ingrid, who starts out in Pittsburgh, is obsessed with the would-be celebrities who flaunt their cool lifestyles via Instagram. Following her mother’s death and an embarrassing exploit that shows her the wisdom of leaving town quickly, she takes her entire inheritance (some $60,000, as I recall) in cash and heads for the west coast. There she scores a rental near Venice Beach and focuses all her energy on befriending hot influencer Taylor Sloane (Elizabeth Olsen), who is delighted to accept her as a new (and clearly well-heeled) bestie. On long girls-day-out jaunts to Joshua Tree, they trade confidences. But Ingrid never reveals how badly she wants to be part of Taylor’s casually hip—and very well publicized—world.

 Yet Ingrid is making enemies as well as friends. She can easily get around her sweet-natured neighbor (the engaging O’Shea Jackson Jr.), a would-be screenwriter who soon loves her almost as much as he does Batman. But Taylor’s husband, who left the corporate world at Taylor’s urging to become a would-be artist, is immune to the charms of social media, and is increasingly uneasy about Ingrid’s near-constant presence. Then there’s Taylor’s hunky but slightly menacing brother, newly arrived from a sweet stay in Paris, who for understandable reasons knows a grifter when he sees one. 

 As the film gets going and the bad behavior escalates, you can hardly call it comedic. I was, frankly, disappointed when Ingrid, finally realizing the error of her ways, seems to publicly acknowledge that she’s a total fraud. But the sappy ending that appeared to be on tap at this point quickly converts—via a great shifting of gears—into a cheeky and uproarious coda that I would not want to spoil.

 Plaza (who also stepped in as one of the film’s producers) has the gift of being able to veer from sweet to scary, and from pathetic to obnoxious, at the drop of a hat. I’ll look forward to seeing her onscreen again, especially if she continues to back edgy material that suits her particular gifts. There’s a lot of smart writing too, and I love the way in-the-moment texting to one’s followers is introduced into this story from its opening scenes onward.  

 As a screenwriting instructor who teaches advanced rewrite classes through UCLA Extension, I am open to stories of all kinds, including those that require far-flung locations and casts of thousands. But I particularly appreciate the small, clever scripts that can make do with a few good actors and limited locations. Ingrid Goes West, with its tiny cast and present-day SoCal vibe, is a wonderful way to jump into the bigtime.

 

 

 

"8 Women": A French-Fried Musical

The French, as we know, are in love with old American cinema. They adore Hitchcock thrillers; they adore female-centric social comedies with couture by Edith Head; they adore what they’ve helpfully named film noir; they adore old MGM musicals. That’s why it has somehow occurred to them to combine all these genres into what Wikipedia calls “a 2002 jukebox musical comedy mystery film.” Based on a 1958 stage play, 8 Femmes (or, in English, 8 Women) is a mildly amusing entertainment that features some of France’s greatest female film stars: everyone from the still-gorgeous Catherine Deneuve to the hyper-sexy Fanny Ardent to the much-admired Isabelle Huppert to the now-octogenarian Danielle Darrieux, along with several attractive younger players.

 The set-up is familiar from many old plays and movies of this type. We’re in the great room of a large country home, where a wealthy family and its retainers are all preparing for a snowy Christmas Eve celebration. Deneuve, the lady of the house, has just arrived home with her vivacious elder daughter, newly back from college. There to greet her are the wheelchair-bound family matriarch (Darrieux), Deneuve’s neurotic sister (Huppert), and Deneuve’s plain-jane younger daughter, along with the family cook and a sexy chambermaid (Emmanuelle Béart) whom no one seems to trust. Because this is a musical, mother and daughters quickly launch into a satiric song about their homelife, "Papa t'es plus dans le coup" ("Dad, You're Out of Touch")

 But where is the pater familias about whom they sing? Upstairs in his bedchamber, with a knife in his back. Suddenly we’re in a whodunit, with everyone apparently having a motive to murder the wealthy but not exactly virtuous man. An additional suspect eventually shows up: Ardent as the victim’s sultry (and financially needy) sister. That makes eight women altogether: they all have their secrets, which get more and more lurid, and they all have musical numbers to perform, leading up to the elderly Darrieux’s solo rendition of the lugubrious “Il n’y a pas amour heureux” (“There is no happy love.”)  Eventually, the not-very-interesting mystery of Marcel’s death is solved, and we can all go home.

 I’ve read that François Ozon, who both wrote and directed this film, originally wanted to do a French remake of George Cukor’s 1939 all-female The Women, though legal issues got in the way.. Alas, the catty wit of the Cukor original (adapted by Anita Loos and Jane Murfin from the play by Claire Boothe Luce) seems to be missing here, along with The Women’s ultra-sharp delineation of social mores. And the determination to make this movie into both a murder mystery and a musical leads to a failure on both counts.

 Though I personally love musicals, I’m honestly not sure why the French are so keen to embrace them. They did have one genuine musical hit, Jacques Demy’s 1964 The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, which could hardly be mistaken for a Hollywood musical comedy. It’s a beautiful film, with gorgeous art direction and a lovely score by Michel Legrand, but there’s absolutely nothing comic about this story of love and loss. Three years later, Demy tried for a lighter tone in another musical, Les Demoiselles de Rochefort (The Young Girls of Rochefort), which again stars Deneuve, along with her sister Françoise Dorléac, and even finds a place for George Chakiris and Gene Kelly. For years I wanted to see this film, but when I finally did I was sadly disappointed. It’s flat and inconsequential: no fizz, no real joy. Much like that strange hybrid, 8 Femmes.