The Daze of Wine and Roses

For many of us, “Days of Wine and Roses” is primarily a ballad, best known in a 1963 rendition by pop singer Andy Williams. It’s got a noble pedigree, featuring Johnny Mercer’s lyrics set to a Henry Mancini tune.  Over the years it’s often been recorded, and has become a jazz standard. It won a Grammy for 1963 Song of the Year, as well as an Oscar for its appearance in the film of the same name.

 It’s that 1962 film I want to focus on now, partly because it, and the Playhouse 90 teleplay that preceded it,  have recently inspired a musical version (now running through the end of this month) that features some of Broadway’s best and brightest. The music is by Adam Guettel, with book by Craig Lucas, both of whom have impressive resumés and reputations for producing serious dramatic work. (Their prime collaboration is the musical version of another sensitive movie drama, The Light in the Piazza.) The female lead is the much-honored Kelli O’Hara, and her male counterpart is another Broadway veteran, Brian d’Arcy James. The score, which does not include the Mancini/Mercer ballad, is gorgeous, and I’ve heard the staging is highly inventive. But the fact that the play was originally scheduled to run through April 28 suggests it has not caught fire with audiences, and I wonder how most of us will ever manage to see it.

 Days of Wine and Roses, directed by Blake Edwards from a JP Miller screenplay, takes a close look at how lives are destroyed by alcohol abuse. In this it makes a fascinating contrast to the early classic of the genre, Billy Wilder’s The Lost Weekend. The 1945 Wilder film, starring Ray Milland, is an unforgettable close-up look at a man who, over the course of two harrowing days, nearly destroys his life because of his addiction to the bottle. By contrast, Days of Wine and Roses has a much larger canvas. It unfolds over a number of years, encompassing periods of binge drinking, sobriety, and relapse.  It’s also about a romantic couple, whose relationship to alcohol first enhances and then destroys their marriage. The leads are played by Jack Lemmon and Lee Remick, both of whom give award-worthy performances. Both were indeed nominated for Oscars, but lost out to Gregory Peck (To Kill a Mockingbird) and Anne Bancroft (The Miracle Worker) in a strong year. Shockingly, the film’s only win was for that featured title song, perhaps because this was also the year of Lawrence of Arabia, The Music Man, Sweet Bird of Youth, and The Manchurian Candidate.

 What I’ve found fascinating, both then and now, is the way marriage and alcoholism are shown to be strange bedfellows. Lemmon’s character, San Francisco public relations exec Joe Clay, is a bon vivant type, one who enjoys social drinking and uses liquor to fuel his relationship with clients. When he falls for teetotaler secretary Kirsten, he makes Brandy Alexanders a central part of their exuberant courtship. Over time, both begin to depend on liquor in their domestic relationship: when one pulls back, the other is resentful. Eventually after their cravings have taken a toll on their professional and social lives, the marriage itself implodes, leaving two lost souls in its wake.

 The year 1962 was a long time ago, but this film (despite its black-&-white cinematography) still feels modern. I’ve read it had a powerful long-term effect on its cast and crew, many of whom had their own addictions to face. (Within the film, Alcoholics Anonymous is an important presence in one character’s shaky but genuine recovery.)

 

A Key to “The Apartment”

 It’s a curious fact that The Apartment, Billy Wilder’s Oscar-winning dark comedy from 1960, was inspired by David Lean’s 1945 English weepie, Brief Encounter. When Wilder first saw Brief Encounter, he didn’t focus on the two veddy straitlaced Brits who—though married to suitable spouses—fall passionately in love after a chance meeting in an English train station. There’s a scene in the film where, uncharacteristically, they dare to meet at a friend’s flat for a secret tryst.  Wilder found himself fascinated not by the lovers but by the friend. Who was this person willing to absent himself from his own home so that others could fulfill their sexual longings in his bed?

 Apparently Wilder realized in 1945 that a film about someone enabling adultery would not pass muster in the Hollywood of the production code era. It took 15 years for him and writing partner I.A.L. Diamond to create a hero whose role in life is to lend out his apartment for the sexual escapades of others. Casting Jack Lemmon (a Wilder favorite following his breakthrough role in Some Like It Hot) as a lovable shnook, the writers created a sharp commentary on Manhattan business culture, while also providing an up-to-date romance involving Lemmon’s C.C. “Bud” Baxter and a young woman (Shirley MacLaine’s Fran Kubelik) who is no stranger to sexual exploitation.

 This is a film that is all about power relationships. Though in some respects it is dated (Bud’s nifty one-bedroom flat, in the Upper Sixties just off Central Park West, rents for a mere $85 a month), his relationship to the higher-ups who borrow his place for a quickie with a willing secretary seems all too current. Bud puts up with the indignity of being left out in the cold while his bosses canoodle because he sees in their gratitude a chance to move up the corporate ladder at the soulless insurance company where he’s employed.  In a place where most of the low-level employees remain near-anonymous, the much-coveted key to Bud’s apartment gives him status, and the hope of promotion.  For a while it works, until love enters the picture—in the form of a perky “elevator girl” whose dream is to marry the über-boss (a slick Fred MacMurray, in Double Indemnity mode), a heel who promises he’ll leave his wife and kids for her.

 Though The Apartment is often hilariously funny, with the Wilder/Diamond wit on fine display, this is a film that doesn’t shy away from dark moments--like a near suicide—and from a generally downbeat look at American corporate culture. Watching it recently, I realized how closely it connects with the skewed morality of TV’s Mad Men (2007-2015), in which upwardly mobile advertising execs try to claw their way to the top of the heap. That series is even set in pretty much the same era as the one in which The Apartment was made, when corporate types were developing their own lingo, vocabulary-wise, as well as their own lifestyle, morality-wise. A big difference, though. Whereas Lemmon’s C. C. Baxter is the guy on the outside, looking in, Mad Men’s Don Draper (Jon Hamm) is in the thick of things, finessing his way through the ad world with only the occasional moral qualm. Then there’s Peggy Olson, as played by Elisabeth Moss. She starts out as eager and innocent as Fran Kubelik, but it doesn’t stick. Her smarts and her ambition make her want to beat the boys at their own game. By the end, she’s as soulless as the rest, but the key to the executive washroom is in her grasp.