This week I did something that I absolutely abhor. I watched the two halves of this lengthy film on different days. Ugh. I usually try to avoid doing that at all costs, but this week involved the submission of the first section of this English person’s Master’s thesis, and sometimes things just have to bow to the thesis over here—even when those things are as extraordinary as this week’s Best Picture winner, Ben Hur (1959, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer).

This is a movie that I’ve been looking forward to working with since I started this BP mission in the spring. As was the case with Gone with the Wind, exactly twenty years Ben-Hur’s senior, I would have thought that Ben-Hur was “non-remake-able”; however, as last year’s unsuccessful remake proves, I can be wrong. But I’d like to think I’m at least correct in saying that this film is definitely unique. During a decade of huge blockbuster films relating to Christianity, Ben-Hur stands alone as the only one which took home the film industry’s highest honor. It also happens to be the first of a mere three films to ever win 11 Oscars, the current record. If we consider the number of Academy Award nominations and wins as the determining factor in ranking films, then Ben-Hur is the second greatest movie ever made with 12 nominations and 11 wins. Personally, I think there’s more to ranking films than just how much awards-show hardware they accumulate, but it’s an interesting idea to look just at Academy Awards (plus, this ranking method makes Titanic the greatest movie ever made with 14 nominations and 11 wins, and I’m not going to completely argue against that proposition…). Personally, in my movie ranking list, I placed Ben-Hur in second place, beneath Gone with the Wind, because I don’t believe the acting in Ben-Hur can even come close to touching Vivien Leigh’s Scarlett O’Hara and Clark Gable’s Rhett Butler. But feel free to debate me on that; I’m open to other thoughts!

The stunning chariot race scene which took six months to film!

Oscar-wise, then, the 11 trophies that Ben-Hur took home were: Art Direction (Color), Costume Design (Color), Sound, Film Editing, Cinematography (Color), Special Effects, Music (Music Score of a Dramatic or Comedy Picture), Actor for Charlton Heston as Judah Ben-Hur, Actor in a Supporting Role for Hugh Griffith as Sheik Ilderim, Directing for William Wyler, and Best Motion Picture. The Academy Award for Directing was William Wyler’s third win in that category. He was previously recognized for his work on Mrs. Miniver (1942) and The Best Years of Our Lives (1946). Though his Ben-Hur win would be his last competitive Oscar victory, Wyler remains one of the greatest directors of all time and the only one to direct three Best Picture winners.

Judah witnesses the ceremonial majesty of ancient Rome.

Ben-Hur the film is based on Lew Wallace’s 1880 novel entitled Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ. From an early age, Wallace found himself fascinated by the story of the wise men who followed the star to find the young Savior. Though he wasn’t a Christian believer himself in his younger days, the story lingered in Wallace’s memory through his time in service as a soldier in the Mexican-American War and the Civil War and during the early years of his marriage and fatherhood. Wallace, still basically agnostic regarding religion, at last decided to write a story about the wise men and submit it to a magazine. However, he randomly met the famous atheist Robert Ingersoll and became dismayed that Ingersoll, a professed unbeliever, possessed greater biblical knowledge. Ashamed of his wishy-washy stance on religion, Wallace began to study the Bible in earnest and came to “see God through the eyes of his character,” Judah Ben-Hur. Wallace’s entire worldview changed while writing the novel: “Long before I was through with my book, I became a believer in God and Christ.” Ben-Hur became a phenomenal success and one of the best-selling books of the nineteenth century. Its message of forgiveness in the aftermath of brotherly betrayal and unspeakable trials resonated with an America still trying to heal the hurts of the Civil War.

In his torment, Judah sees Jesus for the first time. For most of the film, to Judah, Jesus is the nameless man who gave him water in his time of need.

But, what connection can we make between the events of the 1950s and a vengeful Jewish man living in Roman-occupied Judea in the first century A.D.?

Eric Johnston, then-president of the Motion Picture Association of America made an interesting speech at the 1960 Oscar ceremony while handing out the award for Foreign Language Film. In addressing how movies can teach people about ourselves and others, he stated: “It is a simple fact that we must all understand that we are not automatically just going to do the right thing.” In my mind, the 1950s seem to be about as “right” as one culture could get. I think poodle skirts and soda fountains and Elvis, Route 66 and church on Sundays and the Fonz. It seems like it must have been wholesome all the time. Untrue. Johnston made his statement about morality after playing a pretty significant role in blacklisting many in Hollywood; and as the film industry rolled, like the rest of the world, into the chaos of the 1960s, the Cold War was already raging, to prove his integrity Nixon had already given a national speech about his dog, and Jim Crow and Brown v. Board of Education had already started having it out over whether separate was the same as equal. It was a messed-up world then as it is now. Johnston was correct in declaring that we won’t all just do the right thing, and we see this truth as well in Ben-Hur. When Judah tries to take the high road in the conflict, he gets stabbed in the back. When he opts for vengeance, he just reaps more pain. It is in mercy and forgiveness that Judah finds real peace and contentment and meaning. And those ideals are pretty timeless, I would say.

For more thoughts on Ben-Hur and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

“Like everywhere else, most people in Paris get married, but not all. There are some who will not marry, and some who do not marry. But in Paris, those who will not marry are usually men, and those who do not marry are usually women,” explains Honore Lachaille in the opening lines of Gigi (1958). Honore, a wealthy older man obsessed with pursuing young women for his fleeting romantic interludes, next directs the film viewer’s attention to two groups of women who are passing by his location in the park. The first group of women are all married, the ones who “stood their ground and won.” Honore respects them, but turns quickly to look at two unmarried women in a carriage, noting the “pathetic rags they wear.” At least at the beginning of the film, then, it seems that marriage is a more desirable situation than singleness.

But why are the single women penniless? My take on this is two-fold: either they are women who have refused to become mistresses and have missed out on the financial benefits of being “kept” women, or they are former mistresses who have been passed around so much that they are no longer desirable and no longer have any “income.” Whatever the reason for their financial struggle, according to Honore these women are those who “do not marry,” implying a definition: because these particular people are women, they avoid marriage (this is true of Gigi’s demimonde family composed of all women). Men, on the other hand, are not defined by their marital status, but are distinguished from women by the fact that they make a choice regarding marriage (i.e. they “will not marry”). To be blunt, why should a rich man marry if he can have endless female companionship and no-strings-attached sex for less responsibility and permanence than what he would get with a wife? Wives grow old and unattractive. Mistresses can be ever young, an endless cycle of youthfulness at one’s beck and call…only for a simple arrangement much like a business transaction.

Aunt Alicia and Gigi, pondering which dress Gigi should wear in order to snag Gaston’s affections.

Speaking of mistresses, Gigi reveals how if a woman is a man’s mistress, she must perform a certain role—the same as that of every other paramour. Gigi receives weekly (and then daily) lessons from her Aunt Alicia in bizarre “accomplishments” that will attract and hold the attentions of rich and powerful men—mastering such vital talents as how to eat cold lobster and how to recognize the most expensive jewels. Aunt Alicia, herself a famous courtesan, remains wealthy and independent in her singleness—however, she refuses to leave her home, apparently not wanting people to see her as an older woman and not desiring to fuel any additional gossip about herself since the Paris papers are overflowing with personal details about the love lives of the rich and famous.

Gaston is one of those privileged people whose every move is chronicled in the tabloids. And he hates it. Actually, he detests everything to do with his posh existence. To him, everything is “a bore.” He even sings an entire song about how dull the whole shebang is! Yet he sees something different in young Gigi. The ironic thing is that once Gaston realizes he loves Gigi because she is unlike anyone else he has ever known, he pursues her just as he would every other woman. He approaches her grandmother, Madame Alvarez, in order to make an arrangement for Gigi to become his mistress. In Gaston’s eyes, this demonstrates his great care for young Gigi, but she is appalled at the offer, initially refusing the proffered life of wealth and ease. She knows (from reading the newspaper’s tabloid headlines) that in a non-committed relationship, Gaston will soon tire of her. She will be required to act the role of mistress (putting to use all the impractical skills Aunt Alicia taught her), lowering herself to the ranks of all the other desperate women in Paris. When Gaston moves on to another woman, Gigi will have to “crawl into another man’s bed” to survive. She would become a permanent courtesan, just like her Aunt Alicia. It would be a comfortable lifestyle at first—except that Gigi would have to sacrifice herself to play a role she despises and would in the end presumably end up like Aunt Alicia—rich, paranoid, and lonely.

Gigi insists she looks beautiful when Gaston, taken aback by her maturity, ridicules her “grown-up” clothes.

For Me Then…

Ah, marriage. We talked about marriage and singleness with Marty a few weeks ago. Marriage is foundational to the plot of Gigi, but the idea of marriage is very subtle in the film. It mostly appears at the beginning and the end. In the rest of the movie, we see desperate women and dominating men. Since in 1900, women cannot (usually) respectably work jobs as men do or enjoy the riches of inheritances that allow them to squander their days in pursuing “love,” what else can women do in order to gain the comfortable lives they desire? The film seems to set up the idea of how ridiculous it is to have a relationship based on a financial arrangement or in order to ride the waves of social approval. Instead, love blossoms from friendship and respect for each other’s real selves.

Gigi insists on receiving Gaston’s respect, although she wavers a bit as an ideal feminist character when she agrees to become Gaston’s mistress. Informing him that she would “rather be miserable with you than miserable without you,” Gigi exalts love over what she views as her own personal worth and dignity. This is quite probably a naive and misguided self-sacrifice on Gigi’s part, but I think it is also possible to read in her words that Gigi knows she and Gaston would both be miserable if they were together and not married. On their one formal social appearance as a non-married couple, Gaston is appalled that his one-of-a-kind Gigi slips so easily into the hum-drum “love games” of all the other women he’s known. Pressuring Gigi to become his mistress causes her to put herself in the same proverbial box as the other “boring” women in Paris. She pours Gaston’s coffee, selects his cigar, gushes over the jewelry he gives her. Both play roles when they are in this mock-permanent relationship. But Gaston (and Gigi as well) wants something meaningful and true, not rote sexual chess games.

Gaston and Gigi in public together as a couple for the first time.

(Spoiler alert!) I think it’s highly important that Gigi doesn’t insist that Gaston marry her—he comes to this realization on his own: the only way he can be with the Gigi whom he loves is to remove the pressure of survival from her by giving her stability and permanence in a romantic relationship. Only when Gaston also sees the misery inherent in the instability of his suggested relationship with Gigi does he propose. The constancy and contentment of their married state is evident at the end of the film. Gigi seems once more her slightly flighty, effervescent self; and Gaston seems much more gratified and relaxed. The film closes on a high note, but let’s think back to those women Honore views at the beginning of the film–the married ones vs. the never-married ones. Gigi joins the former group, but the film really presents us with a large question mark regarding the fate of women who are not so fortunate as Gigi is in the end. For that reason, I don’t think that this film is worthy of flat-out dismissal, for its theme regarding the place of women in a male-dominated society transcends its own decade and resonates in our own sexual-assault-ridden times.

Not too long ago, I read an article ranking the Best Picture winners. Gigi (1958) (Arthur Freed Productions, Inc./Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer) was placed dead last in the list, labeled as exalting pedophilia, and dismissed as junk. Well, I’m not denying there are some issues in the film—especially when we view it through our 21^st-century lenses, but I don’t think it’s unredeemable or completely lacking in worthwhile content to discuss.

In fact, Gigi is quite a rarity in the family of BP winners—it’s one of only a handful of films to win every Academy Award for which it was nominated. Other films to have achieved this unique feat are 1927/28’s Wings (but all the films pretty much won if they were nominated back then…), 1931/32’s Grand Hotel (which won the only Oscar it was nominated for), 1934’s It Happened One Night (the first winner of the “Big Five”), 1987’s The Last Emperor, and most recently 2003’s The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (which took home all 11 of the statuettes for which it was nominated). Gigi is also unusual in that it received no acting nominations, something only 11 BPs have done (this is the seventh one of these films that we have discussed). So let’s just list the nine awards Gigi did win: Film Editing, Writing (Screenplay Based on Material from Another Medium), Music (Scoring of a Musical Picture), Art Direction, Costume Design, Cinematography (Color), Directing for Vincente Minnelli, and Best Motion Picture. If you’re wondering what that ninth award was, it was for Best Song for “Gigi”—only the second Best Picture winner to capture this award (the first was Going My Way).

Gigi, frustrated at her “lessons” in recognizing quality jewels.

Gigi originated as a novella published in 1944 by a French writer who went by the pen name Colette. Born Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette in 1873, Colette married Henry Gauthier-Villars (“Willy”) in 1893. Willy, himself a writer and publisher, encouraged his wife to become an author. Her first four novels, referred to as the Claudine stories, were great successes—although, due to the status of women in the late nineteenth century, the stories were published under Willy’s name and he held the copyright to them, a tragic reality for Colette after she and Willy divorced in 1910. Impoverished and desperate to earn enough for food, Colette survived off what she could make in stage performances, sometimes acting out vignettes of her own character Claudine. During this time, she captured the frustration and injustice of her first-hand knowledge of women’s required dependence on men in her novel La Vagabonde.

The renowned French author Colette at her desk, date unknown.

After remarrying in 1912, Colette was able to devote more time to writing, publishing a couple of works dealing with relationships between older women and younger men—which was ironic because Colette’s affair with her sixteen-year-old stepson helped to derail her second marriage in 1924 (that’s quite disturbing…). A few years later she met and married her third husband, Maurice Goudeket, who was Jewish. By the 1920s and 30s, Colette was being referred to as the greatest French female writer, and her works continued to address issues women faced with marriage, sexuality, and independence. A resident of Paris during the Second World War, Colette lived in terror that her husband would be arrested and sent to a concentration camp (he was arrested once by the Nazis and released due to the influence of the French wife of a German ambassador). She recorded her war experiences in two volumes of memoirs published in English in 1975 as Looking Backwards. Toward the end of the war (1944), Colette published her most famous work, Gigi. The work was made into a French film in 1949 and adapted into a Broadway play of the same name in 1951. While on a trip to Monte Carlo, Colette herself discovered the former ballerina who would be the star of the play. The dancer’s name was Audrey Hepburn. When Colette died in 1954, she was the first French woman to be given a state funeral.

Maurice Chevalier in Gigi–his character discourages many from loving this film. So very creepy…

Colette’s Gigi is born a member of the demimonde, “the class of women considered to be of doubtful morality and social standing.” The situations of such women are already morally questionable, but what makes the character of Gigi in particular both unnerving and sympathetic is the fact that she is so young–still in school, still a teenager–in a world that is male-dominated, ruthless, and heartless. Gigi is taught to ignore feelings of the heart, to love money, and to cater to power. Gigi the film, therefore, gives rise to issues of women’s place in society, in personal relationships with men, and in connections with each other. So, setting aside the creepiness of Maurice Chevalier’s “Thank Heaven for Little Girls,” I think the film really opens a door for discussions about women’s rights and the morality of a society that requires blatant sexuality from women without granting them equality.

For more thoughts on Gigi and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

This film may perhaps muddy the waters (excuse my “bridgy” pun) regarding right and wrong more than any other film we’ve seen so far. The plot of The Bridge On The River Kwai revolves around two military commanders, one British and one Japanese, who are puffed up with pride and obsessed with following “the rules of war.” I find the rules of war to be a ludicrous idea, but back in the mid-to-late 1800s as weapons technology advanced, the powers that be made an effort to regulate both how warfare is conducted and how combatants and non-combatants (including prisoners of war) are treated by their enemies. I think these rules make for fascinating reading, and you can check out the text of the 1907 Hague Convention here: http://www.opbw.org/int_inst/sec_docs/1907HC-TEXT.pdf, and the 1929 Geneva Convention here: http://avalon.law.yale.edu/20th_century/geneva02.asp (the latter of which is referred to several times in The Bridge on the River Kwai). It sounds like a nice idea that both Colonel Nicholson (the British guy) and Colonel Saito (the Japanese guy) want to follow the rules, but the problem is that they each believe in following different sets of rules. Nicholson elevates the Geneva Convention nearly to the same infallible preeminence as the Bible, and Saito promotes a more ancient code of bushido, “the way of the warrior.” The extent of the conflict between the two colonels’ rules becomes evident immediately in the film when Nicholson almost triumphantly parades his troops into Saito’s POW camp and Saito rails at them all for being cowards since they surrendered to their enemies and did not commit “honorable” suicide.

Saito about to swat Nicholson with the British officer’s copy of the Geneva Conventions.

But then the conflict gets even more, um, conflicting. After a pretty long stalemate between the two commanders regarding whether or not officers can be forced to do manual labor like common soldiers (you see, the Geneva Convention says no, but Saito’s superiors say yes), a rather strange bargain is struck between the British and the Japanese: the British will design and construct the bridge as long as their officers don’t have to work; and the Japanese will, well, support them in an overseeing role that seems very inferior to that of the British, who see themselves as God’s gift to engineering. Nicholson, who insists that rank and order must be maintained at all times in the British army, views the bridge project as a way to boost his men’s morale, to bolster their pride, and to convince them that they are still “soldiers and not slaves.” But as the film continues, Nicholson’s obsession with the bridge and its possible longevity increases to the point that when the bridge is finished, he ceremoniously places a plaque on it so its future travelers will know just who exactly built this wonder: the practically almighty British.

Nicholson proudly places his plaque.

Imagine Nicholson’s shock and horror, then, when he realizes at the close of the film that (spoiler alert!) a small contingent of Allied soldiers intends to blow up his masterpiece! Major Warden (a somewhat eccentric but clever British officer), Commander Shears (a common soldier who has stolen an officer’s identity in order to receive better treatment when he was a prisoner in Saito’s camp), and young Lieutenant Joyce (a Canadian who struggles with killing the enemy) have trekked through the steamy jungle for days to reach the bridge in time to destroy it when the first train (one carrying Japanese VIPs) ventures across. Warden, like Nicholson and Saito, is also a rule-follower. He warns Shears before their mission that death is preferable to capture by the enemy, a belief that smacks of the same values held by Saito. Shears scoffs at such a notion, most notably when Warden is seriously wounded before reaching the bridge. When Warden orders Shears to continue without him, Shears retorts: “You make me sick with your heroics. There’s a stench of death about ya…And with you, it’s just one thing or the other: ‘Destroy a bridge or destroy yourself.’ This is just a game, this war. You and that Colonel Nicholson, you’re two of a kind. Crazy with courage. For what? How to die like a gentleman. How to die by the rules when the only important thing is how to live like a human being. I’m not going to leave you here to die, Warden, because I don’t care about your bridge and I don’t care about your rules. If we go on, we go on together.”

Ironically, it is Warden’s adherence to the rules that kills both Shears and Joyce as they struggle to annihilate the bridge. Even after he fires fatal mortars onto the riverbed where his comrades are, Warden clings to his rules, pleading with the female pack-bearers who accompanied the mission, “I had to do it. I had to do it. They could have been captured alive. It was the only thing to do.” What is more than a little confusing is why Shears and Joyce couldn’t have been captured. What did they know that they couldn’t tell? Their secret mission would have been a bust already if they were captured; it wouldn’t matter if they told all about it. The only other thing they know about is Warden’s “military-game” unit, Force 316, headquartered in the botanical gardens (which seems a bit odd). Is his mission to blow up the bridge (too) personal? His “I had to do it” is pretty nauseating considering these are the men who earlier refused to leave him behind to certain death. They almost sacrifice the mission for his life—but he takes theirs for the mission. That’s pretty sick. And since the whole film is about keeping one’s dignity and honor even under duress and/or imprisonment, the idea that Shears and Joyce would have been disgraced failures who could compromise the British Army’s capacity to make war on its enemies is more in line with Saito’s “rules” than Nicholson’s “more civilized” ones.

Shears, Warden, and Joyce defending themselves from Japanese attack while on their bridge-destruction mission.

Speaking of Nicholson (continuing spoiler alert!), his demise also comes at the hands of Warden, his own countryman. However, as Major Clipton, the British camp doctor, admonishes Nicholson, constructing an immaculate and sturdy bridge (i.e. doing one’s best work) for the Japanese while their prisoners could be “construed as…collaboration with the enemy. Perhaps even as treasonable activity.” Although at first Nicholson dismisses this idea of aiding the enemy, his obsession with proving British superiority clouds his judgment about loyalty—and even his dedication to following the rules of war when he requests the officers under him to assist their men to finish the bridge on time. But by the end of the film, having betrayed the demolition plan of his fellow Allied soldiers, wrestled with them in an attempt to save the enemy’s bridge, and witnessed them dying around him, Nicholson—absolutely dumbfounded—utters his final words, “What have I done?” Perfectly ambiguous, we can only postulate what exactly the proud British colonel means. For me, this moment in The Bridge on the River Kwai reverberates in a line from The Hunger Games: Mockingjay when Haymitch tells Katniss to “remember who the real enemy is.” I think we see Nicholson remembering his real enemy in his shocked last words. Of course, he could also be expressing horror that his dedication to the rules has led him to participate in the killing of his own allies. But again, it’s not quite that simple. Nicholson seems to recognize his grievous error of fighting for the wrong side, but is he completely wrong to use the bridge to boost morale and keep his men going? Under his bridge project, it seems that less POWs die (kudos to my sister for pointing this out to me!). Yet, is it wrong for him to elevate his men’s welfare above the greater cause? And here’s the million dollar question: In the famous final sequence of the film, after his last words and before he is hit by the mortar shrapnel, does Nicholson really intend to detonate the explosives to destroy his bridge; or is it an accident that he falls on the detonator as he dies? I’ve always thought he would have deliberately pushed it had he lived, but this time I’m not so sure!

“What have I done?”

For Me Then…

Please forgive me as I pull in one more quote from another stellar film! Towards the beginning of The Patriot (2000), Benjamin Martin, a man who would like to stay out of the escalating conflict between the British and their American colonists, gives aid to the wounded on both sides of a skirmish that occurs in his fields. In recompense for his civilized actions, the shiveringly evil British Colonel Tavington orders the house and barns burned to the ground and a colonial messenger (who happens to be Martin’s son) shot as a traitor. When Martin insists that such conduct transgresses the rules of war, Tavington yanks out his pistol, directs it toward Martin’s face, and gruffly asks, “Would you like a lesson, sir, in the rules of war?” I think that pretty much sums up war exactly. In an activity that (almost always) requires pain and death in order to produce a victor, how on earth would any restrictions or regulations be enforceable or practical? To play devil’s advocate again, though, aren’t there atrocities that are never okay to commit even in war (hello, Holocaust)?

Honestly, The Bridge on the River Kwai, as noted in Thursday’s Weekday Warm-up, seems to project a very strong anti-war message. The film provides us with a ton of conflict and not a lot of concrete resolutions. In fact, the final words we hear belong to Major Clipton, the doctor (i.e. someone who heals instead of hurts). Clipton is sent away from the final skirmish to a vantage point where he observes all the carnage. After Nicholson’s fall on the detonator, Clipton furiously cries: “Madness!…Madness! Madness!” War is futile, says the film. People compromise their values and forget their loyalties. People kill each other–some even kill their comrades. People make other people build things that still other people blow up. At the end, they all lie dead in the same muddy water. For what? The river flows on like it did before the bridge existed.

Dun, dun, dun, DUNNN, DUNNN, dun, dun, da DUNNNN dun…ok, I’ll stop. In case my intro isn’t decipherable, it’s supposed to be the theme from Star Wars because this week’s Best Picture winner, The Bridge On The River Kwai (1957, Columbia), features the great Alec Guinness, who plays, of course, the incomparable Ben Obi-Wan Kenobi in Episodes IV-VI. I just keep waiting for Guinness to pull out his lightsaber in The Bridge on the River Kwai, but I’m disappointed every time.

Guinness, who ironically was not a Star Wars fan, wasn’t disappointed with his role in The Bridge on the River Kwai, believing his interpretation of Colonel Nicholson to be one of the greatest performances of his career—one which earned him the Best Actor Oscar. In total, The Bridge on the River Kwai garnered eight Academy Award nominations and won seven: Best Actor for Guinness, Directing for the intense and demanding David Lean, Cinematography, Music (Scoring), Writing (Screenplay—Based on Material from Another Medium), Film Editing, and Best Motion Picture. The only nomination for which the film failed to take home the golden statuette was in the Actor in a Supporting Role category in which Sessue Hayakawa was recognized for his role as Colonel Saito.

Alec Guinness as Colonel Nicholson, keeping the ranks in check upon arrival at the Japanese POW camp.

The film version of The Bridge on the River Kwai is based on the award-winning 1952 French novel Le Pont de la Rivière Kwai written by Pierre Boulle, which was translated into English by Xan Fielding in 1954 (who also translated Boulle’s other famous work, Planet of the Apes). Although Boulle did not write the screenplay for the film version of his novel, he was credited with having done so because the two actual screenwriters, Carl Foreman and Michael Wilson, had been blacklisted during the Red Scare. Boulle didn’t even speak English (so it was quite obvious he had not written the screenplay!), and his Oscar acceptance speech consisted of one word: “Merci.” Foreman and Wilson were retroactively awarded Oscars for their screenplay in 1984, but Wilson had died in 1978, and Foreman died the day after the announcement that his work would finally be acknowledged. Both of their names were added to the film’s credits during restoration.

Boulle based his fictional tale on his own experiences as a POW during World War II, although he himself was not one of the prisoners who were forced to work on what became known as the “Death Railway” through “Hellfire Pass.” The true story of these Japanese prisoners of war is much more horrific than the story we get in the film version: it is estimated that 16,000 Allied prisoners died during construction of the railway, not to mention approximately 100,000 Asian civilians’ lives were sacrificed there as well. You can read the obituary of one POW, Alistair Urquhart, who survived the railroad construction and the atrocities of the Japanese camp, here: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/obituaries/2016/10/23/alistair-urquhart-death-railway-survivor–obituary/. You can find the book he wrote about his experiences in WWII here: The Forgotten Highlander: An Incredible WWII Story of Survival in the Pacific.

The film version of the “Death Railway.”

During the decade after WWII, the United States found itself embroiled in a number of conflicts in which it didn’t necessarily desire to take part. The Korean War took place in the early 1950s. The Vietnam War commenced in the 50s and would last into the 1970s. The Cold War also would simmer decades after the close of WWII. So it’s interesting to me that there are some pretty deliberate anti-war overtones in The Bridge on the River Kwai. I’m still puzzling over how this week we get a film about war that is possibly against war written by two guys who were victims of a country’s reaction to a “bloodless” war, which resulted in a guy who really suffered in war winning an Oscar he didn’t totally deserve–all while America participated in more wars, which a lot of people were against. That’s about as confusing as trying to convert my Star Wars humming into words…

For more thoughts on The Bridge on the River Kwai and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

Unbelievably, it is that time again–30 movies under our Best Picture-watching belts, and time to share my personal rankings of the films. Definitely seeing some trends now that we’re a few decades into this project. War films do well at the Academy Awards, as do movies that attempt to address current social issues like racism, addiction, and corruption of those in power. Stories based on real-life events and historical figures also are not absent from this list, and adaptations of classic and/or popular works of literature frequent the awards categories as well. Without further ado, then, here are my current rankings of the first 30 winners of the Academy Award for Best Picture:

1. Gone with the Wind (1939)
2. You Can’t Take It with You (1938)
3. All Quiet on the Western Front (1929/30)
4. All About Eve (1950)
5. The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957)
6. Casablanca (1943)
7. The Best Years of Our Lives (1946)
8. It Happened One Night (1934)
9. Rebecca (1940)
10. On the Waterfront (1954)
11. Around the World in 80 Days (1956)
12. The Greatest Show on Earth (1952)
13. All the King’s Men (1949)
14. Hamlet (1948)
15. Mrs. Miniver (1942)
16. Mutiny on the Bounty (1935)
17. The Great Ziegfeld (1936)
18. How Green Was My Valley (1941)
19. The Lost Weekend (1945)
20. Going My Way (1944)
21. Marty (1955)
22. An American in Paris (1951)
23. The Life of Emile Zola (1937)
24. Cavalcade (1932/33)
25. Wings (1927/28)
26. Gentleman’s Agreement (1947)
27. Cimarron (1930/31)
28. The Broadway Melody (1928/29)
29. Grand Hotel (1931/32)
30. From Here to Eternity (1953)

A few words of explanation for my top and bottom choices. By the next time that I update my rankings, I will have viewed several films that are capable of rivaling Gone with the Wind for the top spot; but right now I just haven’t seen anything that can come near the scope of its cinematography and the brilliance of its casting and acting, not to mention Max Steiner’s glorious score. Plus, the story is compelling–even if I spend the entire four-plus hours wanting to slap some sense into Scarlett. As for From Here to Eternity, my lowest rated movie and a film I don’t really ever need to see again, I felt the story was dull (as it was perhaps meant to be in order to convey the shock of the Pearl Harbor attack), the characters unlikeable, and the end unsatisfactory (again, this was probably intended, but I still don’t like it). One thing I will grant that film is that it has a lovely title, very creatively based on a line from a Kipling poem–and being an English person, any nod to literature is always appreciated!

So, debate as you will. Feedback is welcome! The Weekday Warm-up for this week’s film, The Bridge on the River Kwai, will be up within the next couple of days. Thanks for reading!

Traveling allows us to plunge ourselves into the lives of people with whom we don’t interact on a regular basis, people who don’t necessarily act like us or believe as we do. But in Around the World in 80 Days (1956), Phileas Fogg, wealthy and mysterious, undertakes his epic journey not to observe new cultures or gain an appreciation of our lovely planet, but to win a bet. His reasons for travel are pecuniary—as well as self-centered. His pride has been challenged when his acquaintances at the Reform Club expressed doubt as to his achieving his claim that he could circle the world in 80 days. Passepartout, Fogg’s valet, also possesses monetary reasons for accompanying Fogg on his trip. As a new hire, Passepartout feels the need to prove himself to his new master. But even more than cementing his employment status with Fogg, Passepartout’s major goal on the trip is to ogle different cultures’ beautiful women. What a pair.

Fogg and Co. awaiting their next mode of transportation somewhere in the American West.

Of course, in light of the film’s title, it is obvious that the film has much to do with time. While 80 days is the goal, a constant thought in the back of all the characters’ minds, time plays a larger role than just Fogg’s deadline. As the film’s music constantly reminds its viewers (via variations on the well-known “Rule, Britannia”), Fogg is first and foremost a British man. Everything he does from traveling to eating to recreation is done in thoroughly British fashion, which means he is deliberate, scheduled, precise, serious, and composed. Princess Aouda, whom Fogg and Passepartout rescue from committing forced sati (because she is British-educated), confronts Fogg with his inflexibility: “Mr. Fogg, why must you be so…so British?” Fogg himself hilariously confirms his characterization with his feelings toward his beloved tea time: “Crisis or no, nothing should interfere with tea!” But this “Britishness” is perhaps most evident in Fogg’s obsession with time. Yes, his entire fortune is dependent on his winning the bet he made with the men in the Reform Club, but Fogg’s love of his ticking timepiece precedes his wager. Before Passepartout accepts his job with Fogg, he is warned by the employment office of Fogg’s demanding schedule—how his entire life is meticulously arranged down to each minute. This severe life organization continues on their journey around the world and is constantly reinforced by the numerous clocks and time-telling devices that appear in the film. One particularly gorgeous way the movie emphasizes this preoccupation with time is with repeated sunsets. These scenes were probably my favorite in the whole film. In all their widescreen glory (thanks to producer Michael Todd’s new filming technology), these golden and fiery salutes to the end of the day represent both the approaching 80-day deadline as well as the priority Fogg gives to time.

The irony of Fogg both needing to keep track of time and overly fixating on it culminates (spoiler alert!) in his miscalculation of what day it is when he returns to England. Having spent the entire trip (and apparently his whole life) counting minutes and hours, Fogg has somehow lost an entire day. How can this be? Well, somewhere on the trip through strangers reprimanding him about not missing out on his life, and from his developing feelings of love for Aouda and friendship for Passepartout, Fogg has come to value more than just the passing of time and ensuring that scheduled items take place at the right time. As the saloon hostess tells Fogg, “Never be in a hurry. You’ll miss the best parts in life.” Perhaps Fogg has realized the truth of this. We learn in his conversation with Aouda at the end of the film that Fogg has no family and no real friends. Time is his thing because he has nothing else that lends meaning to his life—until Aouda and Passepartout. Although the film ends hilariously (though a bit oddly) and full of hope that Fogg has learned to control his “British” tendency toward inflexibility, we still feel a bit cheated that the journey around the globe could have been even more than the adventure it was.

Aouda’s love transforms Fogg from a stickler for promptness to one who values each minute, we hope.

For Me Then…

Upon Fogg’s rush to catch a train, a stationmaster resignedly states, “I’ll be darned if I understand you city folks. Always rushing, rushing, rushing. Always thinking about the future. No wonder you have stomach trouble.” The future—another time-based concept—is a big component of Jules Verne’s classic novel. Celebrating the achievements of the present with a premonition that the future would hold even greater technological possibilities, the opening introduction of the film version of Verne’s story emphasizes how what was once impossible has become possible and how what we think is undoable now will be “old hat” in the future. We are not to limit ourselves to what we think can be done or to what has been done already. Furthermore, the movie emphasizes that each of us has a limited time and should make the most of what time we’ve been given—not to obsess over that time, but to use it (for good). We should get creative, make something of ourselves that allows us to be innovative and challenge the status quo. We should be willing to learn something about our fellow man—especially those who are different from ourselves—and immerse ourselves in the unfamiliar. Fogg’s 80-day journey was a technological success but a personal failure in that he missed out on the opportunity to develop himself more as a human being. Though he remedies this at the end of the film upon his return home, the trip is over and has not been fully utilized for what it could have been–an opportunity to learn about oneself through learning about others, a chance to use time instead of focus on it.

First, let me say I thought this movie was visually and aurally stunning—what gorgeous cinematography and a lovely score! Second, though, what a bizarre year for the Academy Awards. Don’t get me wrong. I think Around the World in 80 Days (1956) (Michael Todd Company/United Artists) is a completely deserving Best Picture winner. However, its competition was stiff, and it is more than a little surprising that we’re not discussing the popular The King and I or Cecil B. DeMille’s epic The Ten Commandments this week, both of which received nominations for Oscar’s highest prize for 1956. The King and I was most likely the expected winner that year with nine nominations (it won five), while The Ten Commandments astoundingly won merely one of the seven categories for which it was nominated (not a huge shock that it took home the Oscar for Special Effects—Moses’s parting of the Red Sea still blows my mind). Around the World in 80 Days fell in the middle of these two great films with eight nominations, including Art Direction (Color), Costume Design (Color), and Directing for Michael Anderson. The film won five Academy Awards: Film Editing, Writing (Screenplay-Adapted), Cinematography (Color), Music (Music Score of a Dramatic or Comedy Picture), and Best Motion Picture. It is only the sixth BP that we’ve discussed to receive no acting nominations (anyone remember the other five?).

Speaking of astounding statistics, Around the World in 80 Days employed a cast of nearly 70,000 (including extras), along with almost 8,000 animals (including “a sacred cow that eats flowers on cue,” according to Time magazine). Some of the members of the cast were Hollywood icons who show up in the film for cameo roles of only a couple of seconds’ or minutes’ duration. Frank Sinatra appears as the saloon piano player. Red Skelton is a drunk. Marlene Dietrich is the saloon hostess. Noël Coward (the writer of the play upon which 1933’s Cavalcade is based) is the manager of an employment agency. And so on. Supposedly, though, John Wayne turned down an offer to make a cameo appearance in the film. Too bad for us (and for him as well, as the Duke was never part of a BP winner).

Frank Sinatra in his cameo appearance as the saloon piano man.

Filmed in 75 days in over 100 locations in 13 countries, Around the World in 80 Days cost about $6 million to make. Michael Todd, the film’s producer, had never produced a film before. To help finance his new venture, he sold his interest in Todd-AO, a post-production company he had co-founded with the American Optical Company. Todd-AO helped to revolutionize the way that movies were filmed, as well as how they were presented in theaters. The cost of making Around the World in 80 Days plummeted Todd into debt, and his creditors actually constantly supervised the post-production of the film, treating the film materials as if they were in escrow. To Todd’s great relief, Around the World in 80 Days was a huge box office hit; and his fortunes were restored. Less than half a year after the film’s release, Todd married the much younger Elizabeth Taylor. It was the third marriage for both parties. Tragically, their wedded bliss (or stormy relationship, to be more accurate) was short-lived. Todd was killed when his private plane crashed near Grants, New Mexico, on March 22, 1958. Taylor had wanted to accompany her husband on his trip to New York to receive an award for “Showman of the Year,” but he had made her stay home in Hollywood as she was suffering from a cold. (You can check out one newspaper’s announcement of the tragedy at this website: http://www.rarenewspapers.com/view/574514).

Passepartout and Fogg consult on how to fly their new hot air balloon.

The film version of Around the World in 80 Days had big shoes to fill as Jules Verne’s novel of the same title had been extremely popular since its publication in 1872. Incidentally, the novel does not contain the famous scene in which Fogg and Passepartout travel in a hot air balloon. But it does feature an interesting conversation relating to travel and a quickly changing world. When one of his whist friends states that the “world is big enough,” Fogg controversially counters by replying, “It was once.” In Verne’s day, as in the 1950s, advances in technology were shrinking the world that people used to know—or, rather, technology was making it possible for people to better know the world in which they lived. For the novel’s nineteenth-century audience, trains and steamers were enabling people to reach locales they had only read about in shorter amounts of time than they had ever dreamed of. In the 1950s, in the aftermath of the World Wars, many young people had been abroad or had been familiarized with foreign locations through television and movies. Additionally, the rise of the commercial jetliner as well as the construction of the superhighways and the improvement in automobile capability led to more Americans on the move (as well as the advent of the fast food industry for all those travelers!). Verne, himself a lover of travel and adventure, hit the nail on the head with his novel. Around the World in 80 Days might be the story of a man attempting to win a bet, but it also relates a blossoming of the knowledge of humanity from different parts of this beautiful world we live in—we’re all quite different, but in a lot of ways we’re all the same.

For more thoughts on Around the World in 80 Days and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

Marty reminds me of one of my favorite romantic comedies, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, except in Marty the protagonist is a man who still lives at home and is harassed to marry because he is getting “old.” Both of these films really hit on a big issue in our society. There is so much pressure to be on the dating/marriage timeline that society (and family!) dictates we have. But as Toula discovers in MBFGW, love isn’t about schedules and social pressure—and it’s far more meaningful when one waits for the right person rather than rushing into something that will not last. If we didn’t hurry into relationships because we care so much about what other people think of us, perhaps divorce rates wouldn’t be as high as they are these days.

In essence, then, Marty is a tale about not caring about what everybody else cares about. It is a love story about “ugly” people who are overweight, gap-toothed, shy, awkward, rejected “dogs.” But, like Marty tells Clara, “Two people get married and are gonna live together for forty or fifty years so it’s gotta be more than whether they’re just good-looking or not.” How very refreshing! The film shows us society’s pressure to find someone special—and quickly—and to get married by a certain age and have kids by a certain age, etc. But the only family unit we see that followed that stereotypical pattern—Marty’s cousin Tommy and his wife and baby—are completely stressed out and bickering all the time because they aren’t able to find a balance between their new immediate family unit and their relationship with Tommy’s mother, Aunt Catherine.

Clara and Marty dance at the Stardust Ballroom.

In addition to addressing society’s guidelines about dating and marriage, the film also slams stereotypes of masculinity. Several characters including Marty and Clara comment on how nice of a person Marty is. His regard for common human decency leads Marty to ensure Clara’s welfare when she is abandoned by a self-centered date at the Stardust Ballroom on the night that they first meet. What Marty demonstrates is that it isn’t bad to be kind to others—it is not a weakness for a man to show compassion and concern for those around him. In fact, that’s a positive quality to have—one that women should look for in a potential spouse. Tenderheartedness is attractive—and Marty’s sensitivity to the feelings of others indicates he is being his real self and not putting on a “tough guy” act to snag as many “helpless” females as possible.

For Me Then…

A few years back when I was about 24-25 years old, a person who will remain unnamed here told me (and I quote) that my being single was “depriving some man of his wife.” I think I chuckled in response because I was so shocked that someone who didn’t know me very well would have the gall to say something like that to me. The person was in fact male and was of the persuasion that women exist to guarantee that men are comfortable and cared for (I won’t let that brainless opinion get me off on a tangent right now). Regardless of the fact that I was just a couple years out of college and very young, this man felt the need to reprimand me for “sinning” and to put the whole onus of my singleness upon my head. Suffice it to say, the more I ruminated on that comment, the angrier I became.

I’m not sure what solution my accuser would have suggested for my “sinful” state of not being married, but I can totally sympathize with Marty in this week’s BP. Marty has a very transparent conversation with his mother regarding his singleness, and his rage and frustration at the criticism of those around him boils over. Agonizingly, Marty explains to his mother that he is tired of being hurt by rejection all the time. Each time he pursues a woman out of romantic interest or desperation or peer pressure, he makes himself vulnerable to her curt dismissal and a reaffirmation of his bachelorhood. The pain of feeling unwanted leads Marty to shout: “Ma, whaddaya want from me? Whaddaya want from me? I’m miserable enough as it is.” What Marty doesn’t understand (and neither do I) is why people assume that an unmarried person is either flawed or does not desire marriage.  It’s not that Marty wants to be single for the rest of his life; he just hasn’t found the right woman yet (until he meets Clara, that is). But his family should be his greatest supporters whether he remains unwed or not.

There is one thing about Marty and Clara’s relationship that bothers me a tad. The film makes clear that they are misfits in the game of love. They are (supposed to be) unattractive and too old. Marty is 34, and it can be argued he is a man in his prime—contemplating an offer to purchase his own business, financially stable, spiritually mature, etc. But Clara, though also established in the professional world as a chemistry teacher considering accepting a position as head of a school’s science program, is 29. What irks me about this is that, although it is odd for a man to be unmarried in his mid-30s, the movie can work with Marty’s age. However, the female lead must be in her 20s still—oh, she is much older than society would accept as a proper age for marrying, but leaving Clara in her 20s allows her the possibility of fulfilling the woman’s proper role as mother—a female familial/social position the film has a lot to say about (though that’s not the focus of this particular post—sorry!).

So then there’s Sarah (that’s me!) watching this film at the ripe old age of 30-something (where did the time go!?). Still single. Still told by family and society that I’m missing out on a full life and am not living up to my potential. Why excuse me, I’ll just go out and grab the first 30-something-year-old dude who happens to pass by…That was a joke, friends. Anyhow, just to be clear, I am a complete person in my own right (like Marty). God has “fearfully and wonderfully” made me, and I am a child of the King–cherished, empowered, completely held in His hands. He will “direct my paths” and “meet all my needs.” I “lack no good thing.” And if Prince Charming comes along some day…well, we’ll just cross that bridge if/when we get there. In conclusion, Marty and I say it’s ok, single people, it’s ok.

After three decades of struggling with the crises of the World Wars and the domestic issues of the Great Depression, the 1950s at last brought a time of mostly rest and prosperity to the United States. Americans were tired—physically, emotionally, psychologically. The 50s brought a renewal of sorts, a hearkening back to earlier, simpler times. Instead of concentrating on giant world issues, people focused on their personal lives—lives that were based upon solid family units. And in order to have a solid family unit, a person needed to be married. By 1957, ninety-seven percent of all Americans of marriageable age were married. Of course, so many marriages led to the baby boom and a profusion of children, and every activity in society was based on these burgeoning families that centered around couples. “It was a couples’ society, we did things in couples…The thing was to be married and keep the home together,” one 1950s housewife explained. If one wasn’t married or had been divorced, one found it difficult to have a social life at all.

Clara and Marty experience an awkward conversation with Marty’s mother–during their first date.

This is the predicament of the title character in this week’s Best Picture winner, Marty (1955, Hecht-Lancaster Productions). Poor Marty, he’s 34 years old and still single. He must really be a “dog,” as people keep telling him. Or, something is wrong with the society Marty lives in. We’ll discuss more about this marriage/society idea in the weekend post. But for now, let’s just sum up this film by saying that it’s an odd love story—odd because the two lead characters are misfits. The film repeatedly harps on the fact that both Marty and his love interest Clara are old and unattractive. What’s interesting is that, as noted above, the majority of people in the 1950s were married; so a small minority of single people could have identified with Marty’s character in the film. Yet the film far exceeded box office expectations, grossing over $5 million after production costs of $340,000. Marty was also the first (and only) adaptation of a television comedy-drama to win Best Picture. It was originally a 48-minute long presentation featured on NBC’s Philco Television Playhouse on May 24, 1953. I think it’s quite fitting that, with the advent and swift preeminence of television in the 1950s, a TV adaptation would garner Academy recognition (although the TV version of Marty was snubbed by the Emmys that year).

Ernest Borgnine looking pretty thrilled with his Oscar for Marty. — Image by © Michael Ochs Archives/Corbis

Altogether, Marty (the film) received eight Oscar nominations, including Art Direction (Black-and White), Cinematography (Black-and-White), Actress in a Supporting Role for Betsy Blair as Clara, and Actor in a Supporting Role for Joe Mantell as Angie (he’s hilarious in this movie!). The film took home the coveted statuettes in the following categories: Directing for Delbert Mann, Writing (Screenplay) for Paddy Chayefsky (who modified his original teleplay for the film), Best Actor for Ernest Borgnine as Marty, and Best Motion Picture. Not too bad for a film that, to me, looks like it’s a decade (at least) older than it actually is and metaphorically equates with an urchin in rags when set alongside BP epics wrapped in the magisterial robes of a Gone with the Wind or Titanic. Nevertheless, Marty is a fine film in its own way.

For more thoughts on Marty and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!