Who am I? Who/What determines who I am? Am I able to assert my own identity? Can I change my identity? Can another force his/her identity upon me and overwhelm my own? Does my identity originate from a title or position I hold? What are the connections between place and identity?

These can be pretty tough questions to answer; and, indeed, in our own time different people respond differently to these questions, depending on their worldviews. But in this week’s film, Rebecca, identity is a big deal. Readers of du Maurier’s novel will have noticed this fact sooner than viewers of the film—the story’s protagonist is nameless. She is not Rebecca. The name that holds the story’s title and dominates it throughout is that of one who is dead. Yet even in death, Rebecca reigns supreme over all the people and goings-on at Manderley, including her widowed husband and his new wife. While the new wife remains basically nameless, her husband has a “very impressive array of first names, George Fortescu Maximilian,” Maxim for short. Along with his lengthy identity, though, Maxim possesses a secret about Rebecca and his relationship with her that colors his own identity and gives him a callous and fearful personality. He is overly sensitive regarding himself, lacking sensitivity regarding his new wife, controlling, and emotionally absent—characteristics which stem (supposedly) from his relationship with his previous wife and his perceived role in her demise.

Maxim’s new wife is almost his opposite. She is constantly absorbed with how best to please him, consistently relinquishing any control she might be allowed to exercise and yielding to the threatening assumed power of Mrs. Danvers, the housekeeper. Lacking her own personal name, Maxim’s wife is usually the recipient of endearments such as “dear” and the affection-less “you.” Mrs. Van Hopper, the brash American for whom the protagonist works as a hired companion at the beginning of the film, provides the first identity for the film’s main character when she calls her “Mrs. Sir Manderley” upon learning of her whirlwind engagement to Maxim. This title, while demonstrating the ignorance and uncouthness of Mrs. Van Hopper regarding British titles, also bases the protagonist’s identity on two factors: her future husband and her new home—in other words, another person and a place. Upon taking up residence at Manderley as the lady of the house, the protagonist fails to identify herself by her new name. When she answers a phone call requesting “Mrs. de Winter,” she responds, “Mrs. de Winter? Oh, I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. Mrs. de Winter’s been dead for over a year. Oh, I mean…” Whether her married name is too new for her to recognize or whether she is hesitant to assume her rightful position, the new Mrs. de Winter at first refuses the only identity offered to her, one based on her husband’s identity. Only later in a bold, yet fruitless attempt to fill her role as head of household, she declares vehemently to Mrs. Danvers, “I am Mrs. de Winter now.” But again, this announcement does not give the protagonist a personal name like “Rebecca,” but only an indication of her marital status and place in the household hierarchy. Yet soon after, the new Mrs. de Winter is tricked by Mrs. Danvers into dressing in the same costume Rebecca did for a ball at Manderley, in effect unintentionally indicating that she wishes to usurp Rebecca’s identity as well as her place in the house. It is in this dress that the poor new wife chases down Mrs. Danvers in Rebecca’s former rooms and is nearly persuaded to commit suicide by jumping to her death on the rocks near the sea below the window.

“Why don’t you go? Why don’t you leave Manderley? He doesn’t need you. He’s got his memories. He doesn’t love you – he wants to be alone again with her. You’ve nothing to stay for. You’ve nothing to live for really, have you? Look down there. It’s easy, isn’t it? Why don’t you? Why don’t you? Go on. Go on. Don’t be afraid!”

For Rebecca, identity is simple. She is who she is—or she is who she was. As mentioned in the Weekday Warm-up, Rebecca dominates every scene, seemingly claiming ownership of Manderley and all its inhabitants and objects—whether through the words of other characters, the way the household continues to run in the manner she dictated, or her embroidered initials on various objects from her stationery to the handkerchief in her former husband’s pocket. Not only does Rebecca still “own” items in the great house and dictate how the house is run, she also retains a firm hold on the loyalty of Mrs. Danvers. When the protagonist first sees a human form in the window of the supposedly abandoned West Wing, what she discovers upon investigation is the dark, malevolent housekeeper in Rebecca’s old rooms. Disturbingly, Mrs. Danvers gives the new Mrs. de Winter a morbid tour of the rooms, which have been left exactly as Rebecca “liked it.” Her clothes remain; her bed has been made up; her toiletry articles are arranged precisely on her vanity. Furthermore, Mrs. Danvers speaks of Rebecca as of an old lover—even revealing the lingerie kept under the pillow embroidered with a conspicuous R. This is, for me, the most disturbing scene in the film. Not only has Mrs. Danvers preserved Rebecca’s earthly belongings, but she has maintained her identity within the house in both name and practice. Additionally, Mrs. Danvers attempts to recruit her new mistress into the belief that Rebecca’s ghost still haunts Manderley: “Sometimes, when I walk along the corridor, I fancy I hear her just behind me, like a quick light step. I couldn’t mistake it anywhere, not only in this room, but in all the rooms in the house. I can almost hear it now. Do you think the dead come back and watch the living?” Although the new Mrs. de Winter answers in the negative, it is clear what Mrs. Danvers believes; and she allows the memories of her late lady (almost human in their ghostly prevalence in the house) to usurp her own identity. Mrs. Danvers does nothing—is nothing—on her own. Her entire self is determined by the late Rebecca’s wishes.

In the end (spoiler alert!), Rebecca still wins, it seems. She has manipulated and used everyone—even from the grave. Though Maxim’s new wife seems to find herself in her support of her husband, there is more than a little doubt that her husband is not as innocent as he claims to be and her new-found courage and purpose are wasted on a mess that dwarfs her. She remains nameless to the end, despite her resolution to renew her marriage and move on with her life. Maxim himself comes to the shocking realization that his life has been affected more than he dreamed by his first wife and her death. Even his guilt and the emotional instability which threaten his marriage to the protagonist have been ordained by Rebecca. And for Mrs. Danvers, supposedly finally recognizing the extent to which Rebecca manipulated her, the only solution is in a Bertha-like conflagration of Manderley, suicide in the rooms of the deceased woman who refused to allow anyone an identity other than what she chose for him/her.

Do “Nameless” and Maxim actually get their happy ending?

For Me Then…

This film leaves me thinking that maybe the only person who truly knew herself—and all those around her—was Rebecca. She discerned exactly what to say and do every single moment—how to get Maxim to marry her, how to get him to allow her to live her immoral lifestyle and still retain her place as the perfect wife and hostess, how to balance her multiple lovers, how to win the undying love and loyalty of Mrs. Danvers, how to die when and as she wished, how to ruin any future life Maxim would have, how to leave those who knew her in her debt and under her spell—perhaps even how to lead Mrs. Danvers to her fiery end and the destruction of Manderley. One gets the sense that during the entire film Rebecca is somewhere close, laughing from the grave at her diabolical success.

And yet, where is Rebecca? How much of the pain and suffering (and the downright creepiness) that afflicts those who knew her is of their own making? By allowing the identity of Rebecca to dominate their lives, the other characters have sacrificed themselves and their own happiness. In that sense, this eerie movie is kind of a tragedy. And, pity for us, we don’t really get to find out if there are happier days ahead for “Nameless” and Maxim—or are they forever haunted by Rebecca and the memory of her?

I love the past, and so I often dwell on it. But that’s not always healthy! Who of us does not have regret or doubt regarding what has already taken place? Who of us doesn’t desire to change something that we did or that was done to us? These thoughts can really weigh us down. In effect, such regret can damage who we are in the present and how we relate to others. There needs to be a balance between a healthy respect and love for the past—which leads to learning how to deal with the present and the future—and putting the past behind us so as not to continue to relive painful memories that cause anxiety or regrets that just build guilt. For me, my favorite Biblical passage about the past and how to deal with it is Isaiah 46:9-10, “Remember the former things, those of long ago; I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is none like me. I make known the end from the beginning, from ancient times, what is still to come. I say: ‘My purpose will stand, and I will do all that I please.’” So for me, the past is God and the present is God and the future is more of God because He is the Beginning and the End. And as a child of God, I can rest in the assurance that my identity is complete and secure in God, regardless of others’ attempted manipulations or indiscretions.

The master of terror himself, Alfred Hitchcock

“No! I will not hide in the fruit cellar!” Ugh. Still creeps me out! My introduction to Alfred Hitchcock’s work came in my second year of college when my roommate had a hankering to watch Psycho. She had seen the film a few times before. I had not. I will not deny that I was pretty into the movie; it definitely held my attention. But afterwards, I struggled with showering. Don’t worry, I didn’t deteriorate into a dirty, smelly mess; but I did refuse to close my eyes while in the shower and not infrequently gathered my courage for a quick peek outside the curtain to see if any knife-wielding cross-dressers were about to finish me off.

So it was with a little trepidation that my sister and I sat down last night to watch this week’s Best Picture winner, Rebecca (1940, Selznick International Pictures). Alfred Hitchcock’s first American film and only BP winner, Rebecca was nominated for 11 Academy Awards (including Directing, Music [Original Score], Film Editing, Actress [Joan Fontaine], Actress in a Supporting Role [Judith Anderson], Actor [Laurence Olivier], Art Direction [Black-and-White], Writing [Screenplay], and Special Effects) and won 2 Oscars (Outstanding Production and Cinematography [Black-and-White]).

1940 was a year in which a contingent of films based on literary successes snagged a decent percentage of Oscar nominations. In addition to Rebecca, an adaptation of Daphne du Maurier’s best-selling 1938 novel, 1940 produced film adaptations of such classics as Pride and Prejudice, Our Town, The House of the Seven Gables, Swiss Family Robinson, and the legendary The Grapes of Wrath with Henry Fonda. It’s interesting to me that in the year following one of the biggest blockbuster films of all time in Gone with the Wind (itself an adaptation), many of the nominated films in 1940 seemed to go back to the drawing board of established success with scripts based on notable novels—in other words, works that already had garnered respect and large fan bases.

In the case of Rebecca, an oft-overlooked almost-classic, it is intriguing that the film provokes both familiarity and anxiety in its viewers—while watching the movie, I had this constantly growing feeling that something terrible was going to happen and that I had experienced this story before. I kept thinking how this film is like a mix of Jane Eyre and Beauty and the Beast. I thought I knew what would happen at certain parts of the film, but I wasn’t completely accurate most of the time. And I just couldn’t shake the downright creepy feeling I had.

One reviewer of the film connects this macabre sensation to the atmosphere created by World War II, which had only just begun during the making and release of Rebecca. In 1940, there was a universal sense of impending doom—though it hadn’t been given a name yet (the Holocaust)—and a worldwide sensation that something good had been lost. These impressions are indeed mimicked in the film Rebecca. Over the entire movie stands the invisible presence of something malevolent that reaches out from the grave to terrorize the inhabitants of Manderley. That evil personage has a name: Rebecca, the late wife of Maxim de Winter, the lord of Manderley. While du Maurier claimed her novel was “a study in jealousy,” the film goes beyond even that personal emotional torment and reflects the upheaval of a world just coming to grips with the reality of a lost innocence (albeit a false one) and a horrible premonition of imminent disaster.

Manderley, almost a character in its own right in Rebecca

In that way, Rebecca is a golden example of the horror/suspense movie genre (although it’s more creepy than terrifying) and demonstrates just how and why scary movies appeal to us. (Well, they usually don’t appeal to me, and I’m really dreading having to watch The Silence of the Lambs when we get to BPs of the ‘90s.) Viewers at the time of its release already lived with premonitions of danger and threats to their well-being–physically, emotionally, and psychologically. The film’s moody atmosphere and dark overtones were already their reality. For me in the present time, although Rebecca is not the scariest movie I’ve ever seen (my brother made me watch Saw once—long story about that incident…horrible movie, but pretty good plot twist!), I find it definitely psychologically disturbing, like Psycho, but less grotesque. And, goodness gracious, we certainly deal with enough psychologically disturbing images/events in real life these days that we can identify them/with them when they occur on the screen.

So, what appeals to us in these types of films? In his Poetics, Aristotle said that a good tragedy should provoke pity and fear in its viewers (more about that when we get to Hamlet in a few weeks). But, what makes a movie good if it just promotes fear? What makes a film frightening for me is the realization that what the story depicts could happen to me myself. There’s a realism that can’t be easily ignored or dismissed. There are no actual ghosts in Rebecca, but it feels like the dead Rebecca is present in every scene (the film is named after her after all!). That way the story is entirely believable because I can recognize legitimate situations and characters’ psychological struggles in the film that I encounter in my daily life–without the distraction of unrealistic elements such as demonic dolls, per se. In other words, with this film there’s no safe barrier between me and the horrors that I am watching on the silver screen. I become vulnerable, just like Rebecca‘s protagonist.

Such films hold a morbid fascination for us human beings. We’re like the moth that is drawn to the fatal candle. We can’t resist danger, things that set our hearts racing and adrenaline pumping. There’s a part of us that likes the thrill of fear. Terror reminds us that we are still alive. Watching other people’s fright in films can make us feel like the survivors, like we have overcome something even though we have not. Alfred Hitchcock knew this, and he was the master of psychological twistedness and the exploitation of people’s fears. And, whew, I’m both a fan and a downright coward in regard to his work.

For more thoughts on Rebecca and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend! For more information on Daphne du Maurier and her novel Rebecca, check out this interview with her son Kits Browning: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/10248724/Daphne-du-Maurier-always-said-her-novel-Rebecca-was-a-study-in-jealousy.html.

Although Gone with the Wind addresses the issues of war, death, love, hate, racism, sexism, the past, the future, obsession, regret, rivalry, and jealousy—any and all of which we could discuss in this post—when asked about the theme of her novel, Margaret Mitchell summed it up by saying: “If Gone with the Wind has a central theme, I suppose [it] is the theme of survival. What quality is it that makes some people able to survive catastrophes and others, apparently just as brave and able and strong, go under?…It happens in every social upheaval, in wars, in panics, in revolutions. It’s happened all the way down history from the time the barbarians sacked ancient Rome…What qualities are in those people who fight their way through triumphantly—that are lacking in those who do go under? What was it that made our Southern people able to come through a war, a Reconstruction, and the complete wrecking of all our social and economic systems? I don’t know. I only know that the survivors of the Civil War used to call that quality ‘gumption’.”

Scarlett O’Hara, the heroine of Gone with the Wind, certainly has gumption. She is a survivor. A remnant of the old South—the essence that has been swept away by the wind—she refuses to go quietly into the realm of past glory and present irrelevance. However, for nearly the duration of the film, Scarlett is obsessed with what she believes is her love for Ashley Wilkes, a man who shares Scarlett’s Southern plantation upbringing and values—in other words, the stereotypical Southern gentleman. What is clear to the movie’s viewers, though, is that Scarlett’s feelings for Ashley are juvenile, shallow, and not fully requited. Scarlett really loves Rhett Butler, her (third) husband, although it takes her the entire movie—almost four whole hours—to realize it.

Rhett and Ashley, Scarlett’s two loves

What I find really interesting about Scarlett’s two loves is how Ashley seems to represent the Old South, the life that is “gone with the wind,” thanks to the Civil War, while Rhett appears to stand for a New South, one that is forward-looking, realizing the weaknesses of the Old South and willing to work with others of different backgrounds to advance in the new world. So, Scarlett thinks she loves the Old South—which is her past and deeply connected to her identity—but in truth she loves the New South—which she molds herself into as well, smashing social and racial and gender roles as she picks cotton, runs her own business, drives her own buggy, and defends her plantation from carpetbaggers and a Yankee ruffian. With the aim of survival—which, for Scarlett, at first means escaping Sherman’s torching of Atlanta, then avoiding starvation at Tara, and finally accumulating enough wealth that she will never be hungry again—Scarlett transports herself from Ashley to Rhett—or, from the Old South to the New South.

“As God is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again.”

But there’s yet another dimension to the story: “Frankly, my dear…” That last infamous line of Rhett’s in which (spoiler alert!) he leaves Scarlett all alone in their huge Atlanta mansion leads Scarlett to conclude that there is nothing else for her to do except to go home to Tara, her family plantation. At each mention of Tara and during every scene for which the O’Hara plantation is the setting, the film’s viewer recalls the glorious image at the beginning of the film during which Scarlett and her father stand at sunset under the spreading tree with Tara in the background and Max Steiner’s timeless score soaring on the wind. Mr. O’Hara has just reprimanded Scarlett for saying she doesn’t care about Tara because “plantations don’t mean anything.” He continues with one of the best lines of the film: “Why, land is the only thing in the world worth workin’ for, worth fightin’ for, worth dyin’ for, because it’s the only thing that lasts…It’ll come to you, this love of the land.” And Mr. O’Hara proves right in the end. Scarlett does come to love and value her plantation—she even sees it as a mode of somehow making right all the wrongs in her life—for instance, she tantalizes viewers with the idea that returning to Tara will allow her to somehow get Rhett back. She is so absolutely sure that this reunion will happen via Tara that viewers can’t help but feel the same hope and love for Tara that Scarlett expresses. Furthermore, the image of Scarlett on the hill under the tree at the close of the film reinforces one last time the concept that land is everything—it’s the only thing one can truly possess. People can be manipulated and deceived. People can die. But land continues on. Just as Scarlett does.

Ashley, Rhett. Old South, New South. Scarlett, Tara. The theme of survival. Is Gone with the Wind about Scarlett’s survival or Tara’s? Scarlett’s loves don’t really survive the film—Ashley is lost to his grief over Melanie, and Rhett vanishes into the fog with his final snide remark. Yet Scarlett and Tara endure. Perhaps they need each other to survive—a collision, or a collusion, of past and present, old and new. The land survives; and through the land, the past survives as well.

Tara

For Me Then…

I’m one of those odd people who never really liked this movie—that is, until this most recent viewing. I used to find the character of Scarlett barely tolerable, Ashley pathetic, and Rhett funny (though a little bit creepy and womanizing). Yet, I was just dazzled when I recently saw the film again after several years. The way it plays with the past and the present, good and evil, permanence and the ephemeral really moved me. I’ve always loved the past, and a lot of my archaeological studies have focused on the meaning and importance of place. Something about place is connected to identity; and for the South in particular during the Civil War, to lose one’s land to people who were at times literally brothers was traumatic, to say the least. It was like being separated from one’s identity.

Then, to think of the timing of Gone with the Wind’s release and all the European people who were forcibly displaced from their homes—millions of whom would never return. The land itself, though it survives, does not remember them. But they are still not forgotten. As evidenced in the recent observance of Holocaust Remembrance Day, the present remembers the past. In that respect, maybe the past is the survivor in Gone with the Wind. And that idea of the continuing presence of the past can’t be phrased any better than how William Faulkner did it in Requiem for a Nun:

“The past is never dead. It’s not even past. All of us labor in webs spun long before we were born, webs of heredity and environment, of desire and consequence, of history and eternity. Haunted by wrong turns and roads not taken, we pursue images perceived as new but whose providence dates to the dim dramas of childhood, which are themselves but ripples of consequence echoing down the generations. The quotidian demands of life distract from this resonance of images and events, but some of us feel it always.”

You know you’ve made a movie right if it can never be made again. That’s not to say foolish people won’t try to do so (witness the recent flop of a remake of Ben-Hur). But, really, will we ever see another Casablanca, The Godfather, Titanic, or The Lord of the Rings? My bet is no. Likewise with this week’s Best Picture winner, Gone with the Wind (1939, Selznik International Pictures). Arguably, this is our first BP for which we can truly say with any confidence that it will never be remade. This is a mountain of a movie, a magnificent feat of cinema, a true privilege to watch.

The grandest, most expensive sound film to date at the time of its release in 1939 (at approximately $4 million in production costs), Gone with the Wind still holds the highest domestic gross (when adjusted for inflation) at a staggering $1,685,052,200 (according to Business Insider). Does that make it the greatest movie of all time? There are more than a few folks out there who say yes.

My absolute favorite scene from Gone with the Wind

The first movie in color to win Best Picture, the film also smashed Academy Award precedents with 13 nominations and 8 wins in the competitive categories, along with 2 special Oscar awards, a feat unmatched for 20 years until 1959’s Ben-Hur won 11 Oscars, which is incidentally the current record (which Ben-Hur shares with two other films—any guesses what those are? Here’s a probably unhelpful hint, unless you know me well: They are two of my favorites!). Gone with the Wind won Academy Awards for Cinematography (Color), Film Editing, Art Direction, Writing (Screenplay), Directing, Actress (Vivien Leigh), Actress in a Supporting Role (Hattie McDaniel, the first African American to be nominated and to win an Academy Award), and Outstanding Production. The categories for which the film’s nominees did not win are rather surprising (as they were in 1940 as well): Special Effects, Sound Recording, Music (Original Score), Actor (Clark Gable), and Actress in a Supporting Role (Olivia de Havilland). I have a hard time especially with the fact that such an iconic score (which is stuck in my head as I write this) was not rewarded by the Academy voters; but when I think of the film that beat out Gone with the Wind for best original score—The Wizard of Oz—I’m a little placated. 1939 was a doozy of a year for film. Had Gone with the Wind not been released in 1939, we could easily have been talking about one of a number of that year’s notable films as this week’s BP. In addition to The Wizard of Oz, 1939 saw the release of Goodbye, Mr. Chips; Wuthering Heights; Mr. Smith Goes to Washington; Stagecoach; and Ninotchka, among others.

Aside from churning out brilliant movies, 1939 itself was a fascinating year. As we talked about last week with You Can’t Take It with You, the end of the decade of the 1930s brought both positives and negatives—namely, the end of the Great Depression and the beginning of World War II. In fact, when Gone with the Wind premiered in Atlanta on December 15, 1939, France and Britain had only been at war with Germany for a little over three months. Just as Gone with the Wind opens on the lovely day of the party at the Wilkes’ plantation during which the men are full of excitement and eagerness for the start of the Civil War, so also was the world preoccupied with war when Gone with the Wind was first seen by moviegoers—although, with less optimism. After the horrors of World War I, another war between the Allies and a German-led coalition was not welcomed gladly by most. WWII was a very grim undertaking for the Allies as they finally responded to Hitler’s aggression in Europe and the darkness of what would come to be known as the Holocaust. Just as WWII was one of those “times that try men’s souls,” as Thomas Paine wrote, so also was the Civil War which consumes the characters and events of Gone with the Wind.

Gone with the Wind’s casting was downright brilliant. Here, Clark Gable as Rhett Butler and Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O’Hara

Margaret Mitchell, the fledgling author who penned the 1,037-page Pulitzer-winning novel Gone with the Wind, was no stranger to the concept of war-obsession and how war influences both nations geographically and people psychologically. Born and raised in Atlanta (where her ancestors had lived before there was even a city there), Mitchell’s father and brother, both attorneys, were deeply knowledgeable about Georgia and Atlanta history—especially of that history during the Civil War. In an interview Mitchell gave in 1936, a few days after the publication of her novel, she relates how when she was a child her parents took her to visit old relatives and friends on Sunday afternoons (The entirety of this interview can be found at: http://www.pbs.org/wnet/americanmasters/margaret-mitchell-american-rebel-interview-with-margaret-mitchell-from-1936/2011/). Little “Peggy” was placed on the laps of the elderly hosts and had to sit still and not speak while “the gathering spiritedly refought the Civil War.” She continues to explain the wild tales she heard those afternoons: “So I heard about fighting and wounds and the primitive way they were treated, how ladies nursed in hospitals, the way gangrene smelled, what substitutes were used for drugs and food and clothing when the blockade got too tight for these necessities to be brought in from abroad. I heard about the burning and looting of Atlanta and the way the refugees from the town crowded the roads and trains to Macon, and I heard about Reconstruction, too. In fact, I heard everything in the world except that the Confederates lost the war. When I was ten years old, it was a violent shock to learn that General Lee had been defeated. I didn’t believe it when I first heard it and I was indignant. I still find it hard to believe, so strong are childhood impressions.” Mitchell’s “childhood impressions” lent a reality to her novel that this week’s film also possesses—perhaps to an even greater extent than its book counterpart. For in its opening words about knights and ladies, montage of Southern landscapes, and epic music, Gone with the Wind captures a longing for a simpler past, for a rural and warm idyllic landscape in which chivalry and grace rule society—in other words, for a utopia that was both real and imagined at the same time, a mirror world to that of the pre-WWII era. Once the wars commenced—Civil War and World War II—both pre-war worlds would be lost, “gone with the wind.” And those of us who live after those wars can only know the antebellum worlds through visions like Gone with the Wind.

For more thoughts on Gone with the Wind and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend! For more on Margaret Mitchells’ life and tragic death, you can read her reprinted obituary here: http://www.nytimes.com/learning/general/onthisday/bday/1108.html.

Sandwiched as this movie is between two of the greatest events in the twentieth century, the Great Depression and World War II, You Can’t Take It with You’s emphasis on family, freedom, and the uselessness of a life lived in pursuit of wealth and social status is as striking as the film is funny. What else would be worth holding on to during these trying times if not family and liberty? What would be the use of selfishly seeking one’s own financial gain and ascension through the hierarchy of society when that very society is on the verge of war and death, the great equalizer?

While the Vanderhof/Sycamore family’s eccentricities are perhaps what most leaves an indelible impression on the film’s viewers, their evident care for each other is also undeniable. One of the focal points of their living room is a crooked “Home Sweet Home” sign that frequently crashes to the floor with the testing of the fireworks in the basement. Regardless of what causes the sign to fall down, some member of the family always retrieves it and replaces it in its prominent position. Family is home to this unconventional household. In fact, Grandpa Vanderhof refuses to sell his house because he still feels his deceased wife’s presence there and won’t abandon her. It’s not really the house itself that matters to Grandpa; it’s the house’s possession of the lingering closeness of the woman he loved. Because of his devotion to his family (even his late wife), Grandpa’s physical house–and his refusing to relinquish ownership of it to Mr. Kirby–takes on greater significance. Furthermore, the Vanderhof/Sycamores open their home and extend their family circle to their friends, who refer to the Vanderhof patriarch as “Grandpa.” Both the ice man, Mr. DePinna, and one of Mr. Blakely’s clerks, Mr. Poppins, are invited to live in Grandpa’s house and pursue their passions of inventing things. This domestic arrangement and family closeness isn’t lost on Tony Kirby, the son of the wealthy banker Anthony P. Kirby and Alice Sycamore’s unofficial fiancé. Tony observes to Alice, “It just seemed like in their own way, they found what everybody’s lookin’ for. People spend their whole lives building castles in the air, and then nothing ever comes of it…Well, it takes courage. Everybody’s afraid to live, you know.” Alice agrees with Tony’s assessment of her family’s emphasis on each person pursuing what he/she wants and having fun with life: “Most people nowadays are run by fear. Fear what they eat; fear what they drink; fear of their jobs, their future; fear of their health. They’re scared to save money and scared to spend it.” The Vanderhof/Sycamores refuse to live in fear and exalt their freedom to pursue love and happiness instead.

Family

This freedom of action practiced by the Vanderhof/Sycamores extends to more than just their pursuit of amusements and odd occupations. As Grandpa demonstrates in his conversations with Penny and with the IRS man, the Vanderhof/Sycamores also practice freedom of thought. Suggesting that Penny include “ism mania” in the play she is writing, Grandpa muses how “Everybody’s got an ism these days” (I find this ironically funny since my modern history class used to study a list of “isms” when we focused on this time period too!). Grandpa mentions communism, fascism, and voodooism specifically before explaining to Penny how isms work during their present time of the 1930s: “When things go a little bad nowadays, you go out and get yourself an ism and you’re in business.” Interjecting the names of great historical Americans such as Patrick Henry, George Washington, and Mark Twain, Grandpa continues, “When things got tough for those boys, they didn’t run around looking for isms. Lincoln said, ‘With malice toward none, with charity to all.’ Nowadays, they say, ‘Think the way I do, or I’ll bomb the daylights out of you.’” Grandpa and his family don’t subscribe to the war-crazed tendencies of the rest of the pre-WWII world. Instead, they’re oddly reasonable. I happen to side with Grandpa’s rational thoughts regarding the purpose of taxes in his conversation with the IRS representative (although, I actually pay my taxes!). Upon hearing that he needs to pay all the taxes that have accumulated from his never having paid them, Grandpa explains that he doesn’t believe in paying taxes because he doesn’t receive anything in return for his money. Shocked, the tax man insists that the government gives people everything, including protection. Grandpa laughs at the notion of the government having to protect people from invasion (how very ironic just three years before Pearl Harbor!) and then declares, “I wouldn’t mind paying for something sensible.” But financing paychecks for the President and members of Congress doesn’t fall under that “sensible” category in Grandpa’s mind. I find this quite amusing and yet seriously thought-provoking at the same time, especially with recent news of the White House’s budget proposal. I think I’m not alone when I say that the average American tax payer is too often unheard in the scheme of Washington’s workings. This goes as well for Congress. Am I, the average American really represented by those for whom I have voted? This debate could really distract me from my task here, so I’ll just say that I think Grandpa would agree with me that if those who work in Washington were paid according to their performance (how well they represent their constituents and how well they work with others), then important tasks might actually be accomplished in a reasonable amount of time. I mean, in any other job, if you don’t meet expectations…

Mr. Kirby has realized what you can take with you.

Back to my Vanderhof/Sycamores…While family and freedom are wonderful commitments, what Grandpa tells Mr. Kirby the elder about the uselessness of a life lived in pursuit of wealth and social status is what is really resonating with me this evening. While in jail (this movie is so wacky!), Grandpa vehemently reprimands Mr. Kirby for his constant obsession with money and possessions: “You can’t take it with you, Mr. Kirby, so what good is it? As near as I can see, the only thing you can take with you is the love of your friends.” In this sense, the poorest people on earth are those with no friends. That’s depressing. What struck me about this quote is its use of the film’s title. Anybody else notice that many of Frank Capra’s films have similar-sounding titles: It Happened One Night, You Can’t Take It with You, It’s a Wonderful Life? The question I had when skimming over these titles is what the “it’s” refer to. In the case of You Can’t Take It with You, it is very clear what the “It” refers to: money and material possessions. In the Biblical book of Job, even in his agony, Job worships God and declares, “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I will depart. The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; may the name of the Lord be praised.” Grandpa’s words remind me of Job’s. Again, what use is it chasing after financial and material gain when we can’t take it with us into the next life, the one that matters the most?

For Me Then…

I admit, I’ve been having a rough time with “it” lately. I’m in the doldrums of grad school (which I do enjoy!) with no real lucrative employment. I stress about money. I struggle with the fear Alice talks about in regards to saving and spending. Furthermore, my family is not the Vanderhof/Sycamores. We are eccentric, no doubt. But, yes, there are some difficulties…let’s just leave it at that. And yet, something Grandpa tells Mr. Poppins keeps popping into my mind. When the stressed Mr. Poppins asks Grandpa who takes care of him, Grandpa replies, “The same One that takes care of the lilies of the field.” Mr Poppins soon after renounces the monotonous work he despises and becomes a “lily” himself, trusting that he will be cared for while he pursues his passion. I need to take my cue from Mr. Poppins and the verse which this scene alludes to, Matthew 6:28-34:

“And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

Lilies of the field. Background image created by Waewkidja – Freepik.com

Goodness gracious, I’m in love.

A few weeks back, we discussed how comedies don’t win Best Picture at the Oscars very often. This week’s featured film, You Can’t Take It with You (1938, Columbia), is one of those rare films—furthermore, it has got to be one of the funniest movies I have ever seen. Ever. Adapted from the Pulitzer-winning play of the same name written by George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart and nominated for seven Academy Awards (Outstanding Production, Directing, Sound Recording, Writing (Screenplay), Film Editing, Cinematography, and Actress in a Supporting Role for Spring Byington, who plays Penny Sycamore), You Can’t Take It with You won only two Oscars: Outstanding Production and Best Directing for Frank Capra, who by 1939 already possessed two Academy Awards for directing (for 1934’s BP It Happened One Night and for 1936’s Mr. Deeds Goes to Town), although arguably his greatest directing achievement was yet to come with It’s a Wonderful Life (1946).

For me, what makes this week’s BP just a simply awesome film is its mix of humor and depth. From Penny Sycamore, who types plays all day because a typewriter was mistakenly delivered to the house, to Essie Carmichael, who constantly practices her ballet throughout the house in between baking desserts into which her husband stuffs revolutionary messages because he likes the font, to Paul Sycamore, who makes fireworks in the basement, the fantastic (and fantastically odd!) family at the heart of the film is completely unpredictable and entirely lovable. Still, in a manner very similar to that of It Happened One Night, You Can’t Take It with You doesn’t shy away from the current issues of its time. There are various references to the Russian Revolution, the Depression, the tensions of upcoming war, business monopolies, and social class disparities, among others. Yet despite the plethora of political and social commentary, You Can’t Take It with You is ultimately a simple story about two families, their values, and their differences.

Just a taste of the Sycamore family’s hilarious antics in You Can’t Take It with You

It’s interesting that this is the film that prefaces the advent of one of the absolute greatest films of all time, next week’s BP Gone with the Wind. It is also the last winner before the start of World War II, undoubtedly the most influential event of the twentieth century, and one whose influence on the film industry seems to never die (Anyone see the previews for this summer’s Dunkirk? Looking forward to it!). So, just as You Can’t Take It with You is a mish-mash of hilarity and solemnity, so also is its time in history a mix of optimism and trepidation. The Great Depression would end in 1939, the year after You Can’t Take It with You was released. But, one gigantic reason for the end of the struggle that was the 1930s was the start of World War II in Europe with the Nazi invasion of Poland in September 1939. The Depression might have been almost over, but a new trial was only just beginning.

I like connections. Here’s one in closing. In the court scene toward the end of You Can’t Take It with You, the cutest judge ever presides over the proceedings—a little old man who smiles so sweetly, deals out mercy to a misguided young runaway, and donates money to the cause of Grandpa Vanderhof. This judge was played by a man by the name of Harry Davenport. He was born about eight months after the close of the Civil War and died a few years after the close of World War II. His brother-in-law was Lionel Barrymore (they had married sisters), the actor who played Grandpa Vanderhof. He acted in three consecutive Best Picture winners: The Life of Emile Zola, You Can’t Take It with You, and Gone with the Wind. And, he gets to close out this week’s warm-up for a couple of reasons. For one, the span of his life covers a fascinating period of history, one of massive changes, triumphs, and tragedies—and a time which includes the wars dealt with in Gone with the Wind and anticipated by You Can’t Take It with You. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, each of the BP winners he was a part of addresses the idea of freedom, albeit in different ways—freedom of the individual, freedom of the group, freedom of the country. Before launching ourselves into the films of the time period of WWII, it’s important to observe the value already placed on liberty and the emphasis on the need to protect it.

For more thoughts on You Can’t Take It with You and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

On a blustery day in December 2001 when I was home from college on Christmas Break, some high school friends and I decided to do a movie day at the mall. Our film of choice was one that is now rather obscure. It featured Jim Carrey in a dramatic role rather than a comedic one, which in itself is not exactly common. While the film is perhaps just a bit too long to fully accomplish what it sets out to do, it was extremely moving at the time, it being a mere three months or so after September 11.

The Majestic, though written and filmed before the events of September 11, connected on a number of levels to ideas and values that had dominated our lives for the past three months—freedom, war, sacrifice, death, and love for one’s country. It took me and my old ’89 clunker 45 minutes to exit the mall parking lot after my first viewing of the movie, and the snow was coming down so fast I could hardly see. But I didn’t really care too much. There was just something in the simple, hopeful message of the film that lifted my spirits, at least for the moment. Plus, The Majestic introduced me to this week’s Best Picture winner, The Life of Emile Zola (Don’t worry, I didn’t forget which film this post is dedicated to!).

Without giving too much away about the plot of The Majestic (because you really should dig it up out of the $3 bin and enjoy it), let me share a couple of pertinent scenes in connection with this week’s BP. The first mention of The Life of Emile Zola in The Majestic occurs during the gorgeous lighthouse scene in which Adele and Peter (who has amnesia and has come to believe he is Luke, Adele’s fiancé who has been MIA from WWII for years) discuss how The Majestic, the old theater run by Luke and his father, inspired her to pursue becoming a lawyer. Adele explains the connection: “Well, we used to go to the movies all the time when I was a kid. And once when I was eleven, the movie playing that week was The Life of Emile Zola…In the movie when Zola stood up in court and he accused the French government of forfeiting its honor for wrongly accusing an innocent man? Well, Zola wasn’t a lawyer, of course, but the way he spoke—uh! Uh! I decided right then and there that, that that’s what I wanted to do when I grew up.” To Peter’s doubtful “Just from that?”, Adele replies, “Just! Oh come on, it was great!” Then they proceed to quote from The Life of Emile Zola:

Adele: “In the presence of this tribunal, which is the representative of human justice, before you, gentlemen of the jury, before France, before the whole world, I swear Dreyfus is innocent. By all that I’ve won, by all that I’ve witnessed to spread the spirit of France, I swear that Dreyfus is innocent.”

Peter: “May all that melt away, may my name perish, if Dreyfus not be innocent.”

Adele: “He is innocent.” It’s pretty good stuff, huh?

Peter: Not bad at all.

Jim Carrey and Laurie Holden in The Majestic

In its quiet power, The Majestic echoes The Life of Emile Zola, not only by referencing and quoting it, but also by portraying the risks and courage involved in standing up for a cause one believes is right. Though both films get a bit fiery in their parallel concluding court scenes, overall they focus on the oftentimes silent conflict within their protagonists, as well as the more dynamic conflict between the protagonists and those who oppose them when they choose to stand up for what they believe. What is also fascinating with these movies is how, through their stands for freedom, they bridge gaps in history and cultures to identify ideals and causes that transcend time. As we discussed in the Weekday Warm-up earlier this week, The Life of Emile Zola links the time of its setting, the late 1800s/early 1900s, to the time of the movie’s release, the 1930s, emphasizing the continuation of social and racial injustice and the need to speak out for those who lack the power to defend themselves. The Majestic likewise links different times and events, using The Life of Emile Zola, the Sullivan Ballou letter from the Civil War, Luke’s experiences in WWII, and the film’s setting during the Red Scare of the 1950s to reach into the present time of its release a few months after September 11 to remind its viewers of the power of willingly suffering to advance the cause of right, as well as the vital need for individuals to stand up for the right and for the preservation of the freedoms we hold dear.

(Spoiler alert!) After Peter realizes he is not Luke and must turn himself over to the Congressional committee that is examining accused Communists, he faces the dilemma of speaking out against the injustice of the accusations against him or reading the false statement the committee wants to hear in order to avoid going to jail. This predicament gives rise to the second scene in The Majestic that contains a reference to Émile Zola. The dialogue in this scene is also worth quoting in full:

Adele: So, are you really a Communist?

Peter: No, I’m really not.

Adele: I didn’t think so…So what are you gonna tell the committee?

Peter: Tell ‘em what they wanna hear: “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Blah, blah, blah.”

Adele: You’re not serious.

Peter: What’s wrong with it?

Adele: Everything.

Peter: Can we be more specific?

Adele: Well, aside from the fact that this is a free country and you can be a Communist if you wanna be a Communist, leaving that aside, if someone accuses you falsely, you have a duty as well as the right to, to stand up and suggest they drop dead. Specific enough?

Peter: Ok, Émile Zola. I can see you feel strongly about this…But that doesn’t make the game any less rigged. There’s a reason they call it a witch hunt.

Adele: And there’s such a thing as burden of proof, innocence before guilt.

Peter: Maybe in law school, but the rest of us have to live in the real world. And in the real world, I mess with these guys, I go to jail.

Adele: All the more reason to fight them…

Peter: I’m not Luke…He couldn’t wait to save the world. Me? I was happy not to go overseas.

Adele: Why?

Peter: Because I didn’t wanna end up like him. I wanted to survive. You stand up for a cause, you get mowed down…That’s the real world.

Just as Peter is fearful and reluctant to challenge the establishment, so also is Zola reticent about involving himself in the Dreyfus Affair in The Life of Emile Zola. Believing he has accomplished his goal in life of writing works that direct people’s attention to social injustices, Zola is ready for a retirement of sorts. He wants to enjoy the wealth and comfort his literary success—though controversial—has brought him. However, nagged by the realization that the truth is being suppressed and no one else is in the position to do anything about it, Zola deliberately risks everything to speak the truth and defend an innocent man. His words, quoted by Adele and Peter, are blatantly in opposition to the court’s mandate that the Dreyfus Affair not be mentioned, yet Zola must speak on, challenging his countrymen to stop turning a blind eye and deaf ear to injustice—for the betterment of the nation and their own personal integrity.

As Adele says, that’s “pretty good stuff, huh?”

Paul Muni as Zola during the famous courtroom scene in The Life of Emile Zola

For Me Then…

I am a total sucker for films in which the protagonist must take a stand for what is right in the face of insurmountable odds. Whether it’s Braveheart, Gladiator, The Lord of the Rings—or The Majestic and The Life of Emile Zola—there is just something so ennobling, so inspiring, about this type of film. I think what really gets to me when watching these movies is the easy application to my own life and our own society of the concept of choosing to stand up for justice when it is fairly obvious that the result of advocating the right cause will be something negative. How many times in our own lives are we faced with the dilemma of choosing between listening to our consciences or avoiding persecution for advocating what is right? Yet, how can we ignore doing what is right and opt instead for a life of meaningless ease, not burdened by values or worries about getting involved in controversies?

There are obvious connections we can make between these films of selfless courage and our own times. One notable one is in reference to the Sullivan Ballou letter upon which Luke’s letter to Adele is based in The Majestic. Sullivan Ballou, a soldier of the Civil War, gave his life for the cause he believed in (If you have not read this letter, you should. You can find the full text here: http://www.civil-war.net/pages/sullivan_ballou.asp.). Before he was killed, though, Ballou penned a letter to his wife Sarah, explaining to her that he was not afraid to die because he so strongly believed in what he was fighting for. Luke, in nearly the same words in The Majestic, explains to Adele that he may not return home from WWII, but that she should not mourn him because his death will not be in vain; instead, he will willingly lay down his life for the cause he believes in fighting for. Luke writes, “When bullies rise up, the rest of us have to beat them back down, whatever the cost. That’s a simple idea, I suppose, but one worth giving everything for.” Gorgeous…and applicable.

The Sullivan Ballou letter was read in part at President Trump’s inauguration this past January by Chuck Schumer, who is, incidentally, a Democrat. I confess, hearing it, in that context especially, made me emotional. Like Peter and like Zola, Ballou fights for a cause larger than himself, all the while knowing that the odds are pretty good that he will not survive to see the fight through. Nevertheless, he feels peace in the fact that he has chosen to take the side of righteousness and to give everything he can to advance the cause of freedom and justice. There are so many causes for which we can take up the fight today. And, the freedoms emphasized as worthy of being fought for in The Life of Emile Zola and The Majestic are those for which we should continue to engage in battle daily. For me, then, this week’s BP serves as a wake-up call.

When I used to teach modern history to high schoolers, we began our study of the First World War with a series of background lessons designed to create a bigger picture of the world which produced the War to End All Wars. Students were often surprised to learn that anti-Semitism didn’t originate with the Nazis in Germany, nor was racism against Jews limited to either that country or that time period in particular. Our case study of racial ideas in the years that preceded World War I was the Dreyfus Affair, a late nineteenth-century debacle of the notoriety commanded by the O. J. Simpson Trial almost exactly 100 years later. One of the big players in the Dreyfus Affair was the eminent French novelist Émile Zola, upon whose life this week’s Best Picture winner, The Life of Emile Zola (1937, Warner Bros.), is based.

Along with the rise of industrialism during the 1800s came what can be called “the cult of science.” Also a time of passionate nationalism, the nineteenth century married racism to its idol science to create a new breed of stereotyping. People were predestined by blood to exhibit particular characteristics associated with different races and to fulfill certain roles each race was destined to play. Assimilation was no longer possible. The value of each person depended on the composition of his/her tiniest cells. Racism had become biological.

Jews in particular were considered a threat because they were seen as “international outsiders,” living within different countries, but more loyal to a common international concept—their religion. In France, a Catholic journalist named Edouard Drumont took it upon himself to mass-market anti-Semitism, advocating the slogan “France for the French” and promoting the idea of ridding France of Jews, who were, in Drumont’s mind, physically repulsive, barbaric, and corrupt. Drumont’s racist views were in no way rare in France (or in many other countries) at this time in history.

This famous cartoon by Caran d’Ache entitled “A Family Dinner” was featured in the newspaper Le Figaro on February 14, 1898. The French text below the top picture reads, “Especially! Let us not speak of the Dreyfus Affair!” The text below the second picture reads, “They talked about it.”

Alfred Dreyfus was a Jew from Alsace. Because of this fact—and disregarding the additional facts that he was non-religious and completely loyal to his country—Dreyfus, the only Jew on the French army general staff, was accused and convicted of treason when an unsigned letter was discovered that offered to sell French military secrets to Germany. The case created an uproar in France. Everyone took sides—not without frequent and massive public displays of violence.

The front page of L’Aurore, featuring Zola’s infamous “J’accuse” letter

Prior to the Dreyfus Affair and his involvement in it, Zola was no stranger to controversy and public scrutiny. His vast array of literary works consistently questioned the status quo of society and provoked the ire of French authorities on numerous occasions. But it was perhaps his open letter to the President of the French Republic entitled “J’accuse” (“I accuse”) and published in the newspaper L’Aurore in 1898 after Dreyfus’s wrongful conviction for treason and the blatantly fabricated acquittal of the real traitor that cemented Zola’s place in history as an advocate for the socially inferior and those denied justice. For his stand for transparency and integrity in the French justice system, Zola was tried and convicted of libel. Sentenced to a fine and prison term, Zola fled to England, only returning to France upon the reopening of the Dreyfus case in 1900.

Though Dreyfus was retried in a second court martial (this one public, opposed to the original private one), he was convicted yet again and sentenced to ten years of imprisonment, despite outrageously clear evidence of his innocence. The French president, sensing correctly that much of the world was outraged by this miscarriage of justice and that the Dreyfus Affair had stirred up enough dissension, annulled Dreyfus’s sentence. Years later in 1906, the French supreme court declared Dreyfus innocent, and he was even permitted to rejoin the army. Zola did not live to see this act of justice for the man for whom he had risked his reputation and life. Tragically, he passed away in 1902, the apparent victim of carbon monoxide poisoning (though there are many who believe he was murdered).

By 1937, the year of the release of The Life of Emile Zola, Zola had been deceased for 35 years, Dreyfus dead for only 2 years. Yet their story and their cause were still more than relevant at the time of the film’s release. Only two years previously, the Nazi Party had instituted the Nuremberg Laws, edicts regulating Jews within Germany. Jews were banned from marrying German citizens and displaying the national flag, among other requirements. Punishment for breaking these laws was hard labor and/or imprisonment. Ironically, German Jews were initially relieved by the Nuremberg Laws, falsely believing these were the worst of the restrictions they would have to endure under Hitler’s regime. The Nazis, in an attempt to prove their government was legitimate, decided to avoid further laws against Jews for the time being and instead embarked on a plan of military conquest, marching into the demilitarized Rhineland in 1936.

The real Emile Zola

When moviegoers first sat through The Life of Emile Zola, then, there was no thought of a place named Auschwitz or an event called the Holocaust. Perhaps some viewers remembered the Dreyfus Affair, as many of them were contemporaries of Dreyfus and Zola; but the film—and the Dreyfus Affair itself—exceeds particulars and transcends its own history to address massive social issues such as class and race, as well as ideals such as truth, justice, and defending those who can’t defend themselves. In watching the film, it doesn’t matter if one is familiar with the Dreyfus Affair or Émile Zola’s works. Just as The Life of Emile Zola provokes a depth of emotions and reactions of outrage against injustice for viewers today, so it also resonated with people in the 1930s who were just witnessing the rise of Nazi anti-Semitic persecution. The film garnered 10 Academy Award nominations (Outstanding Production, Directing, Assistant Director, Actor, Actor in a Supporting Role, Writing (Original Story), Writing (Screenplay), Art Direction, Music (Scoring), and Sound Recording)—the most of any film we’ve examined so far—and won three Oscars (Outstanding Production, Writing (Screenplay), and Actor in a Supporting Role for Joseph Schildkraut, who played Dreyfus).

For those who want to check out more about Dreyfus’s story and how it has continued to haunt France and to represent the effects of injustice and racism on society, check out this article: http://www.tabletmag.com/jewish-arts-and-culture/80897/still-wandering. For more thoughts on The Life of Emile Zola and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!

“He’s up one day and broke the next” is how rival and friend Jack Billings describes Florenz Ziegfeld, Jr. in The Great Ziegfeld. It’s totally true that Ziggy’s fortunes climb so high and sink so low so often in the film that it’s difficult to keep track of the swings in his luck. True to his optimistic form, though, Ziegfeld is always consumed with the heights of his success and consistently fails to recognize the realities of the slumps—even when they are of his own making. This yo-yoing up and down in the film takes on even greater significance in two of the film’s main motifs: stairs and elephants. Yup, pretty odd combination, but not as different as they may first appear to be.

Ziegfeld with his strongman Sandow at the beginning of the film

In Ziegfeld’s first attempt at show business, managing the strongman Sandow, he begins emphasizing his desire to make his stage higher so people in the audience have a better view of the action. In his mind, “there oughta be a lot more steps.” Ziggy yearns to be higher. Also in the beginning of the film, Sandow and Ziegfeld share an odd (but super important) scene in which they pass by an elephant at the Chicago World’s Fair. Ziegfeld insists on touching the elephant for good luck, and Sandow protests that Ziggy has been touching the elephant for five weeks and business has remained poor. Ziegfeld replies, “I know it’s a superstition, but a old Hindu told me that if you touch an elephant’s trunk and he raises it, everything will be alright.” Ironically, the elephant raises its trunk when Sandow touches it, but not for Ziggy. Yet, again, Ziggy’s desire is for something to be higher—in connection with his financial endeavors.

From these early scenes in Chicago, the film overflows with stairs and steps and images of elephants. There are never enough stairs to suit Ziegfeld—not even in the stunningly magnificent “A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody” sequence (the dance number that won an Academy Award all on its own). By the way, if you have not seen this scene, I recommend Googling it—it is really, really impressive!

This still from the sequence “A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody” doesn’t do it justice!

Like the constant need for more stairs and loftier stages, the elephant images that fill the scenes of The Great Ziegfeld also indicate height, their trunks always raised in the good- luck omen that Ziegfeld so desires from the elephant in the first part of the film. Ziegfeld, seemingly to no avail, surrounds himself with images of prosperity and success—even though his professional and financial enterprises are often unsuccessful. Yet he never gives up on his dreams—or on his elephant talismans. In the scene when Audrey, the femme fatale figure in the film, quits Ziegfeld’s show in anger at his not making her a star, she plays with one of his largest elephants (the one with flowers in it—and Ziggy loves to give flowers to promising women), turning it around on its table. Ziegfeld reprimands her, “Please don’t turn the elephant, Audrey,” to which she retorts, “ ‘Fraid I’ll spoil your luck?” When she dramatically smashes the poor elephant before stomping out of the room, the upraised trunk falls at Ziegfeld’s feet, where he picks it up thoughtfully and then determinedly puts in motion a plot to launch another successful show—even though he is at one of his lowest points in the movie with his wife Anna just having left him.

Ziegfeld’s ups and downs culminate in his losing nearly everything when the stock market crashes in 1929. When Billings comes to visit the ailing Ziegfeld at the end of the film (spoiler alert!), both men are financial wrecks; yet Billings is his jovial self, and Ziegfeld seems to have retained his optimism, at least superficially. What is not superficial in this scene are the elephants. As Ziegfeld slouches in his armchair staring out at the marquee of the Ziegfeld Theater, the most notable objects in his sparsely decorated room are the elephant figurines parading with raised trunks on various pieces of non-descript furniture. Sadly, Ziegfeld and Billings plot another great show together with money they don’t have. Ziegfeld seems to rally; but when Billings leaves, Ziegfeld tells Sidney, his manservant, that they’re “both broke.” Sidney encourages his master, “Wouldn’t worry about that, sir. You’ve been broke before, sir.” “Yes, I know,” replies Ziegfeld. “I’ve always laughed about it. But I can’t laugh anymore, Sidney, because I’ve been wrong. I’ve got nothing, nothing to leave anyone.” Sidney protests that Ziegfeld has given the world “memories of the finest things ever done on the stage,” along with his great name. Ziegfeld meditates on this fact, then drifts into another world, a world of production and spectacle. It nearly engulfs him, but then he declares decidedly, “I’ve got t’have more steps. I need more steps. I’ve got t’get higher. Higher.” The flower he is holding falls from his hand, and Ziggy passes away. But, again, it is vital to the meaning of the film that Ziegfeld’s last words and desire are for attainment, for lifting himself to an even higher level of commercial success and theatrical achievement. Just as Ziggy’s dreams never die—even when he is penniless and/or friendless—neither does his hope. Even to the very end of his life, he wants to exceed his own accomplishments and be something even greater than what he has already been.

For Me Then…

This gorgeous dress is emblematic of Ziegfeld’s great achievements on stage, accomplishments that never brought him lasting satisfaction.

Ziegfeld’s optimism is admirable—I especially respect how personal and financial setbacks deter him not a smidge. Yet in his endless positivity, he misses out on reality quite a bit. He loses his first wife, who loves him endlessly; and he loses the revenue of his hard work too many times to count. While he is creative and confident, he is also negligent and irresponsible. The steps and the elephants, symbols of his ceaseless desire to be a greater version of himself, also serve to remind the film’s viewers how worthless it is to never be satisfied with what one has been given or achieved. Had Ziegfeld valued his first wife more, she would not have left him. Had he cared for his finances, many stresses of his life (and of the lives of those who depended on him) would have vanished. But Ziegfeld ends his life as he lives it for the whole long film—in his own world, never satisfied, always striving for more. Though he admits that he has been “wrong” and can no longer laugh at his misfortunes, he is unclear about where exactly his error lies. In thinking he has left nothing to those who come after him, just what had he wanted to leave to them? Furthermore, who are these people–his family or nameless individuals of the wider world?

Contentment, then, is both what is missing from The Great Ziegfeld and what is often easily missing from our own lives. For me personally, I find it so easy to so often allow different obligations and responsibilities to command my time and energy that I forget to be grateful for what I have and for whom I have to share it with. What kind of lives could we live if we both strive for purpose and thank God for the grace that provides daily necessities? What would Ziegfeld’s life have been like had his emphasis on the “higher” been eclipsed by a recognition of the value of the “lower,” everyday things in life like family and friends? And yet, the film’s title is The Great Ziegfeld, emphasis on “great.” In light of the film’s ending, Ziegfeld was great because he orchestrated musical-theatrical performances of the most spectacular kind ever seen. But performances aren’t truth. The reality of Ziegfeld’s life–had he faced it–might not have been truly great at all.

I really wish this film was in color as it includes some truly stunning scenes of art direction and gorgeous costumes! Sigh. Well, I’ll try to satisfy myself with the black-and-white version and point out a couple of interesting facts about this week’s movie The Great Ziegfeld (1936, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer) before I head off to bed to get some shut eye so I can be ready to immerse myself in the delights of medieval literature for the rest of the week (I’ll be at an academic conference, not locked away with stacks of old books—although, that also sounds like a viable weekend pastime…).

The Great Ziegfeld is the second Best Picture winner to be based on true events (following in the wake of Mutiny on the Bounty, so we have consecutive reality tales—plus, I just can’t give up those maritime puns!). Based on the true story of the life of Florenz Ziegfeld, Jr., the Broadway show master with a reputation for “glorifying” women, this film is a comedy, a tragedy, a love story, and a musical all at once. And it’s really, really long. Nominated for seven Academy Awards (including Art Direction, Directing, Writing (Original Story), and Film Editing), the film took home three: Outstanding Production, Best Actress, and Best Dance Direction for “A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody.” I am not kidding. There really was a category for dance.

Luise Rainer in the famous telephone scene which perhaps secured her Oscar win

Folks at the awards ceremony that year might have thought more jesting was going on when Luise Rainer won for Best Actress. In a year that saw the commencement of the Actor/Actress in a Supporting Role categories (thanks to the somewhat tricky situation of three men from the same film being tapped for the same Best Actor award the previous year), most people felt that the newcomer should not have won the honor because 1) her role was more of a supporting one, even though studio execs labeled it as leading, and 2) this was her first nomination, and the category was full of more established stars who hadn’t won Oscars yet. Sounds like Hollywood politics to me. Anyhow, Rainer showed them all, becoming the first person to win back-to-back Oscars in a category when she won in 1938 for her role in The Good Earth. Want to read something funny? Go research Rainer’s feelings about her Oscar wins. She didn’t really take to the Hollywood lifestyle and so also didn’t appreciate Tinseltown’s greatest award. Rumor is that she even used one of the statuettes as a doorstop and then gave it to some men who helped her move from Switzerland to London! Oh my. Personally, I think she is quite good in The Great Ziegfeld—a touch immature, a hair overdramatic, just flighty enough to seem realistic—and very sympathetic. Oscar well deserved, in my mind.

Luise Rainer, about 100 years old here, with her two Oscars.

Back to the man himself, though. Doubtless, many original viewers of The Great Ziegfeld had attended a Ziegfeld Folly in person and felt the movie to be a titillating mix of biographical sketch and Folly remix extravaganza. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Ziegfeld Follies (as I was before my research), here is a brief crash course. The Follies began in 1907 as the brainchild of Ziegfeld, who imagined a Broadway show that was simple and relaxed enough to fill the summertime schedule. But when the Follies turned out to be a smash hit, they also became outrageously extravagant and flashy. The big draw of Ziegfeld’s Follies were the Ziegfeld Girls, the chorus girls whom Ziegfeld had meticulously chosen and groomed for his productions. Many of these women’s Hollywood acting careers were launched by their participation in Ziegfeld’s shows, and several girls were even nominated for Academy Awards. I confess, I totally got distracted in looking up information about these women. Their lives are fascinating! Did you know that Delores Costello, a Ziegfeld girl, was Drew Barrymore’s grandma (Drew perhaps has the most impressive acting pedigree in Hollywood, I think)? And here’s a fun connection with another BP winner: Paulette Goddard, who was also a member of Ziegfeld’s troupe, was married to Erich Maria Remarque, the German veteran who wrote All Quiet on the Western Front! It is such a small world.

But the man himself, Flo Ziegfeld, was just a piece of work. I was alternately impressed by his wit and disappointed in his mistakes—yet cheered for his success for the entire duration of the movie (again, that was a really long time). In a way, Ziegfeld’s story is America’s, which is probably why he is so easy to root for. He’s up one moment and then down the next, but he’s always optimistic that the next idea will work out spectacularly. Optimism might be halfway to success. I think it was in Ziggy’s mind. For more on Ziegfeld’s real life, check out his reprinted obituary from the New York Times: http://www.nytimes.com/learning/general/onthisday/bday/0321.html.

For more detailed thoughts on The Great Ziegfeld and its significance, please check out the full post this weekend!