Reeling Backward: "The Moon Is Down" (1943)

"The Grapes of Wrath" is a true rarity: a book universally touted as Great Literature that's actually a genuinely good read -- unlike others I could name; see Joyce, James -- that was subsequently turned into movie so fine, it's arguably as iconic as the novel itself.

For his followup to "Grapes," John Steinbeck chose to pen a contemporaneous piece of fiction about the German occupation of a small Norwegian mining town. Though the author was more circumspect, referring to them as the townspeople and "the invaders."

Sensing another big hit, and with the advent of World War II creating a voracious appetite for films with a propagandist bent, the studio again paired Steinbeck with his "Grapes" screenwriter/producer partner, Nunnally Johnson, with whom he had become close friends.

Steinbeck reportedly gave Johnson free reign to tinker with the novel, which he wrote with the intention of adapting it into a stage play, hitting Broadway in 1942. I haven't read the book, but from what I gather Johnson did not take his friend's permission to heart, sticking quite faithfully to the text.

The result is probably the least-remembered film adaptation of a Steinbeck work. Though he ended up receiving the highest civilian award from the Norwegian king as thanks after the war, "The Moon Is Down" is a rather staid, self-serious movie that aims a little too obviously to demonstrate the nobility of "small men" in the face of Nazi oppression.

It features a trio of fine character actors -- Lee J. Cobb, Cedrick Hardwicke and Henry Travers, forever the angel Clarence from "It's a Wonderful Life."

But the film suffers from having no main character or strong narrative through-line. The Germans take over the town with ease, a quiet war of wills begins between the conquerors and the conquered, and the heavy hand of the Nazi regime soon stokes the embers of resentment into an outright blaze of revolt.

The title, incidentally, is from an obscure line in Macbeth that portends imminent violence.

Travers plays Orden, the mayor of the (never named) village. A simple, soft-spoken man, Orden is prepared to accept the German occupation with grace and deference. As he repeatedly says, he's a little man, and not a particularly brave one, the elected head of a little town. But he has strong beliefs that no people can ever be truly defeated if they keep their sense of independent freedom in their hearts.

Hardwicke is Col. Lanser, the German officer placed in charge of the town. In the opening scene we see him receiving his orders from a general, and seems positively bored about the prospect of his new assignment, so far away from the front. His job is simple: keep the people down, and extract every ounce of iron from the nearby mine as he can.

Lanser is not a classic screen villain: he's intelligent and prefers to rule via decree rather than violence. But he's not afraid to kill innocent men as an example to others, taking hostages and then executing them publicly when there are acts of sabotage or resistance. Of course, this only spurs more reprisals, as Orden had predicted to him.

Cobb, as I've previously mentioned, is an actor remembered for a long line of older, often angry men, most notably in... well, "12 Angry Men." But he was usually much younger than the characters he portrayed. Here playing Albert Winter, the elderly town doctor, Cobb was barely into his 30s, but quite convincing in a silver hairpiece and subtle aging makeup.

Winter attempts to be the conciliatory force working between the mayor and German colonel, but it does not turn out very well, as we might expect.

The movie is at its best when the three primary actors are bouncing off each other. There's a powerful scene toward the end where, after being condemned to execution, Orden recalls a speech he made in high school, reciting Socrates' Denunciation. It's the strident call of a man about to die, eloquently spitting his defiance at his murderers.

Lanser wanders in during the speech, recognizes both its source and the context in which it is being recalled, and even assists Orden with a word he's forgotten. We find ourselves liking all three men, if for different reasons.

The real bad guy is E.J. Ballantine as George Corell, the traitor who helped prepare the town for invasion. It's a little unclear what this consisted of, other than providing intelligence about the general layout and the presence of a tiny 12-man militia comprised of local men. As if they could have stood up to the Germans' 250 crack troops, even without them being tipped off.

Orden refuses to have anything to do with Corell, unable to grasp how a native-born Norwegian could betray his own people. Lanser also doesn't take a particular like to the spy, making light of the small injuries Corell keeps turning up with at the hands of the perturbed villagers. Lanser refuses Corell's insistence that he be installed as mayor, but later is overruled when the traitor travels to Berlin to complain, returning with orders for harsher tactics.

(The notion that the Third Reich would side with a foreigner over its own high-ranking German officer is highly suspect.)

Hardwicke gets plenty of screen time, but Travers and Cobb disappear for long stretches involving other townsfolk and doings, which don't carry much emotional heft. The biggest one involves a sequence with Molly Morden (Dorris Bowdon), the widow of one of the murdered local militiaman, and a young German lieutenant, Tonder (Peter van Eyck).

Tonder wanders into the local pub one night, desperately bored and lonely, and is hurt when all the local men depart -- staying only the requisite 15 minutes he orders them to. Later he has a near-crackup in front of other officers, even going so far as to suppose that Hitler is crazy. He then winds up on the doorstep of Molly, pitching woo.

It's implied that she summons him to her bedroom and then murders him with a large pair of knitting shears. But the act is never commented upon further, other thana  vague reference to Molly having made it safely over the border. You'd think the murder of a German officer would be a pivotal event in the narrative, but it's completely brushed under the rug.

This very short, doomed romance winds up being all buildup and no payoff.

A couple of asides about the pair of actors. Despite supposedly being a callow youth, van Eyck was actually five months older than Cobb. Bowdon was another holdover from "Grapes," playing one of the Joad sisters. She was married to writer/producer Nunnally Johnson, perhaps suggesting why such a dead-end story thread is allowed to spool out so long. Bowdon had her first child after production, and willingly (or perhaps not) ended her acting career at age 29.

Another sequence that holds some early traction is the delivery of individual sticks of dynamite -- along with a chocolate bar -- from the Royal Air Force, dropped in with little parachutes and accompany suggestions about how to use them to foil the Germans. Soon train tracks, supply dumps and even the mine itself are beset by explosions. Again, this aspect of the tale just sort of wanders off and is forgotten until the very end.

"The Moon Is Down" isn't a bad film, just a forgettable one. Perhaps it was having a journeyman director, Irving Pichel, at the helm instead of John Ford, one of the greats of cinema. But I don't think so.

The truth is Steinbeck's story just doesn't work very well on the screen. It's episodic and rambling, showing us interesting characters and then misplacing them, or presenting insipid characters who tarry much too long.

Great home-run hitters usually struck out a lot too, but people remember the titanic swats instead of the fanning. Steinbeck's percentage was very good, but nobody hits 1,000.

Reeling Backward: "East of Eden" (1955)

Nine-tenths of James Dean's performance in "East of Eden" isn't in the screenplay.

As conceived it's already a strong part, based on the Pulitzer Prize-winning book by John Steinbeck and helmed by one of one of the greatest directors of actors ever, Elia Kazan. Paul Osborn would receive an Academy Award nomination for his screenplay adaptation, as did Kazan.

But it'd Dean show, in every way that matters. His style of performance, along with Marlon Brando, Montgomery Clift and few others, more or less marks the transition to what I consider "modern" film acting. Previously most movie actors came up through the theater tradition, and were taught their performance had to be big and broad. They learned Shakespearean elocution and good posture. They still saw themselves as being on a stage, just with cameras and sound booms.

Actors were, literally, stiff.

"Real" actors didn't mumble, or stoop, or not look people in the eye. Similarly, the midcentury conception of ideal masculinity was John Wayne -- composed and remote. Yet here came Dean with his twitchy, emotionally raw turn in his very first film role. (After numerous small television roles.) He seems so uncomfortable and alienated, like he's literally about to shiver his way out of his skin

As Cal Trask, the wayward teenage son of a respected farmer in World War I-era California, Dean embodies the dark half of the parable of Cain and Abel. Cal has been raised without the respect or admiration of his stern father, Adam (Raymond Massey), which he instead bestowed on Cal's fraternal twin brother, Aron (Richard Davalos).

He's essentially a walking wound. I think of the little moments, the touches and quirks Dean infuses into every minute onscreen to convey Cal's vulnerability and multitudinous flaws.

Cal can be kind and empathetic one minute, petulant and just plain nasty the next. He blows like a zephyr, and Dean does, too.

When his dad loses his entire fortune on a risky gamble to preserve and ship lettuce using a crude form of refrigeration, Cal resolves to earn the money back by investing in bean commodities. With a $5,000 loan from his estranged mother -- more on her later -- he and a partner offer local farmers a premium to grow beans, knowing they'll prove a valuable, spoil-resistant crop as America is on the cusp of entering the war in Europe.

In a brief scene -- throwaway exposition, really -- Cal suddenly takes off on a spirited frolic/dance through a bean field. He's positively giddy at the prospect of growing in his father's admiration, much like those tiny sprouts. This, like a number of other key moments in "East of Eden," was pure improvisation by Dean. Kazan wisely kept his cameras rolling to see what would happen.

In the film's pivotal scene, when Cal offers the money to his father and it is rejected as foul war profiteering, the script called for the boy to turn his back and flee in anger. Instead, Dean broke down in a gush of tears and embraced Massey, almost clawing at him as if to wring the reluctant affection out of him. Massey, a decidedly traditional actor, could only stammer "Cal! Cal!" in shocked tones.

That electric combination of old and new methods of acting is a cinematic watershed moment.

I think, though, that my favorite moment in the film is much smaller and subtler. Cal is smitten with Abra (Julie Harris), the longtime girlfriend and presumed fiance of Aron. He doesn't want to betray his brother, but the weight of keeping his feelings repressed eventually becomes unbearable. He climbs up to her bedroom window in the middle of the night and enlists Abra's aid in preparing a surprise birthday party for his father.

Dean stares at her, and in the moonlight his face is the far prettier of the two. You can see all the pain and loneliness mirrored in his sad, tired eyes. He wants her, but can't say so. So there's a distance to his expression. He smiles shyly, and just for a second he rests his face against the window frame -- like he can't stand to hold up the charade.

Better than any single image I can summon, this frame captures the essence of what it's like to be a teenager. 

The rest of the movie isn't quite as memorable as Dean's performance. It's a rather messy narrative, trying to wind big themes into a story that doesn't really add up to much. I don't envy Osborn ("The Yearling"), tasked with translating Steinbeck's sprawling novel into a two-hour film. All of the first half of the book about Adam's youth gets jettisoned, and much that remains is shifted around to place the spotlight on Cal.

Davalos as Aron doesn't get a lot to do, other than make an 11th hour conversion from perfect son to cackling loon. Abra is a more rounded character, and we get a glimpse of her life outside of the prism of her love triangle with two brothers. That's more than you can see about most female supporting characters (then or now).

I also appreciated Burl Ives as Sam the Sheriff, who sees himself as not just the law but the moral conscience of the town of Monterey. He steers Cal into more productive behavior, and puts down a bout of anti-German hysteria that could've turned into a riot with just a few glares and veiled pleasantries.

Jo Van Fleet is terrific as Kate, Cal and Aron's mother, who ran out on them as babes after shooting Adam when he tried to stop her because she couldn't bear the isolation and Bible-thumping of life on the ranch in Salinas. The boys believe her to be dead, but she's become a hard-bitten madame running a prosperous brothel in Monterey.

Cal follows her around like a lost puppy, eventually confronting her and getting her to loan him seed money for his bean scheme. He beholds himself in her, while Aron is more akin to their strict, God-fearing father.

Kate is both powerful and self-loathing, refusing to submit to any man's yoke but still hating what she's become. It's impressive work for Van Fleet, especially when you consider how little screen time she has -- really only two substantial scenes adding up to maybe five minutes. She won the Best Supporting Actress Oscar for her turn.

The cinematography is something to behold, and I'm surprised Ted McCord didn't get any notice from the Academy. Kazan was reputedly proud of his use of CinemaScope to capture the Western landscapes, in contrast with the tight urban spaces he was previously known for filming. My favorite shot is of the train bearing Adam Trask's lettuce shipment -- his dreams, really -- puffing away into the horizon. He ambles around the back of the station to watch it go, and unbeknownst Cal follows him, watching his father watch.

It beautifully encapsulates the entire father-son dynamic, with one's back turned to the other, not so much indifferent as unawares.

Kazan and McCord also used visual distortion a couple of times to wonderful effect, both during spats between Cal and Adam. One is when Adam is making Cal read from the Bible, not for enlightenment but as punishment; the other is when Cal jumps on a swing and leers at his father each time his momentum carries him near, spitting and taunting.

By zooming the wide lens in close they were able to get a bending effect in the corners, underlining the way the two men can't get their personalities to mesh. This is accented by tilting the camera mid-shot to give it a carnival funhouse effect. It's brilliant without feeling like the direction is intruding into the film.

The brevity of James Dean's career is an essential part of his iconography. "East of Eden" is his only film that came out while he was still alive; he never even got to see "Giant" or "Rebel Without a Cause," for which he would become the first posthumous Oscar acting nominee.

Rather than fretting about what might have been, we revel in a young performer's transformational journey that forever altered our conception of cinematic acting. There is before Dean, and after.

Reeling Backward: "Of Mice and Men" (1939)

I've always felt that the characters of John Steinbeck's "Of Mice and Men" were more allegories for different facets of humanity rather than believable, flesh-and-blood people.

It's pretty obvious, for example, that the gigantic man-child Lennie Small represents the undeveloped id -- pure, innocent, harmless in thought but capable of an instinctual lashing out at those who hurt him. Lon Chaney Jr., not yet typecast as the monster in endless creature features, made Lennie an iconic character whose rolling speech patterns and fumbling charm would influence generations of portrayals on stage and screen.

His partner, George Milton, is the common man who yearns for a better life away from back-breaking ranch work bucking bales for some uncaring boss. He and Lennie share a dream of owning their own stake, a little place where they can "live off the fat of the land." As played by Burgess Meredith, George is resolute but not stubborn, clever but not calculating, doesn't look for a fight but doesn't back away from one, either.

Curley, the pugnacious son of the boss, is fiercely protective of his beautiful new wife, and has a chip on his shoulder the size of the moon -- particularly against big men like Lennie. Short-statured but a former semi-pro boxer, Curley (Bob Steele) is in some ways Lennie's shadowy reflection -- impulsive, instinctual, vindictive. He never seems to think more than one step ahead of his actions. He can only hold a few thoughts in his head at time, mostly blind rage and jealousy, in much the same way Lennie is fixated on small soft creatures and objects he can stroke.

Both men are singular in purpose -- Lennie to adore, and Curley to despise.

Curley's wife -- played by Betty Field and credited as Mae, though she's only known in the book as "Curley's wife" -- is deathly bored by life on the ranch. Without anything to do or anyone to talk to, she takes to flirting with and teasing the ranch hands, knowing full well it will send Curley into another rage and have him giving "the old one-two" to some unlucky employee.  We suspect that even though Curley's wife expresses disgust for all the fights she causes, she secretly harbors joy for holding the center of attention.

From the 1939 film, I'm most intrigued by Slim (Charles Bickford), the mule skinner and "prince of the ranch." Slim is looked up to by all the other ranch hands, and is the one man Curley dares not provoke. He takes an instant liking to George and Lennie, though he's careful not to show favoritism. Slim is the only character who understands that George kills Lennie out of love and pity, after he oafishly breaks Curley's wife's neck when she foolishly invited him to stroke her hair.

For me, Slim's critical moment comes in the showdown between Carlson (Granville Bates), a crusty older worker, and Candy (Roman Bohnen), the one-handed old man. Carlson can't stand the stink of Candy's ancient, decrepit dog, calling it a travesty to keep the animal alive when it's no use to itself. Candy is deeply attached to the animal, perhaps his only true friend in the world, and looks to Slim to defend him.

But Slim admits it's probably for the best that the dog be put down, and Candy allows Carlson to take it outside and shoot it in the back of the head -- the same way George will later kill Lennie, and for much the same reasons.

Slim, I think, represents the best of mankind, the rational and upstanding side, that nevertheless often stands aside and lets evil come to pass. The natural state of humanity is to be kind to each other, Steinbeck says -- holding George and Lennie up as an imperfect example -- until the twisted selfishness and moral rot represented by, respectively, Curley and his wife warps the way things were intended.

Slim, unafraid to stare down Curley and defend his own reputation, is reluctant to interfere when others become a target. It's an old-school notion of virility, in which a man must stand up for himself, or he's worthless. Slim allows the brewing trouble between Curley and Lennie to boil over not because he's afraid, but because he believes it's not his business to get involved.

It's interesting how the reputation of this film has waned and peaked over time. Directed and produced by Lewis Milestone from a screen adaptation by Eugene Solow, it received four Oscar nominations, including one for Best Picture. It was the first major film adaptation of a Steinbeck property, rushed into theaters before 1940's "The Grapes of Wrath," which went on to enjoy a much more hallowed reputation.

The 1939 version saw something of a revival in the 1970s and '80s, including a stage adaptation at the Steppenwolf Theatre starring Gary Sinise and John Malkovich, which they would go on to reprise in a 1992 film directed by Sinise. Still, other than Lon Chaney's portrayal of Lennie, his film has faded in memory, and unfairly so.

Aaron Copland's evocative musical score -- his first for a feature film -- was also nominated for the Academy Awards.

3.5 stars out of four

Reeling Backward: "The Grapes of Wrath"

"The Grapes of Wrath" is about the exploitation of people by other people. Since that's unfortunately a perpetual blight on the face of mankind, it's also part of the reason why the great 1940 film version of John Steinbeck's novel remains so timeless.

The film, directed by John Ford and starring Henry Fonda, feels relevant to current times in myriad ways. The economy isn't as much of a mess now as it was during the Depression of the 1930s. But there's the same sense of our fundamental values having gone out of whack. Corporations that are making healthy profits lay off workers as executives enjoy seven-figure bonuses. People are losing their homes for reasons they often can't even understand, to faceless entities they couldn't name. Whole families are forced to uproot, and like the iconic Joads travel an arduous journey to a destination that may hold no better promise for them.

In Steinbeck's novel, the regular farmers and folks are the sainted salt of the earth, at the mercy of bankers, powerful agricultural consortiums and the roughneck hooligans they hire to keep the workers in line. Although the film is more vague in its presentation of the moneymen, the enforcers are vivid and villainous. The fact that they wear badges and are called "deputy sheriffs" makes them even more contemptible, since their vocation is not upholding the law but preventing its just application.

Another way in which "The Grapes of Wrath" has resonance today is in comparing the Okie farmers' reception to that of illegal immigrants. There's an amazing scene where the Joads stop at a modern gas station to fuel up, and after they've gone the attendants describe them as less than human, even swine, because of their shambling appearance and rickety old truck piled high with belongs and human detritus.

In another scene, the Joads encounter a roadblock. A mob carrying torches and weapons stops them and surrounds the truck, ordering them to turn around. 'We don't want any more Okies like you coming in into our town and taking jobs away from those who already live here,' is the gist of their feeling.

Whatever one thinks about the flood of people crossing our borders (mostly the Mexican one) to find jobs -- I consider myself fairly moderate on this issue, though I'm probably closer to the Minutemen than La Raza -- the treating of other humans as chattel must infuriate anyone with an ounce of empathy.

It seems that wherever they go, the Joads are viewed as undesirable, even dangerous, simply because they are poor and have few prospects.

This was perhaps the greatest performance of Henry Fonda's career, though he would have to wait another 40 years to receive the Best Actor Oscar. As Tom Joad, the eldest son recently paroled from prison for manslaughter, Fonda has a harsher, more defiant aura than we're used to. In his many roles Fonda was usually a reassuring figure, the loyalist and company man, so to see him so convincing in this role as an agitator -- even if a reluctant one -- is striking.

A couple more points. The cinematography is by Gregg Tolland, who would go on to deliver his masterwork, "Citizen Kane," the following year, and in "The Grapes of Wrath" one can see him warming up. The play of darkness and light is hauntingly beautiful, and characters will often move in and out of the light in the midst of a piece of dialogue. John Ford often uses low angles to make certain moments more portentous.

Jane Darwell, as Ma Joad, won the Best Supporting Actress Academy Award, and deservedly so. Most people remember the rousing speech she gives right before the end credits roll, with the oft-cited line, "We're the people." But she has many other great moments throughout the movie, such as the scene where she burns mementos in the wood stove before they're forced to vacate their home. It's a wordless scene, ripe with power and glory.

4 stars