"A Place in the Sun" was a sensation when it came out in 1951, though its place among the cinematic greats has faded considerably. This, despite the fact it won the first Golden Globe for best picture. And it took six Oscars including director, screenplay, cinematography, editing and musical score, beating out "A Streetcar Named Desire" in all five categories.
I think most modern observers would call those prizes sorely misplaced.
It stars a powerhouse cast of Montgomery Clift, Elizabeth Taylor and Shelley Winters in a tragic love triangle based on Hoosier author Theodore Dreiser's book, "An American Tragedy" (unread by me), later turned into a play and then this movie, script by Michael Wilson and Harry Brown. Clift plays the poor nephew of a women's clothing magnate who is invited into a world of privilege, falls for a wealthy socialite but is conflicted after impregnating a female coworker.
There is very much a "The Great Gatsby" feel to the story, and the indeed this novel came out a few months after F. Scott Fitzgerald's in 1925. Though the film is set in contemporaneous times instead of the Roaring Twenties, much is made about the contrast between the wealthy and the poor, the perceived nobility of the privileged and the venality of the common folk.
The first of nine screen pairings of Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy was the least of them -- of those I've seen, anyway. "Woman of the Year" is a farcical comedy more than a romance. It's notable that it's most remembered for an extended skit at the very end of the movie where Hepburn's egghead character makes a total mess trying to make breakfast, with toast shooting across the room and waffle batter blurping out of the griddle.
The lovey stuff is pretty forgettable.
Interestingly, the Spencer/Hepburn romances stick in the mind as middle-aged or even Golden Years couples -- most notably with 1949's "Adam's Rib" and "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" in 1967. Even in 1942 they were no longer whippersnappers: He was 42 and she 35. The enduring aspect of their nine films together was the depiction of mature love rather than the hotter, more single-minded flame of youthful passion.
She plays Tess Harding, a globe-trotting journalist who specializes in international relations -- think Thomas Friedman meets David Ignatius. He is Sam Craig, star sports columnist. They both write for the same newspaper, the New York Chronicle, but they've never met. When he overhears her on the radio dismissing baseball as a waste of time, he writes a screed denouncing her for being out of touch with the common man. She returns fire with a dismissive column of her own. Eventually the publisher invites them up to the penthouse to get them to kiss and make nice.
This they do with such ardor that they're soon an item. It's in the mold of cinematic romances of that time, in which they're in love by the second date and he's proposing marriage by the fourth. But trouble looms when she's only willing to give a tiny slice of her life to the marriage, and he grows resentful.
Directed by the great George Stevens ("Shane," "Giant") from a screenplay by Ring Lardner Jr. and Michael Kanin -- which won the Oscar that year --"Woman of the Year" is only really interesting as an examination of early, half-hearted feminism. Tess is so consumed by her work that she's never even really thought of marriage and children. Her role model is her aunt Ellen (Fay Bainter), who's won every sort of civic award under the sun, but isn't truly happy because she's never been married. Aunt Ellen has her eye on Fay's own father (Minor Watson), who's been making unrequited moony eyes at her for 15 years since Tess' mother died.
The basic gist of all this interplay is that a woman can be brilliant, accomplished, acclaimed and successful, but she's not truly a woman unless she gives herself to a man.
There's a disturbing sequence toward the middle-end where Tess suddenly adopts a Greek refugee boy named Chris -- a lot of Chrises in Greece, are there? Maybe it's short for Christos -- who does not even speak English. Sam rejects the notion of adopting a child quite sternly, and eventually sneaks him out of the house and gives him back to the refugee home when Tess is away getting her Woman of the Year award. Then Sam packs his stuff and leaves.
The interesting thing here is that Sam is behaving in the classic female mode of this kind of movie -- rather than explaining to his spouse what is wrong, he simply acts more and more annoyed and hurt, expecting her to guess what is wrong with their relationship.
The sexual byplay between the stars is fairly overt, despite the era. I liked some of Hepburn's more kittenish mannerisms, such as purring "Huh-wo, daddy" at Sam when he comes home from work. Before they get married there's a bit where she brings him up to her apartment for a nightcap, and it's made pretty clear that she's enticing him, an overture he refuses because he respects her so darn much.
There's also another long comedy sequence built around a gaggle of interlopers intruding on their wedding night, until everyone finally gets the idea that they desperately want to have sex and depart.
Also worthy of note is Tess' secretary, Gerald (Dan Tobin), who acts as her gatekeeper and manservant. He's clearly supposed to be homosexual, which movies of the time broadcast through sartorial choices -- Gerald is never without a sweater-vest -- and a sing-songy speaking style. Gerald is repeatedly dismissive of Sam while he's courting Tess, and continues the unctuous manner after they're married.
The last line in the movie is after having reconciled, Gerald shows up with a bottle of champagne that Tess is supposed to use to launch a boat. Sam beckons Gerald out back, we hear a crash, and Sam returns with the broken bottle: "I just launched Gerald."
Another in a line of disappointing classics for me, "Woman of the Year" is more a captive of its time than a truly watershed film.
"Subtext" is a word I heard tossed around a lot at the New York University Cinema Studies department. To put it simply, it refers to the message that is hidden beneath the text. In a book, it's the things that are implied without ever being overtly stated. For movies, subtext means that which is never said aloud, but is given voice by subtle and often non-verbal cues.
"Shane" is a film that's positively loaded with subtext.
On its surface, it seems like a very simplistic tale: An ex-gunfighter comes to an untamed town in the Old West and inserts himself into the battle between ranchers and farmers. In fact, it's often pointed to as one of the most family-friendly Westerns, and its early appeal was primarily young audiences. This is bolstered by the presence of Joey, played by Brandon De Wilde, a young boy who idolizes Shane and serves as the eyes through which the audience views him.
(Funny aside: My dad likes to tell the story of his college friend Bill Goldman running around yelling, "Shane! Shane!" as Joey iconically does at the end of the film. They thought it was a hoot. Bill would go on to win two Oscars as a screenwriter.)
Since the film has become such a classic, it's difficult to think now of what a risky move it was for director George Stevens ("Giant") and star Alan Ladd to make Shane as remote as he is. In the course of the two-hour film, we don't learn a single concrete fact about who Shane is, what is in his past, or why he does what he does. He is the ultimate ronin, a warrior without a home or creed.
But oh, that subtext speaks volumes.
With his mournful eyes and the reticent way he takes on the toughs of the head rancher, Ryker, it's clear that Shane is trying to make a change in his life. If I were to guess, I'd say that Shane had once been someone who reveled in his status as a gunslinger -- look at the showiness of the fringe-lined outfit he first shows up in -- and did something so terrible, it made him ashamed of who he'd become. Did he kill a woman or child? Gun down his own brother? Whatever it was, the stain of its guilt colors Shane's every expression.
In another place and time, Shane might very well have been Jack Wilson, the hired gun Ryker brings in to oust the farmers, who are led by Joe's father, Joe Starrett (Van Heflin). Played by Jack Palance in one of his most iconic roles, Wilson is a chilling construction of pure terror who hardly ever speaks. He's simply a professional who's very good at what he does, and enjoys doing it, and that just happens to be killing. With a face so rawboned it looks like his skull is trying to pry its way past the flesh of his face, Wilson is a grinning death's head, a mocking counterpoint to Shane himself.
Then there's the barely-hinted at romance between Shane and Starrett's wife Marian, played by Jean Arthur. It's so subtle that both Joe and son Joey catch no glimpse of it. This being a 1953 film, there's no overt depiction of adultery. Ironically, it's the villain Ryker who quickly surmises that Marian is the real reason Shane sticks around. Watch the early scenes, and see how indifferent Shane is to Joe Starrett's plight before he meets Marian. Just before Shane leaves for the big final gunfight, Marian asks him if she's doing it for her sake -- the movie's only, and fleeting, acknowledgement of the connection.
Perhaps because so much goes unsaid in "Shane," it's one of those movies that does not diminish with time but seems to gather more resonance with repeated viewings. This was probably the fourth or fifth time I'd seen it, and frankly I can't wait for the next time.
