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All weekend, I can be your secret
I have been thinking about a passage in John Van Druten's The Voice of the Turtle (1943) for the last few days. It's a small, sincere, and sophisticated play that feels as though it has dated very little since its snapshot of the dating scene of WWII-era NYC, since it concerns a pair of strangers who over the course of a weekend find themselves trying to decide if the sex they had on short acquaintance and strong attraction is the foundation of a relationship and if so, what kind. Both have been hurt by former partners—dumped by her married lover for introducing sentiment into their affair, the heroine is trying to convince herself of the attractions of celibacy, while the hero has tried to protect himself since his similar jilting by letting himself be taken for granted as a booty call; neither tactic is generating much happiness for either of them, but the prospect of emotional as well as physical intimacy is terrifying. Their conversations are poignantly frank that women can feel sexual desire and men want love and commitment, however counter these facts run to their supposed societal roles. Since people haven't stopped wondering whether it might not be safer to break up than get their hearts broken, the conclusion has not turned saccharine with time. But there's a scene early in the first act, where the heroine is questioning her sexual normality, specifically her ability to engage in premarital sex at all, which got my attention:
"Well, do ordinary girls? I was raised to think they didn't. Didn't even want to. And what I want to know is—don't they? They don't in movies. Oh, I know that's censorship . . . but . . . the people who go and see the movies . . . are they like that too? Or don't they notice that it's all false?"
I've encountered internal references to censorship in Code-era movies, my favorite being The Gang's All Here (1943)'s magnificently metatextual "If you don't cut that out, the censors will!" It's not like no one noticed at the time. James Agee was constantly complaining about the limitations of what could be treated maturely or even just half-realistically on the screen and I imagine anyone who had paid attention through the Code transition felt similarly. It is nonetheless useful for me to receive these periodic reminders that even as I am continually parsing the world as it was strained through Hollywood from the world as inhabited by people who went to the movies, those same people were giving equally serious thought to the relationship of their pop culture to reality and the measurable distortions thereof. I am mildly, morbidly curious whether this speech survived into the chastified 1947 film, in which I am otherwise desperately uninterested; to add insult to injury, it stars Ronald Reagan. The heroine, incidentally, feels terrific object empathy for telephones that no one answers and radios no one is listening to, which hasn't dated in the least, either.
"Well, do ordinary girls? I was raised to think they didn't. Didn't even want to. And what I want to know is—don't they? They don't in movies. Oh, I know that's censorship . . . but . . . the people who go and see the movies . . . are they like that too? Or don't they notice that it's all false?"
I've encountered internal references to censorship in Code-era movies, my favorite being The Gang's All Here (1943)'s magnificently metatextual "If you don't cut that out, the censors will!" It's not like no one noticed at the time. James Agee was constantly complaining about the limitations of what could be treated maturely or even just half-realistically on the screen and I imagine anyone who had paid attention through the Code transition felt similarly. It is nonetheless useful for me to receive these periodic reminders that even as I am continually parsing the world as it was strained through Hollywood from the world as inhabited by people who went to the movies, those same people were giving equally serious thought to the relationship of their pop culture to reality and the measurable distortions thereof. I am mildly, morbidly curious whether this speech survived into the chastified 1947 film, in which I am otherwise desperately uninterested; to add insult to injury, it stars Ronald Reagan. The heroine, incidentally, feels terrific object empathy for telephones that no one answers and radios no one is listening to, which hasn't dated in the least, either.
no subject
"It's a silent, intended both to titillate and to warn against dangerous women. Interestingly, Bara's character has no name--she's simply called "The Vampire."
Well. I did not find Theodosia Goodman (Bara's real name) to be quite as much a vampire, i.e., vamp, as the audience was obviously meant to. C. and I kept making up little reasonable stories to explain her seemingly awful behavior towards men, because at least she had some spine.
My favorite intertitle: "Kiss me, my fool!"
Vampiric seduction technique: Theda Bara enthralls Schuyler first by having his deck chair placed next to her own, then later by dropping one of her trademark flowers. When he bends to pick it up, she lifts her skirt. Above her ankles. Twice, later on, she deflects him from returning to his wife and Adorable Daughter of the Long Curls simply by entering the room and clasping him in her arms. Did she smear her body with opium?
Favorite cultural anthropology moment: The wife of one of Schuyler's old friends finds out about him and Bara, and refuses to stay in the same hotel.
Best Evil Laugh: Bara yukking it up after a former lover shoots himself in front of her. Really, it was hysteria, because he'd done Bad Things to her...she wasn't bad, she was just acted that way."
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That's magnificent.
Thank you for the pointer! I will try to find it.