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What did I long for? I never really knew
Several people in the last post's meme mentioned Cyrano de Bergerac, which reminded me that I never really wrote about A Letter for Evie (1946). This is the movie that TCM gifted me with two years ago in December when I was too sick to make the last Boston-area Catgirl Goth Rave and rather bent out of shape about it; I glossed it at the time as "a variation on Cyrano de Bergerac, taking place between a shirt-factory secretary, a shy dendrologist, and the platoon lothario during World War II, with recurring motif by Jerome Kern." I'm not sure I conveyed sufficiently how happy it made me, because aside from starring Hume Cronyn, who was cast as weasels and/or heavies far more often than he was considered for romantic leads, it's a variation apparently written by someone who couldn't take the mechanics of the original ending for another minute—Roxane is supposed to be as intelligent as she's lovely and yet she never once wonders about her cousin's feelings for her? Never recognizes Cyrano's voice in Christian's mouth, his much-admired poetry in those beautiful letters from the front? More importantly, she's supposed to be the love of Cyrano's life and yet he never trusts her enough to risk telling her of his love? Whatever perverse pride he derives from knowing he courted her successfully in another man's name, he still lets her sacrifice herself to an illusion for those fifteen years they could have spent happily together, making love and talking philosophy. The one thing the greatest swordsman of Paris is afraid of, his own sabotaging self-doubt—it does make for great tragedy, but also for wanting to smack the hero around the head.
I appreciate, therefore, that A Letter for Evie first acknowledges that its Cyrano is not actually behaving with honor when he passes himself off as the six-foot-lumberjack in the next bunk and then allows its Roxane to be furious with both of them when she discovers the deception, the one for taking advantage of her misapprehension, the other for setting it up in the first place. Evie O'Connor (Marsha Hunt) isn't in love with the photograph she receives from her serviceman pen-pal, hunky as it is; she's in love with the man who writes so eloquently and enthusiastically about the same books and movies she's been longing to discuss with someone. He's just not Edgar "Wolf" Larson, never mind how he signs his name. He's Johnny McPherson (Hume Cronyn), a skinny little fellow with my idea of a marvelous face, meaning most people would tell you he looks like someone slammed him in a door. He knows Evie tucked her first letter in the pocket of a size 16 ½ shirt, so he knows she couldn't possibly be interested in him; the film knows this is a very problematic assumption on his part. A good-natured but entirely self-seeking Don Juan, Wolf (John Carroll) decides to seduce Evie when their company gets leave in New York City because that's what he does with girls and Johnny's heartfelt letters have laid the groundwork for what he figures should be an easy entrance, so long as he can get her into bed before she realizes he doesn't have anything to say about Wuthering Heights. The script nonetheless asks us to consider whether Johnny has been the bigger heel, since for God's sake he should have known better. He may be smitten with this woman who's smart and sensitive, as bookish as he is and prettier by miles, but he's still been treating her like an object some bigger boy might take away from him. They actually have to talk about what happened, not just smile in joyful apology and fall into one another's arms; the happy ending feels earned rather than tacked on in place of a tragedy, because like the best comedies it has skidded perilously close to real and consequential hurt. This while finding time for wire-walking, the Brontës, a kitten, and one of the more impressive drunk scenes I've seen staged, all the more so because the character putting it on knows absolutely that he couldn't kneecap himself more comprehensively if he jumped feet-first into a minefield and it doesn't matter, because someone really is going to get hurt if he doesn't. Directed by Jules Dassin, far better known for his film noir than for his light comedies, although for years the only other movie I'd seen by him was The Canterville Ghost (1944).* It's a B-picture only because none of its actors were A-list leads.
I see TCM will be showing A Letter for Evie in January, at a completely inconvenient time. I hope this is what DVRs are for.
* Which I haven't written about, either. Finally, this year, I saw Rififi (1955) and The Naked City (1948), both of which live up to their reputations. I'm aware that Never on Sunday (1960) is his famous one with Melina Mercouri, but I'd rather see what they did with Phaedra (1962) and Anthony Perkins in the Hippolytos role. I keep knowing I should see Brute Force (1947) and just not being sure I want to do that to myself right now.
I appreciate, therefore, that A Letter for Evie first acknowledges that its Cyrano is not actually behaving with honor when he passes himself off as the six-foot-lumberjack in the next bunk and then allows its Roxane to be furious with both of them when she discovers the deception, the one for taking advantage of her misapprehension, the other for setting it up in the first place. Evie O'Connor (Marsha Hunt) isn't in love with the photograph she receives from her serviceman pen-pal, hunky as it is; she's in love with the man who writes so eloquently and enthusiastically about the same books and movies she's been longing to discuss with someone. He's just not Edgar "Wolf" Larson, never mind how he signs his name. He's Johnny McPherson (Hume Cronyn), a skinny little fellow with my idea of a marvelous face, meaning most people would tell you he looks like someone slammed him in a door. He knows Evie tucked her first letter in the pocket of a size 16 ½ shirt, so he knows she couldn't possibly be interested in him; the film knows this is a very problematic assumption on his part. A good-natured but entirely self-seeking Don Juan, Wolf (John Carroll) decides to seduce Evie when their company gets leave in New York City because that's what he does with girls and Johnny's heartfelt letters have laid the groundwork for what he figures should be an easy entrance, so long as he can get her into bed before she realizes he doesn't have anything to say about Wuthering Heights. The script nonetheless asks us to consider whether Johnny has been the bigger heel, since for God's sake he should have known better. He may be smitten with this woman who's smart and sensitive, as bookish as he is and prettier by miles, but he's still been treating her like an object some bigger boy might take away from him. They actually have to talk about what happened, not just smile in joyful apology and fall into one another's arms; the happy ending feels earned rather than tacked on in place of a tragedy, because like the best comedies it has skidded perilously close to real and consequential hurt. This while finding time for wire-walking, the Brontës, a kitten, and one of the more impressive drunk scenes I've seen staged, all the more so because the character putting it on knows absolutely that he couldn't kneecap himself more comprehensively if he jumped feet-first into a minefield and it doesn't matter, because someone really is going to get hurt if he doesn't. Directed by Jules Dassin, far better known for his film noir than for his light comedies, although for years the only other movie I'd seen by him was The Canterville Ghost (1944).* It's a B-picture only because none of its actors were A-list leads.
I see TCM will be showing A Letter for Evie in January, at a completely inconvenient time. I hope this is what DVRs are for.
* Which I haven't written about, either. Finally, this year, I saw Rififi (1955) and The Naked City (1948), both of which live up to their reputations. I'm aware that Never on Sunday (1960) is his famous one with Melina Mercouri, but I'd rather see what they did with Phaedra (1962) and Anthony Perkins in the Hippolytos role. I keep knowing I should see Brute Force (1947) and just not being sure I want to do that to myself right now.
no subject
I imprinted on it when I was younger, especially after seeing the 1950 film with José Ferrer. (He's magnificent; I think the production around him is okay. No one else is ever really more than there to serve the story, although you don't notice while Cyrano's onscreen.) The necessary suspensions of disbelief only started to annoy me as I got older. I have a similar problem with plots where the tension must be produced by the protagonists not talking to one another—I give The Scarlet Pimpernel a pass because of the espionage angle (if his wife really is linked to the revolutionaries, then he can't confide in her without endangering his entire network) and the obfuscating stupidity (and she's not going to go to him for help about being blackmailed, if her husband really is a brainless clothes horse), but it's about the only example and I'm probably biased from early exposure to Leslie Howard.
A new French film of the story had come out not long before, and I want to say it was Gérard Depardieu who played the title character but I could only be saying that because he was such a feature of French cinéma in my adolescence, or at least of French cinéma as I experienced it.
No, he's in an adaptation from 1990. He was Oscar-nominated for it.
I should watch Tous les Matins du Monde (1991) again
I haven't seen that, although I know it's one of Alison's favorite films; we keep talking about watching it for Movie Night.
I wish you comfort and rest, or at least films that please you.
Thank you. You, too.
no subject
I think* there's an age at which it's a very natural story to imprint on. I'm not familiar with that film--I have to admit that I've almost no familiarity with any non-Francophone adaptation. I'd like to see it, sometime.
The necessary suspensions of disbelief only started to annoy me as I got older. I have a similar problem with plots where the tension must be produced by the protagonists not talking to one another
That sort of thing does get frustrating. A while back I was re-reading some quasi-terrible space opera from my childhood (written by a man who called himself Thorarinn Gunnarson), and, although I still found some aspects of the story surprisingly evocative, I couldn't help but reflect on how annoying it was that a goodly number of the subplots hinged on the fact that many of the distant future humans were (apparently as a result of accumulated genetic defects, or something like that**) rather dim.
No, he's in an adaptation from 1990. He was Oscar-nominated for it.
That would be the one, then, Merci!
I haven't seen that, although I know it's one of Alison's favorite films; we keep talking about watching it for Movie Night.
I think it's definitely a film you should see sometime. The music is gorgeous. It's where I first heard Jordi Savall play the viol; for that alone I treasure it.***
Thank you. You, too.
You're welcome. And thank you.
*Obviously, as I did myself, a bit.
**The number of times the matter was brought up was rather creepy, although at least the heroes were all on the side of the people who wanted to solve it with free, voluntary, and publicly-proved genetic therapy.
***The microphones were apparently close enough to catch the players' breathing during certain passages, which added to the verisimilitude and intensity of some of the scenes in the movie, to my mind. My girlfriend from high school used to sometimes say "Oh, let's put in that CD with the nose hair music." I'm certain she meant it kindly.