The Joan Fontaine Centenary Blogathon

Had she been as lucky as older sister Olivia de Havilland, Joan Fontaine would've been turning 100 today. (She passed away in December 2013, not that long ago.) To celebrate, Crystal of In the Good Old Days of Classic Hollywood and Virginie of The Wonderful World of Cinema are hosting a blogathon on the late actress. Surprise, surprise, I decided to join in and cover her Oscar-nominated roles. Those movies (and whom she lost to) are:

(1940, dir. Alfred Hitchcock)
Lost to Ginger Rogers for Kitty Foyle

(1941, dir. Alfred Hitchcock)
WON

(1943, dir. Edmund Goulding)
Lost to Jennifer Jones for The Song of Bernadette

(More after the jump!)

The Constant Nymph

Infatuation is a fickle thing. Many tend to mistake it for actual love and boy, Hollywood is no exception. It can be applied to a number of genres, all with varying results. But it's particularly prevalent when the Hays Code was still in effect.

Take for instance Edmund Goulding's The Constant Nymph. Tessa Sanger (Joan Fontaine) is deeply smitten with struggling composer Lewis Dodd (Charles Boyer). In many close-ups of Tessa, we how bright her features become when she's talking about Lewis or when he's talking to her. But she has to put on a brave face when he marries her cousin Florence Creighton (Alexis Smith).

Admittedly the idea of Fontaine (who turned twenty-six in 1943) playing a fourteen-year-old is a bit of a stretch but she's very good as the besotted Tessa. In fact, what she does in The Constant Nymph is very similar to what she'd do in Letter from an Unknown Woman five years later. (It wouldn't be surprising if Max Ophüls cast her in his film because of this one.)

Goulding is no stranger to melodrama. Having previously made Dark Victory, he's familiar with capturing the mercurial nature of life. (He would later do the same with The Razor's Edge.) Tessa watches from afar as Lewis lives a comfortable life with Florence. But (perhaps) unbeknownst to her, it's not a happy union. Will she find her own happiness?

The Constant Nymph is the usual fluff of the era but it's enjoyable fluff. Fontaine and Boyer (as the latter is prone to do in most of his work) connect very well in their scenes amid some solid supporting players. (Peter Lorre!) If only they had done another project together.

My Rating: ****

Diary of a Mad Housewife

The first exchanges in Frank Perry's Diary of a Mad Housewife make it clear that Tina Balser (Carrie Snodgress) isn't living the American dream. Her husband Jonathan (Richard Benjamin) treats her like garbage (their daughters aren't any better) and she never gets the support she deserves. Frustrated, she starts an affair with writer George Prager (Frank Langella). And even that's no walk in the park.

From a time when women were starting to be viewed as actual human beings, it seems strange that Diary of a Mad Housewife was released then. For once since who knows when women could lead liberating lives without (for the most part) getting berated. So to see an educated woman allow herself to be verbally degraded regularly is discomforting, to say the least.

And bear in mind that by this point in Hollywood, women were having their voices heard more behind both the typewriter and the camera. (Released the same year as Diary of a Mad Housewife was Wanda, Barbara Loden's lone foray as a director.) With the likes of Elaine May and Barbara Kopple on the cusp of their own fame, again it feels strange to watch this with that in mind.

But what's more likely is that Diary of a Mad Housewife is told from Tina's point of view. She's the only character in the film that's basically in every scene so it's hard to say if that's actually how she's treated. (More telling since Sue Kaufman's source novel was adapted by Perry's then-wife Eleanor -- whom he divorced the following year -- so who knows?)

Anyway, Diary of a Mad Housewife may seem tame by today's standards (and in comparison to other films of the decade) but back in 1970, it must've caused a stir upon its release. (Groucho Marx was certainly not a fan of it.) Either way, it captured an ignored woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

My Rating: ****

Suspicion

Ah, the charming cad. A regular staple of many films from Hollywood's Golden Age. There's something about those characters that can provide a deep fascination.

And Johnnie Aysgrath (Cary Grant) of Alfred Hitchcock's Suspicion fits the bill for this character type. Lina McLaidlaw (Joan Fontaine) becomes smitten by him but after she marries him, she finds out that he's got a nasty gambling habit and constantly in debt. And she starts fearing he's capable of darker deeds.

This being Hitchcock's first of four films with Grant, it's interesting to see the famed collaboration blossom. (After all, the director gave the actor some compelling roles to sink his teeth into.) And with Suspicion, Grant subverts his usual charming leading man role for something that can be truly menacing at times.

And what of Fontaine? Reuniting with Hitchcock after the success of Rebecca, she plays a role similar to hers in the earlier film. But Lina isn't like the second Mrs. de Winter; she actually has an inkling that her husband isn't who he claims to be.

Though often lost in the shadow of the previous Hitchcock/Fontaine collaboration, Suspicion still holds up all these years later. Sure, there's the occasional similarity to Rebecca (ironic, no?) but it's far from the Gothic romance the earlier film is. It's instead perhaps a more cautionary tale being careful with first impressions. (Such a notion can very well save your life.)

My Rating: ****

Cluny Brown

"There was nothing important going on in London on a quiet Sunday afternoon in June 1938. The most exciting event of the day was Mr. Hilary Ames' cocktail party --- and even that was exciting only to Mr. Ames." So begins Ernst Lubitsch's Cluny Brown. And it's at Ames' place where the titular character (Jennifer Jones) is introduced.

Many of the other characters find Cluny's behavior surprising (and not often in a good way) because she doesn't meet society's standards for being a lady (she's deeply interested in plumbing). Adam Belinski (Charles Boyer), however, finds Cluny endearing. And from there, the hijinks ensue.

This being a Lubitsch film, Cluny Brown takes a lot of potshots at how class is perceived as a whole. A number of supporting characters don't deny that how they're viewed by others is crucial to their well-being. But with Cluny and Adam, that's not their main concern; they just want to lead happy lives.

Both Jones and Boyer have had their fair share of more serious works prior to Cluny Brown (she with The Song of Bernadette and Since You Went Away, he with Gaslight and Hold Back the Dawn) so it was an interesting move on Lubitsch's part. Though not the usual fare for the two actors, they have solid comedic timing and chemistry together.

Cluny Brown was a fine note for Lubitsch to go out on. (He passed away the following year.) Its two leads may not have done another film together after this one but their time together in this results in a one-of-a-kind treat. (Speaking of which, why didn't they reunite on screen? More than likely that Jones' future husband David O. Selznick might've had some part in that.)

My Rating: ****

The Tin Star

Early on in Anthony Mann's The Tin Star, bounty hunter Morg Hickman (Henry Fonda) arrives in a small town hoping to get a claim on a wanted man. His first impression of sheriff Ben Owens (Anthony Perkins) isn't a good one; he finds the younger man fumbling with his pistols. ("Just getting the feel of these guns.") This sets up the characterization of the two men.

And the casting of these two actors amplifies the circumstances of The Tin Star. Fonda is the more experienced actor, his Morg having a world weary attitude about him. Perkins -- having been in only four films prior to this -- has a green streak about him, much like Ben. And these are traits that would persist in their roles for the next decade.

Back to The Tin Star itself. Mann is certainly no stranger to this genre as his collaborations with James Stewart earlier in the decade can attest to. This was the genre that ensured Mann would not be forgotten years after his death in 1967. (Well, film noir too.)

Unsurprisingly, The Tin Star shares many elements with other westerns of the era: Morg romancing the widow, Ben's wife being concerned for her husband's safety, Lee Van Cleef as the villain...you know, the usual. (But hey, if the audience likes these tropes, give them what they want.)

The Tin Star is an enjoyable yarn from a year filled with heavier-themed films. (Fonda and Perkins also had 12 Angry Men and Fear Strikes Out that year.) Being released the same year as other westerns like 3:10 to Yuma and Gunfight at the O.K. Corral, it's understandable as to why it's not as known. But that shouldn't stop one from seeking it out.

My Rating: ****

Arthur Miller: Writer

There's a certain way that people are perceived by others. Some are viewed by their personalities while others know them for how they behaved behind closed doors. But one thing that tends to persist is how one person is portrayed by their own family.

Rebecca Miller's Arthur Miller: Writer depicts the famed playwright as how he was in the comfort of his own home. Using footage from previous attempts at making a documentary, Miller captures her father not as someone filled with anger (like many of his plays are) but rather as a human being.

Miller chronicles her father's early life of privilege (before the Great Depression struck), showing how such an upbringing actually kept him humble in later life. Of course moments where he's thrown into the public eye (the House Un-American Activities Committee and his marriage to Marilyn Monroe) put a strain on his otherwise private lifestyle. Regardless of the circumstances he was in, he remained modest.

But that's not to say he was perfect, far from it. Despite his initial success with All My Sons and Death of a Salesman, his plays (The Crucible and A View from the Bridge aside) never really seemed to connect with their audiences. (The critical reaction to After the Fall was beyond scathing.) But apparently to him, positive reception to his work wasn't of immense interest to him; he just wanted to have his voice heard.

Arthur Miller: Writer shows the dramatist as the very thing his works' main theme was: human. Miller encapsulates her father not as one of the most acclaimed writers of the last century but instead as the average American citizen. Sure, there's a sentimentality to the project but hey, it is essentially a daughter remembering a departed family member.

My Rating: ****1/2

They

Sexuality and gender identity have many facets but fiction often focuses on the basic ones. The ones that often get the spotlight are gay (usually white men) and trans (again, usually white), and they almost always are focused on young adults. Very rarely are such stories revolved around either a different identity or age demographic.

Which is why Anahita Ghazvinizadeh's They provides an entry for both categories. Taking within a three-day period, it follows J (Rhys Fehrenbacher) as they go through their usual routines. Under the supervision of their sister and her fiance, they try to figure out who they are.

What makes They different from other queer films involving children is how welcoming it is towards J. Sure, there's the rare pronoun slip-up but they're rectified as quickly as they're uttered. How often do you see such acceptance towards one's identity in fiction?

What also makes They stand out is that J's whole arc isn't solely focused on their identity. (They're asked to make a decision about their potential transition at the start of the film.) Their being is more than where they fall on the gender spectrum; the film's more than content with depicting how they live.

They puts the spotlight on an identity the media more often than not tends to ignore. (Maybe it's out of graciousness for those not familiar with it?) Ghazvinizadeh keeps a non-discriminating air about the whole project, which in all honesty should be on display more in queer fiction if its creator is cis and/or straight; they don't generally need to understand such identities but accepting them is crucial.

My Rating: ****

The Light of the Moon

It's an unfortunate aspect of reality that sexual assault is an always lurking danger. Very rarely does the victim of such violence come forward with what happened to them out of fear for their attacker to seek retribution. And then there's the matter of rape culture...

Jessica M. Thompson's The Light of the Moon focuses on the aftermath of such viciousness when it happens to Bonnie (Stephanie Beatriz). She tells those close to her that she was mugged -- only the police and her boyfriend Matt (Michael Stahl-David) know the truth -- possibly out of worry for how she'll be seen as afterwards. But will she be able to move on with her life?

In a similar vein to what Ida Lupino did with Outrage nearly seventy years ago, Thompson maintains sympathy towards the lead character. But in contrast to what Lupino did, she doesn't have Bonnie constantly looking over her shoulder following her assault. That's not to say it didn't affect her; reminders from either concerned friends or therapy cause her to retreat emotionally.

But this isn't just Bonnie's story. The Light of the Moon shows how those close to her change afterwards, particularly Matt. He starts treating Bonnie like royalty: cooking more, constantly checking in on her, things like that. But she calls out that he never treated her like this before the incident, and that's what causes more tension than the actual attack.

The Light of the Moon is (perhaps unfortunately) the kind of film we need in this day and age. It's not where rape is used as cheap exploitation not as something gratuitous added to an already weak script; Thompson instead shines a light on the emotional toll that follows such cruelty. If anything, this should serve as a reminder for those who think the victims were "asking for it"; they most certainly were not.

My Rating: ****1/2

Sammy Davis, Jr.: I've Gotta Be Me

There are those whose purpose in life is known early on. Some may be destined to further the field of medicine, other might display an interest towards the arts. In the case of Sammy Davis, Jr., his career path was simple: to be an entertainer.

Sam Pollard's Sammy Davis, Jr.: I've Gotta Be Me follows the path of Davis' career from his early days in vaudeville to being a member of the Rat Pack to making a name for himself by his lonesome. But being a black (and later Jewish) entertainer in the early days of the civil rights movement was a feat easier said than done.

The documentary focuses primarily on the professional hurdles Davis faced, the personal ones serving more as a footnote. (His romance with Kim Novak and then-controversial marriage to May Britt are briefly highlighted.) By many means did aspects of his life hamper the progress of his career but at the same time, said aspects had him breaking barriers.

Nevertheless, he persisted with his career ambitions. Pollard shows how there was hypocrisy within society and show business more than half a century ago. White performers could don blackface without a second thought but Davis was regularly talked out of doing his dead-on impressions of movie stars like Humphrey Bogart and James Stewart. (Davis also wasn't allowed to attend John F. Kennedy's inauguration gala -- Kennedy's father didn't approve of Davis' then-engagement to Britt -- but Nat King Cole, Sidney Poitier and Harry Belafonte were.)

Sammy Davis, Jr.: I've Gotta Be Me depicts a man who -- depending on the decade -- was either ahead of his time or painfully out of touch with it. But regardless of how the culture at the time perceived him, it was very hard to deny his talent. And that's still the case in the years since his death in 1990.

My Rating: ****1/2