14 My Man Godfrey (1936)

****
Country: US
Director: Gregory La Cava

"All you need to start an asylum is an empty room and the right kind of people," millionaire Alexander Bullock (Eugene Pallette) remarks to a friend near the beginning of My Man Godfrey. For the next hour and a half the movie sets out to illustrate that quip, using Bullock's two daughters, his wife, and their social set as its prime examples. As hard as he tries, Alexander Bullock isn't ever able to introduce any sanity into his eccentric family, but a mystery man played by William Powell is. Powell is Godfrey Smith, a homeless man living in a packing box at the city dump who is claimed by both Bullock daughters, Cornelia (Gail Patrick) and Irene (Carole Lombard), in the film's famous opening, where the two are competing for the last item they need to win a society scavenger hunt—a real Forgotten Man. Godfrey doesn't respond to the imperious Cornelia, but he does take an immediate liking to her sweet, slightly ditzy younger sister and allows himself to be claimed by her. Irene, elated at besting her domineering sister for once, in turn takes such a shine to Godfrey that she impulsively hires him as the new family butler. For the rest of the movie we follow along as Godfrey becomes embroiled in the antics of this nutty family that practically embodies the expression "the idle rich."

One of the reasons for the popularity in the 1930s of American screwball comedies like Godfrey was the way these movies made fun of such people. While getting an eyeful of the lavish lives of the rich, audiences of the day could at the same time laugh at their idiotic behavior and their obliviousness of the economic hardships of the Depression. Many screwball comedies went no further than using the foibles of the rich as comic fodder, but some showed a genuine sense of social awareness and used their seemingly frivolous plots as pointed commentary on the huge socioeconomic gulf between the rich and the rest of the population. The opening moments of Godfrey show clearly that this is a screwball comedy with a social conscience: The camera slowly sweeps across a painted version of the New York skyline done in Art Deco style as the credits light up on the sides of buildings, until it finally stops at the Queensboro Bridge, where looming in the shadows in the foreground at the foot of the bridge is the squalor of the city dump, a homeless encampment, and the stylized painted image fades into the real thing. This is where Godfrey Smith lives.

Godfrey Smith (William Powell, right) at home at the dump

Even so, Godfrey doesn't bludgeon the audience with its social commentary the way a Capra movie can. It keeps its view of the social and economic ills of the time and the insularity of the rich on a satirical level. These people aren't intentionally malevolent so much as ignorant of the problems faced by those whose lives are less privileged than their own. Rather than promoting Capraesque populism, the film is actually rather conservative in its attitudes. Godfrey's prescription for the problems of people like himself is simple and capitalistic and squarely on the side of the work ethic. "The only difference between a derelict and a man," he says at one point, "is a job." And he uses the serendipitous outcome of an attempt by Cornelia to frame him for stealing a pearl necklace to ensure that his homeless friends at the dump get the jobs that will reintegrate them with society. If Godfrey has a serious point to make, it's that the rich must do more than spend their money to keep themselves entertained; they have a social obligation to invest their money in ways that create jobs, as Godfrey does with his windfall.

In the end, however, it is the film's vivid, eccentric characters that really stand out against this ground of social awareness. Gruff Eugene Pallette has never been better than as the harried nominal head of the Bullock family. "I sometimes wonder whether my whole family has gone mad or it's me," he complains to Godfrey in that distinctive gravel voice. His wife Angelica (Alice Brady) is the ultimate self-centered scatterbrain, a woman who drives her husband to the verge of derangement with her fawning on her Pekingese and on her "protégé" (Mischa Auer), a sycophantic musician whose patron she has become. Elder daughter Cornelia, predatory and egotistical in an almost feline way, quickly extends the antagonism of her obsessive sibling rivalry with Irene to Godfrey—she has never gotten over being rejected by him at the scavenger hunt in favor of Irene—and does everything she can to drive him out of the family.

Eugene Pallette and Alice Brady as Alexander and Angelica Bullock

The film's main focus within the Bullock family is, of course, Irene, played by the incomparable Carole Lombard. The gentle, good-natured Irene is nothing like her sister. As the Bullocks' maid tells Godfrey his first day on the job, "She's not as violent [as Cornelia] but she's more insidious." With her rushed, slightly breathless delivery and habit of conversing in non sequiturs, Lombard makes Irene the kind of woman whose fey charm would get under your skin. At first the attachment she develops to Godfrey seems the kind of fondness a lonely, sensitive child might have for a pet. When Irene impetuously kisses Godfrey about half an hour into the film, it's plain that her childish affection for him is developing into mature love. It's equally plain that a number of obstacles stand in the way of any romance, including the machinations of the jealous Cornelia, an eminently unsuitable fiancé (Grady Sutton no less), and Godfrey's own strange reluctance to be anything more than Irene's avuncular protector.

William Powell is equally marvelous as Godfrey, one of those wily servants in the tradition of Figaro and Jeeves who are constantly outwitting their aristocratic masters. The difference here is that, as we learn well into the film, Godfrey is himself a fallen aristocrat. Powell always had the ability to project a combination of worldly sophistication and more down-to-earth qualities. Here we see Godfrey's urbanity in his scenes in the Bullock household, where he maintains a facade of formality and emotional reserve. We see his more demotic qualities in the way he relates to his fellow homeless at the dump and to an old friend from better days whom he accidentally runs across (Alan Mowbray, who is quite good). In psychological terms, this divide between the two sides of Godfrey's personality is the chief problem he faces in the film, and the account of how this situation came about explains his reticence toward Irene when she throws herself at him. Briefly, Godfrey's fall from his former circumstances is the result of an unfortunate love affair that caused him to give up on love and nearly to give up on life itself.

In many ways My Man Godfrey can be viewed as an updated fairy tale set against a background of social satire. A royal family isolated in their castle, a king at the end of his tether, a loopy queen under the influence of an evil minstrel, a wicked elder daughter victimizing a naive younger one, a wandering prince disguised as a peasant—you can almost picture the people in the film as characters in a fairy tale by Charles Perrault. As with most fairy tales, My Man Godfrey is a story of transformation. The transformative force here is Godfrey himself, who by the end of the film manages to humanize these inhumane people living in their bubble world.

The most important transformation, though, is the one Godfrey effects on Irene and himself. Through circumstances outside their control, Godfrey and Irene both have developed off-center personalities. In coming together, each restores balance to the other. She warms him up; he cools her down. She returns him to emotional life and helps him regain his humanity. He brings her down to Earth and helps her discover her own dormant humanity. As in most fairy tales, My Man Godfrey is also a tale of rescue. Irene rescues Godfrey from pessimism and despair. He rescues her from a future as a vapid, self-absorbed nitwit like her mother. His wisdom and her innocence unite to make them two complementary halves of a couple. And what a charming and beautiful couple they are.

This post was written as part of the ongoing Comedy Countdown at Wonders in the Dark, where My Man Godfrey came in at #20. Be sure to check out all the great films being covered in the countdown, which runs through late December.

3 Discovering Carole Lombard

During October 2008 Turner Classic Movies paid tribute to Carole Lombard as its Star of the Month, giving me the chance to learn more about this actress. One of the major stars of the early Hollywood studio period, Lombard is an actress who has a devoted following. There is even a film/fan site (Carol & Co.) that publishes almost daily articles about her. But before the TCM tribute I had seen her in only a couple of films, both of them well-known screwball comedies from the 1930s, one of my pet genres. Having now seen several more of her films from the late thirties and early forties (she died in a plane crash in 1942 at the age of 33), I can understand why she has inspired such devotion among her fans. She will not supplant my absolute personal favorites of the early studio era—Bette Davis, Katharine Hepburn, Claudette Colbert, and Irene Dunne—but she will now be one of my also-greats, joining the likes of Barbara Stanwyck, Jean Arthur, Myrna Loy, Greta Garbo, and Margaret Sullavan—not bad company to be in.

Carole Lombard appeared in her first movie in 1921 at the age of thirteen. She had appeared in around 60 films before she got the lead in the movie that made her a star: Howard Hawks's Twentieth Century (1934). This was the year screwball comedy was born in Hollywood with It Happened One Night, setting off a craze for the genre that lasted nearly ten years. (According to the website notstarring.com, Lombard turned down the lead in It Happened One Night.) Twentieth Century was the other notable example of screwball comedy from that year and exhibits the take on the genre that Hawks would continue with his masterpieces Bringing Up Baby (1938) and His Girl Friday (1940). It's all there in Hawks's very first attempt at the new genre—the frenetic pacing, rapid-fire dialogue, contrived but hilarious situations, put-upon supporting characters, and egotistical lead characters.

Twentieth Century was just about the last remaining classic screwball comedy I had never seen, and what a treat it was to see it at last. The movie has now joined my list of the top examples of the genre. John Barrymore, lampooning his own image, stars as Oscar Jaffe, a flamboyant, manipulative, often hysterical Broadway director given to melodramatic pronouncements like "The iron door slams!" and "Anathema! Child of Satan!" at moments of heightened emotionalism. Lombard plays his new discovery, a shopgirl named Mildred Plotka whom Jaffe wants to rename Lily Garland and transform into a star. Only Jaffe has any faith in the newcomer's ability, and at this point the screenplay requires that Lombard be weepy, immature, and so insecure that she is ready to give up the idea of acting and return to the sales counter. But with patience, encouragement, and gentle cajoling, Jaffe does succeed into molding her into a star.

Three years later Lily is the most esteemed actress on the New York stage, and Jaffe, like a true Svengali, is now romantically involved with her. But he has become so possessive, controlling, and jealous that Lily can no longer stand him. Now Lombard must play her character in a completely different mode—successful, confident, mature, independent, and rebellious. She walks out on Jaffe ("That's not love," she says of their relationship. "It's sheer tyranny. I'm no Trilby.") and heads for Hollywood.

The plot now shifts ahead even further. Lily is a hugely successful movie star, and Oscar is close to financial ruin, not having had one successful production since Lily left him. By chance he finds himself on the same train as Lily, the Twentieth Century Limited, traveling from Chicago to New York. Convinced that his career will be saved if he can just get her to star in his next production, he determines to get her to agree to do so before the train reaches its destination. The dirty tricks campaign he embarks on (not dissimilar to Cary Grant's efforts to stop his ex-wife from remarrying in His Girl Friday) and the complications that follow occupy the bulk of the movie.

The rub, though, is that Lily, having achieved Hollywood stardom, has become as much of a temperamental egomaniac as her former mentor, and Lombard is now required to portray Lily as a swollen-headed, self-centered shrew. Reportedly, Lombard was so intimidated by working with Barrymore, who at the time was still at the height of his profession, that Hawks had to take her aside and threaten to replace her if she didn't loosen up and stop holding back in her scenes with him. Whatever Hawks did, it must have worked, for Lombard easily holds her own with Barrymore for the rest of the movie and gives as good as she gets. It was no surprise that Barrymore was up to the demands of his role. The surprise is how well Lombard, pretty much untried in this type of exaggerated, broad comedy, does with her role, which unlike Barrymore's requires her to act convincingly in three different modes—first insecure, then independent, and finally insufferable.

If Twentieth Century clearly showed how good Lombard was at broad comedy, it only hinted at her remarkable range as an actress. It took a whole series of movies to do this. In My Man Godfrey (1936), another classic screwball comedy, Lombard plays Irene Bullock, one of those proverbial madcap heiresses. But her performance is much less theatrical than in Twentieth Century, and her sweet-natured, guileless naiveté is utterly charming. Her speech is fast and breathless, rather like Katharine Hepburn's in Bringing Up Baby. Like Hepburn in that movie, Lombard's character is impulsive and mercurial, and she shows the same child-like resolve to get her man. This performance earned Lombard her only Oscar nomination.

The next year Lombard made another classic screwball comedy, Nothing Sacred. She plays Hazel Flagg, a young woman who has been mistakenly diagnosed with radium poisoning and is turned into an overnight media celebrity by a cynical reporter played by Fredric March. This is a movie loved by many, but—prepare yourselves for sacrilege—it is one that I have never totally warmed to, even after repeated viewings. For some reason the movie just doesn't click for me the way my favorite screwball comedies do. Despite mixed feelings about the film, I still find the lead performances outstanding, particularly Lombard's, in which she shows a flair for unpretentious physical comedy that pokes fun at her glamor and her astounding beauty. Many consider this her signature performance, and for anyone interested in her career it is essential viewing.

Lombard's work in two lesser-known movies is further evidence of her versatility. In 1935 she made a little comedy directed by Mitchell Leisen called Hands Across the Table, in which she plays a manicurist in a swanky New York hotel whose one goal is to marry a rich man. She sets her sights on rich paraplegic Ralph Bellamy but finds herself falling in love with Fred MacMurray, whom she believes to be penniless. (Of course, he isn't.) It sounds like a classic screwball comedy situation, but the movie lacks the antic quality typical of the genre. Lombard comes across as quite level-headed and practical and maybe just a bit disappointed with life. In the end she chooses MacMurray not just because of love, but also because she is simply too nice to exploit Bellamy in such a mercenary way. Lombard creates a quietly touching and intelligent character who is quite distinct from her boisterous Lily in Twentieth Century, her energetic Hazel in Nothing Sacred, or her whimsical Irene in My Man Godfrey.

Lombard turns in another impressive performance that showcases her ability to integrate the light with the serious in In Name Only (1939). In this film she plays a widow and mother who rents a house for the summer from Cary Grant. Grant is unhappily married to Kay Francis, who he has discovered married him solely for his money. Grant and Lombard are immediately attracted to one another and quickly fall in love. The problem is Grant's possessive wife, who refuses to give him a divorce. The movie is a showcase for the range of both Lombard and Grant, who seem to have tremendous chemistry. They are allowed to behave at times in a relaxed, loving, and light-hearted manner with each other—the considerable charm of both actors at full throttle—and at other times in a serious and troubled manner when various obstacles, including the machinations of Grant's duplicitous wife, keep them apart. The plot is pure soap, but both Lombard and Grant rise above the familiar plot to create characterizations that are completely winning. If there were ever any doubts about Lombard's ability to handle serious roles, her performance in In Name Only surely put them to rest.

In two of her last movies Lombard returned to the comedy genre she was so associated with. Mr. and Mrs. Smith (1941) is a screwball-type comedy directed by Alfred Hitchcock, his only effort at a purely comic picture. The movie, while enjoyable, lacks both Hitchcock's distinctive touches and the sparkle typical of the genre. Lombard is the best thing in the movie, and the presence of her by-now distinctive personality is alone sufficient reason to watch it.

The most remarkable thing about the movie is how closely Lombard conforms to Hitchcock's idealized image of blonde beauty as personified by his other leading women like Madeleine Carroll, Grace Kelly, and Eva Marie Saint. Lombard was a very beautiful woman, but she never looked lovelier than in this picture. She is photographed by the great Harry Stradling in ways that deliberately emphasize her stunning facial beauty. Time and again, as she was photographed in close-up, with her full lips, prominent cheekbones, and straight, rather long nose, I was reminded of Greta Garbo. Like Garbo, Lombard's face seems mask-like, sculpturesque, and ethereal—an archetypal image of timeless female beauty. Garbo's favorite cinematographer, William Daniels, once remarked that Garbo "had no bad angles." The same could be said of Carole Lombard in Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and to adore that exquisite face is reason enough to see this movie.

Carole Lombard's last picture, To Be or Not to Be (1942), improbably manages to combine topical anti-Nazism with pointed comedy. Released the year after her death, it was directed by Ernst Lubitsch. In Lombard's entire screen career, she was probably never paired with a director whose light comedic touch was so attuned to her own comedic skills, and in this film she gives what to me is her most enchanting performance. As the beautiful leading lady of a Polish theater troupe that finds itself engaged in a battle of wits with Nazis to help the Polish Resistance and to effect its own escape to Britain, she is married to its egotistical leading man, played by Jack Benny.

Lombard's restrained performance forms quite a contrast to Benny's intentionally hammy one; she is at times required almost to play the "straight man" to her costar. Benny's outrageous antics propel the complicated ruse the troupe concocts to dupe the Nazis, while the beautiful Lombard handles the romantic distractions involved in the ruse. She never falters in the face of Benny's purposeful overacting but delivers an understated portrait of a woman who possesses great shrewdness, poise, and dignity beneath her glamorous exterior. The Lubitsch touch and the Lombard touch turn out to be a perfect match, and the film stands as an appropriate valedictory tribute to her beauty, grace, charm, and ability to seamlessly blend seriousness with humor.

By all accounts the real Carole Lombard was an unpretentious, generous, lively person with an outsized sense of humor. In one way or another those qualities all come through in her movie characters. Add to those qualities her great acting talent and her gorgeous looks, and you have a working definition of what is referred to as Star Quality.