Tag Archives: Samuel Goldwyn

Mary Astor in ‘Dodsworth’ — Brava!

Poster for Italian release.

Poster for the Italian release. It’s much better than the American poster, but Sinclair is misspelled.

In its first run, William Wyler’s excellent screen adaption of Sinclair Lewis’ novel, “Dodsworth” (Samuel Goldwyn, 1936) was a critical and box office success, and went on to be nominated for seven Academy Awards, including Best Picture, Best Director and Best Actor (Walter Huston); Richard Day won for his beautiful art direction. Sidney Howard’s screenplay is startlingly frank, sophisticated, intelligent: although no lines from the picture are on the list of the AFI’s 100 Most Memorable Quotes, “Dodsworth” is one of the most scintillating scripts ever to come out of Hollywood: it is full of quotable lines. Here are a few examples, chosen at random:

Sam Dodsworth: All right, I’ll enjoy life now if it kills me, and it probably will.

Sam Dodsworth: Did I remember to tell you today that I adore you?

Captain Lockert: Well I must say, for a civilized woman who’s been married as long as you have, you’re making a great deal of a small matter.

Fran Dodsworth: You’re simply rushing at old age, Sam, and I’m not ready for that yet.

Arnold Iselin: Let me remind you, Dodsworth, that Shakespeare’s “Othello” ends badly for the hero.
Sam Dodsworth: Yeah? Well, I’m not Othello, this is not the middle ages, none of us speak blank verse, not even you.

Baroness: Have you thought how little happiness there can be for the . . . old . . . wife of a young husband?

Fran Dodsworth: But what’s to become of me?
Sam Dodsworth: I don’t know. You’ll have to stop getting younger some day.

Sam Dodsworth: Love has got to stop someplace short of suicide.

“Dodsworth” tells the story of Samuel Dodsworth (Walter Huston), a wealthy, recently retired American automobile manufacturer, and his wife Fran (Ruth Chatterton), who, in their twentieth year of marriage, set off on a long-anticipated extended tour of Europe. It’s to be a voyage of romantic adventure and self-discovery — or so they hope. “Ah, I love you more than ever, now that I’ve got time for it,” Sam says to her on their first day aboard the Queen Mary. But the mad, bad, decadent Old World has other plans for them. Before they’re halfway across the ocean, Fran is already beginning to affect a pretentious Great Lady manner; Sam refuses to pretend he’s anything but what he is. At home, Fran was proud to be the wife of “the most impressive man in Zenith,” as she calls him, and gladly played the role of the dutiful wife. But now that they’re crossing the Atlantic on a luxury ocean liner and rubbing elbows with the international smart set, her husband’s boisterous tactlessness and lack of refinement exasperate and humiliate her.

On the Dodsworths’ first night at sea, Fran is flattered to receive the flirtatious attentions of a youngish British officer, Captain Clyde Lockert (David Niven), which she makes no attempt to conceal; before long, she takes to ridiculing Sam’s plainspoken vulgarity, his “bourgeois ideas,” his childish “anglomania” and so on. Sam cheerfully refuses to be offended, but seeing that he’s in the way, and believing that the flirtation is innocent enough, he makes himself scarce. It’s all perfectly friendly, but little cracks in the marriage have already begun to appear.

Walter Huston’s performance remains one of the greatest in the history of motion pictures. Unhappily, Ruth Chatterton’s performance has aged badly. To be sure, acting styles change, but it’s hard to believe anyone ever found the histrionics of this chunky harpy acceptable, let alone attractive. Her voice often takes on a metallic edge that reminds me of a buzz saw. Yet, no fewer than four men in the picture fall madly in love with her — it’s completely bewildering. The rest of the cast is uniformly excellent — especially Mary Astor, who’s a perfect match for Huston. Their scenes together are beautifully acted and as enchanting as any I’ve ever seen.

‘Why Don’t You Try Stout, Mr Dodsworth?’

For the rest of the crossing, Sam pokes about the deck by himself and does his best to amuse himself. Fran spends the last night of the voyage dancing with Capt. Lockert. Sam goes out to the port bow to get his first look at Bishop’s Light, a lighthouse off the Cornish coast, as soon as it comes into view.

“Why don’t you try stout, Mr Dodsworth?” Mary Astor makes it sound like a musical phrase. She has a melodious voice that is wonderfully caressing and filled with compassionate understanding (only Deborah Kerr could match her ability to express intelligent kindliness). There’s great refinement in the way she speaks, but not the least trace of primness or stuffiness in her perfect manners — and her imperfectly concealed vulnerability gives her enormous pathos.

While the soul of this drama is unquestionably Samuel Dodsworth, its heart is Mrs Edith Cortright. Mrs Cortright is a part that Mary Astor was born to play — a compassionate, intelligent woman who has been through the mill; experience has left her a little world-weary, but her good nature and common sense have kept her from becoming jaded. She’s not deeply unhappy, but she has been drifting for too long, and it doesn’t agree with her; she’s lonely and time is passing her by. There’s no self-pity in Astor’s portrayal: she’s poised and affable, amused and amusing; but her big, sad eyes and the flutter in her voice hint at the vulnerability that her self-possession cannot entirely conceal. Deep wells of emotion lie beneath her calm surface — she has a lively sense of humor, but it’s rueful; her exquisite politeness is etched by anxiety. Really, I don’t think any other actress could have played the role as superbly as Mary Astor. She is probably best known for her witty and glamorous turn as Brigid O’Shaughnessy in “The Maltese Falcon,” but Edith Cortright is her finest, most appealing performance.

‘You’re Almost Sure to, My Dear’

In this next clip, Mrs Cortright has two beautiful little exchanges with Fran. In both of them, what is said amounts to very few words, and what is left unsaid speaks volumes. The entire picture is full of moments in which a few words and a look express an enormous amount of psychological and emotional information.

Before home video drove revival houses into extinction, I saw “Dodsworth” many times on the big screen. The picture never drew enormous crowds, but even when the audience was a small one, Astor’s delivery of “You’re almost sure to, my dear” always got a big laugh. As delightful as it is to hear the quiet, sophisticated Mrs Cortright stick a knife into the odious Mrs Dodsworth, the deliberate impoliteness of her remark is, I think, significant — precisely because it seems so out of character. Why does she insult her hostess? Well, it seems probable that she wants to warn Fran not to shave quite so many years off her age: nobody will ever believe her. Also, Mrs Cortright has seen enough of Fran to know that she dislikes the way she treats Sam. Her little dig also puts to rest any notion that she’s a saint. Without this little exchange, she might easily have seemed too good to be true. (As a matter of fact, Mary Astor was only thirty when she played Mrs Cortright, who is supposed to be about ten years older; Ruth Chatterton was forty-four. Astor looks younger than Chatterton, but her gravitas gives her the authority of a much older woman.)

I particularly like the look in Mrs Cortright’s eyes when she says, “My dear . . . don’t.” It’s not condemnation, judgment or righteousness she’s expressing; she’s simply doing the wretched woman a favor by offering her a word of sound advice that she herself probably had to learn the hard way. Fran has been barely civil to her, and Mrs Cortright has seen plenty of evidence that Fran treats Sam abominably. But Mrs Cortright is a woman of the world, and she knows that a bounder like Arnold Iselin could easily eat a gullible snob like Mrs Dodsworth alive. And of course she’s also thinking of Sam: “My dear . . . don’t” is her parting act of kindness to him. When Mrs Cortright goes from the Dodsworths’ suite at the end of this scene, she takes with her the only amiable companionship Sam has known for the past several months. With her departure, and until Sam can persuade his wife that it’s time that they “were beating it back home to America,” he is bereft of friends. And we are bereft of her company for the next half hour — a grievous loss.

‘Do Try Not to Be Too Dreadfully Lonely, Will You?’

The marriage continues to fall apart for the next few reels until the inevitable happens. In Vienna, Fran becomes infatuated with a sweet, rather imbecilic young Austrian baron named Kurt Von Obersdorf. (“He may be poor, but he holds one of the oldest titles in Europe!” Fran tells Sam, who remains unimpressed.) Unlike Arnold Iselin, Kurt does not cuckold Sam, whom he considers a friend, but he takes Fran out dancing nearly every evening. Late one night, Kurt heaves a tragic sigh before taking his leave of her: “Ah, why are you not free?” By this point, Fran is barely on speaking terms with her tiresome old husband, who’s snoring in the other room, and the prospect of a title dazzles her. Later that same night, when Sam wakes up and looks in on her, she tells him that she has decided to divorce him just as soon as she can. Here’s their farewell at the train station. True to form, Fran brings Kurt along: her selfishness and thoughtlessness are quite remarkable.

William Wyler said that directing Chatterton was “like pulling teeth.” According to him, “She only wanted to play her as a selfish bitch, and I kept trying to make her see that that Mrs Dodsworth had a very good case for behaving the way she did.” The battles between Wyler and Chatterton were volcanic. In the end, she got her way and the picture suffers for it. Mary Astor said that Chatterton hated the role, and observed, “The character is that of a woman who’s trying to hang onto her youth — which was exactly what Ruth herself was doing. It touched a nerve.”

‘I Don’t Want to Intrude, but I’m Sorry’


“Mrs Cortright! Of course! Well, isn’t this great!” Truer words were never spoken. The sudden reappearance of Edith Cortright always gives me a rush of delight. No matter how often I see this scene, when she begins to walk out of the American Express office, unaware that Sam Dodsworth is standing only a few feet away from her, the suspense is terrible. The pleasure they take in each other’s company — especially after all the misery Sam has just been through — is almost painfully satisfying. Look at how earnestly and sympathetically she hangs onto his every word, and how grateful he is to be talking to this beautiful, intelligent, charming woman! Oh, man, it’s so moving! And the beautifully discreet way she gives comfort: “I don’t want to intrude, but I’m sorry.” “You haven’t said anything you shouldn’t have said.” Everything about her caresses, comforts and seeks to heal his shattered confidence and restore his pride. And on top of it all, she’s FUN.

I’ll let this last clip speak for itself, but will add, only, that despite appearances to the contrary, fewer than ten minutes later, the story comes to what may be fairly described as an ecstatically happy ending.

As I mentioned in the first paragraph, “Dodsworth” was a box office success when it first opened. Since then, it has been largely forgotten. For years, I’ve tried to account for its undeserved obscurity: why isn’t it more popular? But recently, it occurred to me that I was missing a more pertinent question: Why was it popular in 1936? Well, I have a theory about this.

The Scandalous Miss Astor and the Gloomy Dean of Broadway

In 1935, Mary Astor was granted a divorce from her husband, Franklyn Thorpe, but he was given custody of their daughter, Marilyn. In 1936, Astor was back in court, suing for custody of Marilyn. Thorpe countered by trying to introduce into evidence, as proof of Astor’s unfitness to raise a small child, her private diary, in which she had written detailed accounts of many of her sexual encounters. The Court ruled the diary inadmissible: it had been tampered with and pages had been torn out (allegedly, by a popular leading man whose disappointing sexual performance Astor described in detail). But some of its contents got leaked to the press, and soon the story became front page news. To complicate matters, copies of a second diary were distributed to reporters across the country. This second diary was eventually proven to be a forgery and a complete fake, but not until after it had kept the scandal on the front page for weeks. And the story broke at exactly the same time that “Dodsworth” began filming. For much of the shoot, Astor spent one part of her day on the set, and the other in court. She was afraid that Sam Goldwyn would invoke the morals clause and have her replaced, but Goldwyn took a more sentimental view: “A mother fighting for her child is good.”

Mary Astor was big news in 1936.

The most explosive passages in Astor’s diary had to do with her ecstatic couplings with a superhuman lover whom she identified as “G.” After weeks of speculation, the identity of this bedroom dynamo was discovered and made public: it was the celebrated playwright and director, George S. Kaufman. As fate would have it, Kaufman was actually in Los Angeles when the scandal broke; he was working with his partner Moss Hart on the first draft of a play that would eventually become their Pulitzer Prize-winning comedy, “You Can’t Take It With You.” Kaufman was staying in a bungalow at the Garden of Allah, but once his affair with Astor became public knowledge, he was forced to go into hiding on Irving Thalberg’s yacht, and later in Moss Hart’s home in Beverly Hills. As the trial progressed, Judge Goodwin J. Knight issued a subpoena for Kaufman to appear in court. Kaufman was served, but he ignored it; when he didn’t show up in court, the furious judge issued a bench warrant for his arrest. Kaufman holed up at Hart’s place. But when the authorities came looking for him there, he narrowly escaped detection by hiding behind the living room curtains while they searched the place.

After this close call, it became clear that Kaufman needed to get far away from Los Angeles as quickly as possible. Hart also risked jail time for obstructing justice and harboring a fugitive. But getting Kaufman out of town was tricky: the house was surrounded by reporters and private investigators. At length, Hart hired a laundry truck to come to the house. Kaufman hid inside a large laundry hamper (I like to think it was wicker, like the ones used by the Chinese white-slavers in “Thoroughly Modern Millie”), and Hart piled a load of clothes on top of him. Then the driver, who was well paid to keep his mouth shut, drove Kaufman out to the train station in San Bernardino. Unfortunately, he missed his train, and the next one didn’t arrive for another six hours. And it was raining cats and dogs. Kaufman didn’t want to risk waiting at the station, for fear of being recognized, so he ducked into a nearby movie theatre. He sat through the feature two and a half times; it starred Mary Astor. Later, when asked to comment on his flight from Los Angeles justice, Kaufman replied, “My leave-taking from California may have been undignified, but I felt it necessary. I have been in the public eye too long, and I think the public might be glad, and should be glad, to get me out of its eye.”

George S. Kaufman

George S. Kaufman (a/k/a the Gloomy Dean of Broadway)

Classic Christmas Kitsch: ‘The Bishop’s Wife’

Original Poster. When nobody went to see the wretched picture, Goldwyn re-released it as 'Cary and the Bishop's Wife.' It worked.

Original Poster. When nobody went to see the wretched picture, Goldwyn re-released it under the nonsensical title,’Cary and the Bishop’s Wife.’ It worked.

[Author’s note: I have more received hate mail about this article than for anything else I’ve ever written. So if you’re a great fan of “The Bishop’s Wife” and a differing opinion is likely to make you fly into a rage, I respectfully ask you to read no further. Don’t send me hate mail: I’ll almost certainly never see it. I have no wish to upset anyone, but neither do I see why I should walk on eggshells when I choose to write about a Christmas picture from seventy years ago. I think “The Bishop’s Wife” is a terrible picture, and normally I don’t see the point in writing harshly about bad pictures. I find it much more interesting to write about movies that I think are great or, failing that, mediocre pictures that I get great pleasure from watching. “The Bishop’s Wife” falls into the latter category, and with a vengeance. Usually, when I like a bad picture, I can find plenty of reasons that it appeals to me, and that line of inquiry is a pleasure to write about. In the case of “The Bishop’s Wife,” I cannot deny that I enjoy it immensely, but I think it is very probably the worst picture that I genuinely like. I hoped that writing about it would help me understand what it is, exactly, that makes me like the picture as much as I do. But it turned out to be an even more vexing question than I supposed it would be, and by the time I finished writing about it, I was no closer to an answer than when I started: in fact, I was more bewildered than ever. What had been a riddle had become an insoluble mystery. Anyhow, this particular article represents a lot of work and frustration on my part, and the unhappy knowledge that I failed to solve the mystery that I hoped to solve. I am tired of receiving email from irate strangers who presume to psychoanalyze me and feel that their love for this sentimental picture entitles them to threaten me, to call me all sorts of ugly names, and to order me not to put my opinions in writing that nobody ever forced them to read.]

Let me say at once that “The Bishop’s Wife” (Samuel Goldwyn, 1947) is saccharine rubbish. If you look at it when you’re in a bad mood, you’ll probably find it intolerable. I like it enormously, but am at a loss to explain why. It’s a scornful pleasure that comes very close to being a guilty one, because a lot of it is very nearly beneath contempt. It’s muttonheaded Christmas kitsch; its several forays into religious instruction are so banal that they make Lloyd C. Douglas‘ poppycock seem like Thomas Aquinas by comparison. I also find it irresistibly entertaining and likable.

Episcopalian Bishop Henry Brougham (David Niven) plans to erect a new cathedral, but is hampered by a cantankerous society doyenne, Mrs Hamilton (Gladys Cooper), who holds the purse-strings and rules the congregation with a rod of iron. She tells the Bishop plainly that “The church will be built according to my specifications or not at all.” Pushed to the verge of despair and fearing that his nerves are about to crack, the Bishop prays to God for guidance. His prayer is answered in the form of a dapper, smirking, incognito angel named Dudley (Cary Grant), who comes to work for him in the guise of an assistant. The action takes place during the Christmas season, in an unspecified city. The opening scene takes place on Madison Avenue, but it seems unlikely that we are to assume we’re in Manhattan.

The Simpering Angel

When Dudley reports to work on his first day, the Bishop’s flinty secretary (Sara Haden, in a quietly broad performance) and long-suffering housemaid (Elsa Lanchester, in a noisily broad performance) fall all over themselves in the slippery slickness of his charm.

Julia, the Bishop’s wife (Loretta Young), also falls for Dudley; so does Cindy, the Bishop’s daughter (Karolyn Grimes); so, indeed, does everybody else who crosses Dudley’s path. In this clip, the leader of the gang is Bobby Anderson, who played the young George Bailey in “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

Robert E. Sherwood co-wrote the script . . . “We’ve bwoken their mowale!” Jesus God Almighty. That line bears the unmistakable imprint of Sherwood’s heavy hand. Was he this corny when he shared a tiny office with Dorothy Parker back in the twenties?

Even crusty old Professor Wutheridge (Monty Woolley, who is much, much better than usual and never once bares his ghastly teeth) cannot resist the heavenly visitor. He is reticent at first, but then Dudley does the old bastard two big favors: he gives the Professor an angle that allows him at last to start work on his long-planned history of Rome, and he puts an enchantment on the Professor’s bottle of sherry so that no matter how much the old boy drinks, the bottle never runs dry: “It warms, it stimulates, it inspires, but it never inebriates!” says the grateful academic tippler. (But I wonder: when Dudley’s mission is through, does Professor Wutheridge lose his all-you-can-drink privileges?)

Monty Woolley: The broken-down scholar finds new purpose, a magic bottle of sherry and a warm place to sleep it off.

Monty Woolley as Professor Wutheridge: Thanks to Dudley, a broken-down old scholar finds new purpose, a magic bottle of sherry and a warm place to sleep it off. All he needs now is a catamite.

The only person who remains impervious to Dudley’s suave flippancy is the Bishop himself, whom the beautifully tailored angel has come to help. David Niven was originally cast as the angel, and Grant as Bishop Brougham. But when Grant read the script, he said he’d play Dudley or withdraw from the project. Niven was a good sport about it, but it must have irked him. As it is, Niven doesn’t do much with the part, other than look put out. Eleven years later, when he appeared in “Separate Tables” with Gladys Cooper (who once again was cast as his tormentor), he won an Oscar for his troubles. (He’s awfully good in that one; so is she.)

Twinkle, Twinkle, Cary Grant:
Can you con me? No you can’t.

It’s just possible that I’m the only person on earth who doesn’t find Cary Grant (nee Archibald Leach) irresistibly charming. I sure do like the idea of him; he’s very handsome and looks swell in a suit, but he twinkles too much; he never stops making faces and doing comic double- and even triple-takes. It seems he was too big a star for any director to tell him, “Aw, fer chrissake, Archie, will ya just say the fuckin’ lines?” He did his best work for Hitchcock, but he starred in a lot of second and third rate comedies and was never, ever better than the bum material he apparently preferred to act in. He was at his worst in the only picture he did for Frank Capra (“Arsenic and Old Lace”), but he’s scarcely better in this one. Still, it’s an amusing conceit to cast the flippant, debonair Cary Grant as a celestial being — and he’s far less excruciating as Dudley the Angel than is, say, Henry Travers as Clarence Oddbody, AS2. Here he is twinkling away like mad in the scene that follows the rigged snowball fight. The birdlike biddy who says “He’s holding her hand” is the estimable (always funny, nearly always underused) Almira Sessions. (There’s an abrupt cut in this clip, where I edited out about half a minute of syrup. You’re welcome.)

There’s the faux-folksy voice of Robert E. Sherwood again, loud and clear . . . “The world changes, but two things remain constant: Truth and Beauty: y’know, they’re really one and the same thing” . . . “The only people who grow old were born old to begin with.” Aw, go shit in yer hat!

Robert Nathan, cousin to Emma Lazarus and Benjamin Cardozo, and writer of sentimental kitsch novels with metaphysical/spiritual overtones (e.g., “Portrait of Jennie”), was the author of the novel on which this picture was based, but I don’t know whether it was he or Sherwood who conceived of the personification of Divine Intervention as a combination of busybody, cop on the beat, benevolent bureaucrat and drummer for the liquor lobby. In this story, Dudley’s allusions to Heaven give the distinct impression that the place is a vast, mid-twentieth century bureaucratic corporate beehive. (O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible!) And was it Nathan or Sherwood who befuddled the biddies with stingers? At any rate, it’s awful.

The Maxwell House Connection

The only thing in the picture that’s busier and more bustling than Cary Grant’s performance is Hugo Friedhofer’s score. The whimsical angel theme never fails to remind me of the old Maxwell House “boo-boo-boo BOOP-boop” jingle. (If you’re unfamiliar with it, you can find it on YouTube.) “The Bishop’s Wife” preceded Maxwell House’s percolator theme by fourteen years; the two themes are not identical, but they both have that signature leap of a major ninth, which is a highly unusual interval in pop music. (I can think of only one pop tune that features it: “I’m Telling You Now” sung by Freddie and the Dreamers in 1965; Harold Rome also used the interval to good effect in a ballad from “I Can Get It for You Wholesale,” but how many people — with the possible exceptions of Elliott Gould and Barbra Streisand — remember that score? Marilyn Cooper, who sang the tune, is dead.) Friedhofer uses the motive so often throughout the picture that I think of the score (quite unfairly) as Rhapsody on a Jingle for Maxwell House. Paradoxically, this strikes me as a good thing: without the lousy music, the entire picture would be no better than grotesque kitsch; with the lousy music, it’s appealingly nutty . . . especially when the Maxwell House Variations are at odds with the spiritual uplift of the scenes they underscore. At least, I think so. But you and your ears may have to squint to see and hear it my way. I have to be in the right mood for it (i.e., dead tired, with my defenses down), because it’s awfully sticky and so sugary that it often hurts my teeth. Unlike Maxwell House, which is alleged to be Good to the Last Drop, “The Bishop’s Wife” is goop to the last drip.

As the Bishop’s wife, Loretta Young, with her heavy-lidded saucer eyes and eerily elongated Silly Putty face, looks more Disneyesque equine than ever. She was famously one of the best-dressed women in Hollywood, though most of her ensembles in this production are hideous. She gives literal meaning to the old cliché “clothes horse.” For the life of me, I can’t understand how she had a career. Marlene Dietrich once said of her, “Every time Loretta sins [i.e., has sex out of wedlock], she builds a church. That’s why there are so many Catholic churches in Hollywood.” She was a notorious Catholic scold, who used to institute a swear jar on the sets she worked on. Whenever she heard anyone use foul language, she’d demand that the offender pony up the fifty cent fine, which she’d send each week to the Bishop of Rome. Ethel Merman was told of this practice when she was visiting Celeste Holm on the set of “Come to the Stable.” Merman fished into her purse and pulled out a bill. “Here’s ten bucks, Loretta. Go fuck yourself!”

Dudley Conducts The Mitchell Boychoir

Somewhere in the middle of the picture, Dudley and Julia go to St. Timothy’s Church to hear a rehearsal of the boys’ choir. This is what happens.

The singers are all members of a group called The Robert Mitchell Boy Choir (in the credits, they’re listed as The Mitchell Boychoir). Most of these kids came from poor families; all of them attended a special school in Los Angeles that was established and run by choirmaster Robert Mitchell. They sang in several movies in the thirties and forties, including “Love Affair” and “Going My Way.” I like the way at least half of them look as if they have said “Please don’t send my brudduh tudduh chair” at some point in their lives. And I love the sound they make. I know the scene is corny, and I dislike Cary Grant’s hamming, but I find the underlying idea completely irresistible, especially when the descant kicks in.

The Hack Philosopher

James Gleason, ugh. He plays a cutesy-pie taxicab driver named Sylvester.

Cary Grant and Loretta Young listen to James Gleason gas on as Sylvester, the loquacious cabbie.

Cary Grant and Loretta Young listen to James Gleason gas on as Sylvester, the loquacious cabbie.

Gleason was a popular character actor in the thirties and forties; I can see why, but I don’t have to like it: you either enjoy his brand of corn or you don’t. He’s the urban male version of the Quaint Old Darling type that I find repellent. In “The Bishop’s Wife,” we meet him when Dudley and Julia climb into his taxi. After eavesdropping on their conversation, he unburdens himself of some half-baked Sherwood/Nathan palaver about “Ya know what duh trouble is widda woirld t’day?” — and nearly kills all three of them in a head-on collision with a truck while he’s gassing on and forgets to watch the road. (Dudley secretly intervenes and disaster is averted.) Then Sylvester goes ice-skating with them — a protracted comic/romantic interlude that brings the three of them closer together. It’s pretty dreadful stuff, but I enjoy the phoniness of it, especially the way that Dudley’s skating stunt double is so obviously not Cary Grant: he’s shorter and stockier, and his head (much larger than Grant’s) is kept in ludicrous shadow that follows him around like a negative spotlight. I wonder if audiences bought the effect back when the picture was released . . . Maybe it worked better when the picture was shown in movie theatres where the air was thick with cigarette smoke. The stunt doubles for Loretta Young and James Gleason are less obvious. She’s in an ostentatiously hideous hat, which partially disguises the deception. When the skating party is over and Sylvester delivers them at the Bishop’s residence, he refuses to accept money: “You two have restored my faith in yuman nature,” he says. Dudley watches him drive off and murmurs (with a twinkle in his voice), “Sylvester is a noble man. His children and his children’s children shall rise up and call him blessèd.” Something in me rises up, too, but it’s not a blessing.

Gladys Cooper Hears an Angel

Without the Bishop’s permission, Dudley decides to pay a call on the fierce Mrs Hamilton. Once there, he looks for clues about how to confront the aged tigress in her lair and stroke her till she purrs.

Presumably Allan Cartwright, the composer of “Lost April,” also did the ornate calligraphy on the sheet music.

'Lost April' score.

‘Lost April’ score.

We’re expected to believe Allan Cartwright was in love with Agnes Hamilton, but if he wasn’t gay, I’ll eat my head. And take a hinge at the insipid lyrics: “Lost April, where did you [go?]” . . . Well, if nothing else, they’re of a piece with the rest of the picture. As soon as Dudley begins to play the tune on the harp, Mrs Hamilton appears at the top of the stairs and, transfixed by the music, she descends. I pick up the scene in the middle of the gushing tune.

“I never loved George Hamilton,” she says. Well, who does? Gladys Cooper rose to stardom as Sir Gerald du Maurier’s leading lady. Du Maurier was famous for underplaying and Miss Cooper followed her leading man’s example. (When George S. Kaufman was in London directing a show in the early thirties, he remarked to a friend, “I have a slight cold, caught while watching Sir Gerald du Maurier make love.”) In this scene, she represents her inner life with an artfully raised eyebrow while keeping absolutely still. Her performance is artificial as hell and I adore it. I also love the way she pronounces the name “Cartwright” as “KHAR-tritt.” Cooper couldn’t bear to act with unattractive men; perhaps that’s why she’s so wonderful in this scene. I’ve never seen her play such vulnerability in any other picture. Anyhow, I’m always glad to see Gladys Cooper act — mostly because her presentational style of performance provides a superb example of what early twentieth century stage acting looked like. And, frankly, her old-fashioned technique is not nearly as artificial as the stuff Method Actors came up with in the second half of the century, nor nearly so self-regarding and self-indulgent. Her style is more glamorous and charming. And it’s faster.

Henry Koster directed. The stupendously ugly production design is by Perry Ferguson and George Jenkins, who were responsible for the ugliness of several other Goldwyn pictures of the mid- to late-forties. I find their work immediately recognizable: vulgar, gloomy Victoriana. I believe it’s supposed to look expensive and cozy, but merely looks claustrophobic and kitsch.