Some Ernst Lubitsch films.
Anna Boleyn (1920), directed by Ernst Lubitsch. Taking a few liberties with history, this film tells the story of Henry VIII’s second wife. The sets and costumes are sumptuous, and Emil Janning’s Henry is uncannily well done. The same cannot be said for Henny Porten’s Anna; she rarely looks energetic, mostly sporting a dour and even lugubrious expression. Lubitsch moves things along fairly briskly. He manages to deliver spectacle (the film has thousands of extras), while at the same time he gives us a close-up of the principal characters. The film has intimacy laced with grandeur. It runs nearly 2 hours, but the time passes easily, even pleasingly. Henry’s move to become head of the Church takes place quickly. His flirtations are nicely done. And his gourmandizing is hearty. All in all, an impressive early Lubitsch, showing the master learning his trade.
The Wildcat (1921), directed by Ernst Lubitsch. This is a visual feast. The sets, the costumes, the shifting screen shapes and sizes, all of this is baroque, if not expressionistic. Lubitsch’s wit and humour are apparent here in abundance. Early sequences remind me of Seven Brides, the Buster Keaton film. Chaplin also resonates here. The story, such as it is, involves two women and two men, who come from two sides of the law. One woman and man are attached to the military outpost, and the other man and woman are members of a mountain robber gang. The whole thing is a spoof. Mostly, however, what matters is what we see, a river of tears in the snow, an outpost with canons everywhere (and I mean everywhere), swords decorating doors and windows, wild clothes and zany uniforms, much running about in various places, including up and down a strange staircase, and the clothing and tents of the robbers festooned with skulls. Here Lubitsch treats the image as a work of art, going so far as to shape his frames in post-production. We have round, oval, jagged, wobbly, diagonal screen shapes. We have portraits and landscapes. The whole thing is rather demented, but delightful.
Broken Lullaby (1932), directed by Ernst Lubitsch. Here is an anti-war film from the master of comedy. The first shot of the film shows a parade of soldiers celebrating the one-year anniversary of armistice. The shot is taken through the legs of a soldier, or rather leg of a solider. This soldier has clearly lost a leg in battle. In other words, this celebration neglects the costs of war. We also have shots of soldiers filling a church, their swords lining the exits to pews. The melodramatic plot has the French soldier, Paul (Phillips Holmes), coming to the German town of Walter (Lucien Littlefield), the soldier Paul killed in battle, seeking forgiveness from Walter’s parents. He intends to confess to these parents. What follows is a tale of deception and love. Paul falls in love with Elsa (Nancy Carroll), the fiancé of Walter. The film registers the agony of those who survive the war. Both Paul and Walter were musicians, and it is through music and love that any reconciliation can happen. This is a relentlessly dour film, but it does have several exceptional set pieces. For example, we have the scene in which Elsa and Paul walk the streets of the German town, setting bells a-ringing as they go. Windows and doors open as the townsfolk peek out and look with suspicion upon this unlikely friendship. Lubitsch takes aim at twisted nationalism and militarism. Traces of the expressionistic film making associated with German cinema in the silent period add to the power of Lubitsch’s vision.
Trouble in Paradise (1932), directed by Ernst Lubitsch. Gaston Monescu (Herbert Marshall) tells the wealthy widow Mariette Colet (Kay Francis) that if he was her father, he would spank her for attempting to look after her own business affairs. She asks what he would do if he was her secretary. He replies, “The same thing.” Her retort is, “You’re hired.” This is Lubitsch: witty, suave, naughty, and a touch cynical. People behave that way. We have much ado with doors, windows, beds, champagne bottles, clocks, looks, and innuendo. The plot has two master thieves, Monescu and Lady Lily (Miriam Hopkins) planning to fleece the good widow, but things get sticky once Monescu begins to fancy the lovely widow who owns a perfume factory. Which woman will he steal away? Meanwhile, Mariette has two suitors, Francois Filiba (Edward Everett-Horton) and the Major (Charles Ruggles) who provide comedic work as things go along. Everything is sophisticated, clever, and adroitly presented. We have a running in-joke when Monescu runs up or down Madame Colet’s lavish stairway. The joke is that Herbert Marshall had only one leg. The film begins with a street-cleaner singing loudly and dumping a garbage can onto his barge. The place is Venice, city of sophistication and beauty. But we see what a load of old garbage is here. Surface sorcery covers somewhat more crass motives beneath the activities. This is fantasy that has the feel of reality.
Design for Living (1933), directed by Ernst Lubitsch. Here is an early 1930s film that speaks openly about sex (both the film itself and the characters in it speak openly about sex). Not only is sex spoken about openly, but the flaunting of convention stays right to the final shot of the film, a final shot that has the three principal characters, two men and a woman, driving off into their future together, a menage a trois that is bound to fracture sometime after this smile of an ending. The three characters are two artists, Tom Chambers (Frederic March) and George Curtis (Gary Cooper), and the sparkling young independent woman Gilda Farrell (Miriam Hopkins). The film opens on a train and ends in a car. The opening scene, played mostly silent, is a masterful introduction to these three people, and Gilda’s caricature of the two sleeping men nicely captures the mood of the piece. Witty and sophisticated this film is, as we would expect with Lubitsch. He adapts, with the help of screenwriter Ben Hecht, Noel Coward’s play. The first half or so of the film takes place in Paris in the bohemian quarters of the two artists, soon to be accompanied by the perky young woman. She loves both of them; they both love her. A “gentleman’s agreement” says she can live with them in chaste comfort. Hah! Things go awry. Soon the two male friends are at loggerheads, and soon after Gilda marries another man, Max Plunkett (Edward Everett Horton), he of the advertising business. Gilda may be married to Max, but she does not satisfy him sexually, and he kicks over a rather obviously phallic plant before she up and leaves him to go off with the other two men -without even a notice of divorce. All this sexual daring is fine, and the film does have its charms, but on the whole, something is flat here. The “Lubitsch touch” is at work, but with less subtlety than we find elsewhere in his work.
Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife (1938), directed by Ernst Lubitsch. No, this is not a dark tale of a homicidal husband and a curious wife. It is the light froth of a tale about a millionaire and the woman who finally stops his philandering ways. Gary Cooper as the millionaire, Michael Brandon, overacts, and Claudette Colbert as the penniless daughter of a Marquis, Nicole de Loiselle, wears Travis Banton’s creations with verve and spark. The dialogue, written by Charles Brackett and Billy Wilder from a play by Alfred Savoir, has some witty exchanges and fast talk. The action takes place on the Paramount back lot and sound stages that stand in for the French Riviera. All in all, this is a standard screwball comedy trying to be naughty and coming up a bit stale. Take, for example, the bit about Louis XIV’s bathtub. Mr. Brandon, brash American, sits in it and manages to break it in two without even a brief, “Oh dear, what have I done?” So much for history, so much for a priceless antique, so much for spondulicks when you have so much of it. Then we have Mr. Brandon tossing a copy of The Taming of the Shrew into the fire because he tried to use it as a self-help tome and found it wanting. The characters all have a yen for oodles of money, although we are supposed to think that love wins in the end. The Lubitsch touch is on better display elsewhere; nevertheless, this is Lubitsch and even lesser Lubitsch is more engaging than other makers of such fare.
The Shop Around the Corner (1940), directed by Ernst Lubitsch. The first of our Christmas films this year has the Lubitsch touch! Two shop employees dislike each other, but unbeknownst to each of them, they are corresponding intimately with each other in a series of anonymous letters. Complications ensue, and grow especially entangled as Christmas approaches. The film is lively with enjoyable performances by everyone involved. The shop owner, Hugo Matuschek, is played by none other than Frank Morgan (yes, the Wizard of Oz). He has a wife we never see, but who plays an important part in the goings-on. Indeed, Mrs. Matuschek provides that touch the film offers, a touch of naughtiness that slips over to one of the shop employees, the obsequious Ferencz Vadas (Joseph Schildkraut). The interactions of the various characters are delightful, the script subtle and humourous, the sets meticulous, and the Christmas decorations suitable for this time of year! We have no angels seeking their stars here, but we do have a set of impeccably staged scenes with characters who hold our interest, and even manage to communicate a whiff of that wonderful life sensibility. The film was remade in 1998 as You’ve Got Mail.
Cluny Brown (1946), directed by Ernst Lubitsch. Feed squirrels to the nuts, if you please. This is Lubitsch’s last completed film, and it has much to recommend it. Cluny Brown (Jennifer Jones) is the daughter of a plumber who is capable of rattling a few pipes herself. Set in London on the eve of World War 2, the film focuses on Cluny Brown’s struggles with the British class system and her slowly emerging relationship with the Czech refugee, Professor Adam Belinsky (Charles Boyer). Both Brown and Belinsky are outsiders in the social milieus they find themselves among. The script is snappy, as we would expect and the “Lubitsch touch” is as deft as ever. The actors are all agreeable. Charles Boyer has never been more attractive. Jennifer Jones turns in a sprightly performance. Una O’Connor does not have one line of dialogue, beyond some hearty throat-clearing, and she manages to steal every scene she is in. I especially enjoyed Richard Hayden as Johnathan Wilson, the nasal-sounding and rather stuffy chemist who seeks Cluny’s hand in marriage, until she brazenly fixes his plumbing! Lubitsch’s interest in competent independent women is on full display here. Delightful.
