You've been capra'd
It's Frank Capra month down at the film club. I'm not a big fan of Capra - I just can't buy into that sentimental retreading of "humble everyman teaches the fatcats/girl/himself what life is all about how great it is to be a Caucasian American male, and in the final scene everybody hugs with tears in their eyes" (I realize Arsenic and Old Lace deviates from this formula, but it has drunk Peter Lorre and is therefore great so shush).
Having been promised plenty of James Stewart and Claude Rains I went to see Mr. Smith Goes to Washington yesterday. And do you know, after three years of going to the film club regularly this is the first time I've been completely alone in the movie theatre! Just me, Stewart, Rains and Jean Arthur. You'll be surprised to hear I did behave myself in spite of being all alone - I didn't lick the canvas or anything (though there were times when I was sorely tried - oh gosh bb Stewart with the world's narrowest hips and hair always falling into his eyes, nnngh).
Well, apart from the chest-thumping patriotism (which is excused, you know, having been made in the thirties and all) and the most abrupt ending I think I've ever seen in a mainstream movie, it was very enjoyable! Stewart was appealing and naïve, Arthur was a capable and interesting gal, Claude Rains was something as rare as a relatable villain - quite possibly the best role I've seen him in.
But what really pleasantly surprised me was the scene where James Stewart sits down on his packed suitcase in the Lincoln Memorial and starts to cry.
Imagine that: A Hollywood movie (I'd say "a thirties' Hollywood movie" but it's rare even today) in which the male hero cries - and not for any of the Accepted Conventional Reasons for Manly Crying (which usually involves the love interest being killed and roaring "NOOOOO" at the skies), but just because he's sad and frustrated - and yet it isn't portrayed as something effeminate or cowardly.
Okay so point goes to you Mister Capra.
Having been promised plenty of James Stewart and Claude Rains I went to see Mr. Smith Goes to Washington yesterday. And do you know, after three years of going to the film club regularly this is the first time I've been completely alone in the movie theatre! Just me, Stewart, Rains and Jean Arthur. You'll be surprised to hear I did behave myself in spite of being all alone - I didn't lick the canvas or anything (though there were times when I was sorely tried - oh gosh bb Stewart with the world's narrowest hips and hair always falling into his eyes, nnngh).
Well, apart from the chest-thumping patriotism (which is excused, you know, having been made in the thirties and all) and the most abrupt ending I think I've ever seen in a mainstream movie, it was very enjoyable! Stewart was appealing and naïve, Arthur was a capable and interesting gal, Claude Rains was something as rare as a relatable villain - quite possibly the best role I've seen him in.
But what really pleasantly surprised me was the scene where James Stewart sits down on his packed suitcase in the Lincoln Memorial and starts to cry.
Imagine that: A Hollywood movie (I'd say "a thirties' Hollywood movie" but it's rare even today) in which the male hero cries - and not for any of the Accepted Conventional Reasons for Manly Crying (which usually involves the love interest being killed and roaring "NOOOOO" at the skies), but just because he's sad and frustrated - and yet it isn't portrayed as something effeminate or cowardly.
Okay so point goes to you Mister Capra.