Reviews

Movies like *Peyton Place*, *Imitation of Life*, and *Written On The Wind*, define the term "potboiler." This one, right up there with them, is oozing with angst over both young love and adultery, and features incredibly racy dialogue and plot contrivances for its time – as they all did. It has to do with a family – Helen and Ken Jorgenson, played by Constance Ford and Richard Egan, and their bubbly yet repressed daughter Molly, played by the maniacally cute Sandra Dee – who pay an unexpected call to the Maine resort at which the now-affluent Ken used to be a lifeguard. Ken's wife, Helen, is mysteriously anxious to appear oh-so-proper, and we quickly learn that Helen is a scheming, frigid, malignant wife given to phobias and obsessions. Constance Ford is marvelously chilling as the demented Helen – a character that should be voted into the Camp Hall of Fame. Richard Egan is the kind of actor they don't make much anymore – he plays Ken as the craggy, understanding, Uncle Bill-ish kind of father, who can be sensitive and still remain butch. The family that owns the resort whom they impose them selves upon, consists of Sylvia and Bart Hunter, played by Dorothy McGuire and Arthur Kennedy, and their wooden twit of a son, Johnny, played by Troy Donahue. Donahue, known in the business as "the *other* white meat", is hopelessly inept, and recalls the rueful words from *A Chorus Line*, which lament "If Troy Donahue can be a movie star, then I can be a movie star." McGuire plays her usual sort of character – cool exterior with passions that run deep, while Arthur Kennedy is virtually unrecognizable as Bart, the drunken dilettante whose family now lives in reduced circumstances and must now take in boarders. Young Johnny and Molly fall in love the first time their binoculars meet, and we become aware very quickly that Ken and Sylvia, both married to other people, have been around the block together before. Ken and Sylvia rekindle their love affair, making love in the boathouse, while Johnny woos Molly with such tripe as "We're all alone on this earth." Bart goes on drinking and Helen goes berserk. When Johnny and Molly survive the sinking of their boat, and spend the night on a deserted beach, Helen orders Molly to undergo an examination to see if she was still a virgin. Things go from bad to worse, and recriminations and name-calling abound. Helen brings the whole soupy mess to a boil by shrilly referring to Sylvia as Johnny's "harlot of a mother," while Bart calls Sylvia "common slut," and divorce decrees are served all around. Johnny and Molly are sent off to faraway schools, as the ugly divorces mysteriously dominate the headlines all over the Northeast. The children arrange a tryst over Christmas break, after which Helen and Molly get into it, and Helen slaps Molly into the Christmas tree, doubtlessly inspiring John Waters' (*Female Trouble*). After a suitable amount of time, Ken and Sylvia get married and acquire a swank new *moderne deluxe* split-level ranch home, but they miss the love of their Molly and Johnny, who, though separated, blame Ken and Sylvia for the unhappiness. Distressed at the estrangement, Ken refers to "the loneliness, hunger, impatience and waste" of unrequited young lust – just like he himself had – and tells Sylvia, "I want them to come to us when they need us." Molly and Johnny agree to meet up at the newlyweds' home, where, predictably, Molly gets "in trouble." There's lots of talk about "being good" and "being bad," and he plot is riddled with scenes of inclement weather that brings about lurid situations – like when they go to his drunken dad for help, who tells them "Sinners pay, one way or another" and "They need to be put in juvenile hall to cool off." Fortunately, the troubled teens fine love and acceptance at the home of the Original Sinners themselves, Ken and Sylvia, and, of course, everything works out wonderfully in the end. It is turgid and tawdry, and enhanced by Max Steiner's famous score – you know: deet deet deet deet deet deet… – but campy and hysterical. "If you liked this title, we recommend…" an ice pick and a shot of whiskey to dull the pain.

As Jim Williams, the rakish, nouveau riche antiques dealer whose homosexual proclivities include a fondness for rough trade, Kevin Spacey is smooth as lacquered satin and irresistibly sexy in a movie that has its good points, but otherwise falls flat. It's distinctly one of those "Read the book"-type movies where the lovely storytelling got lost in the translation. In the book, there was much more of a story than in the movie – the evocative descriptions lushly accented what was basically a courtroom drama. But perhaps it was too lengthy of a story to be told on film. The fact of the matter is that there really isn't that much of a story at all. While the colorful characters come alive on the page, in the movie, they camouflage a threadbare script. Perhaps it was just a poor choice for Eastwood's directorial abilities, or perhaps it was a poor choice for a screenplay – there are many flaws that nag and distract throughout. What does not distract is the art direction, which is one of the stars of the film. The interiors and exteriors, in their natural setting of Savannah, are glimmering jewels (so lovingly created in the book), and they, too, help hide the unmentionable script problem. So lovely are they that one wishes to see more of them, and might be just as happy with a travelogue where all that messy plot stuff doesn't interfere. John Cusak is an amiable enough actor, playing the role of the reporter John Kelso, who is assigned by *Town & Country* magazine to cover one of Jim Williams' legendary Christmas parties. Right off the bat, the story's famous characters start making their appearances, and they are all well-cast. In fact, the entire movie is well-cast, with a minor exception of Jude Law who is a fish out of water as the rough trade bad-boy (and Williams' erstwhile lover), Billy Hanson. Law is talented, but was not rough enough looking for the small role, and never, ever approached believability as the hard-drinking, small-time drug-dealing boho Southern "trade." The use of Savannah locals, sometimes playing themselves, is clever and entertaining. Lady Chablis, a local drag entertainer, has her moment in the sun playing herself – a screamingly funny pre-op transsexual whose relation to the actual story is very slim. She does, however, manage to get a large share of screen time, including the funniest scene in the movie when she crashes the cotillion for black debutantes. Jack Thompson makes us utterly forget his Aussie background as he brilliantly recreates the role of attorney Sonny Seiler. The cleverest casting twist was using the *real* Sonny Seiler to play the judge. Irma P. Hall, as voodoo practitioner Minerva, makes the most of her role as the manager of the spirits of the dead, even if the role is one of the most troublesome, scriptwise, in the whole movie. But an excellent cast cannot make up for a fatally flawed script, even if the movie does have a certain charm.

Bad reviews abound for this straight-to-video feature – lot's of ugly sniping about the fashion business, gay stereotypes, superficiality, etc. But, please, let's get real here. Not every movie has to have deep subtext and meaning – especially not movies about the fashion business. Written and executive produced by Jill Kopelman, (daughter of the owner of the House of Chanel) and Caroline Doyle, the inside jokes and cameos run rampant in a movie that just misses being very clever. With a dreary romantic comedy subplot, Dominique Swain, most notable for *Lolita*, plays Jocelyn, an intern at *Skirt* magazine, who becomes involved in fashion espionage. A very thin premise, to be sure, with a John Waters-ish feel to it, but with a breathless E! TV approach to fashion and comedy. Also like a John Waters film, *Intern* depends heavily on on screen slapstick and cameo performances– though since it's not John Waters, of course, we miss seeing Patty Hearst. Peggy Lipton is a pleasant surprise as Fashion Editor, Roxanne Rochet, a typical fashion victim, given to such statements as "Forget the herbal wrap – I want a Himalayan rejuvenation lichen-berry acid peel." She and her staff are complete caricatures of fashionistas (they are devoting nine pages of their current issue to making wheelchairs the chic accessory), but they are right on the money – especially Leilani Bishop as the vacuous, self-absorbed supermodel, and David Deblinger as the queeny art director. Paulina Porizkova, Anna Thompson, and comedienne Kathy Griffin are a little one-dimensional, but funny as well. Joan Rivers is Joan Rivers, and that's all we need to say about that. As stated earlier, it's not a particularly deep movie, but to paraphrase Karl Lagerfeld, fashion is not the same thing as feeding the hungry and curing the ill.

Everything you ever wanted to know about *GWTW* -- from Margaret Mitchell recalling her mother driving her out to see the ruined plantations around Atlanta, and telling her that she'd better learn to survive, to its historic status as being one of the most beloved movies of all time – even when it's not politically correct to love the movie. It is a documentary combining spoken word, letters, memos, newsclips, diaries and recreations – in a comprehensive style that predates Ken Burns by quite a bit. It is a dizzying montage of information and images that tells the story of the film – a monumental achievement that is one of the few films to not disappoint the lovers of the book. Selznick purchased the rights to the story for $50,000 – a fortune at the time, for a story so sprawling that it was impossible to visualize on the screen. As a superb craftsman, even Selznick was intimidated – not just by the scope of the story, but by the public's obsession with it. So it is with tender care that he began preproduction and scriptwriting on this sacred monster. The footage that we see in the finished version of *GWTW* shows only a small part of the passion, heartache and bloodletting that went on behind the scenes. Most impressive is the existing array of screen tests that were done for the movie – evidence that the much-ballyhooed Search for Scarlett O'Hara was far more than hype from a hotheaded publicist. Showing dozens of would-be Scarletts, Melanies, Ashleys and Belles, the most stunning footage is the multiple and lengthy tests that Paulette Goddard did for the role of Scarlett. She exhibits a cunning and slyness that is perfect for Scarlett, and the newsreports go crazy announcing her unconfirmed appointment. It is the sheer numbers of tests that Goddard did the continually amazing, and she had every reason on earth to believe she had the part. It's easy to see that she would have been delightful as Scarlett, but could she have made Scarlett into the legend that Vivian Leigh did? Fraught with tension, shooting began without Scarlett having been cast. The story behind the filming of the burning of Atlanta is riveting in its detail, showing how old sets from *King Kong* and *Birth of a Nation*, among others, were burned and then multiplied on film to create the effect. It was during the filming of this sequence that Selznick's brother, Myron, legendarily arrived on the set with a gorgeous young woman in tow and said to the producer, "I'd like you to meet your Scarlett." And the film's fate was sealed with the casting of the tragic and incandescent Vivian Leigh. Though Selznick was reviled by Hedda Hopper, among others, for casting an English girl, instead of a red-blooded American, even Margaret Mitchell herself said, "Better and English girl than a Yankee." Goddard had been frontrunner up to the last second when Leigh waltzed in and stole the part from under her nose. It must have been an unbearably bitter disappointment, and Goddard never again realized the potential she showed in these tests. But, it is also only a small facet of what happened behind the scenes. After a time, miles of film were scrapped when original director George Cukor was fired and replaced by Victor Fleming. There's quite a tale behind *that* that neither the documentary, nor we, will go into. The personal dramas are many, with Selznick's drug use, health problems and subsequent breakdown being addressed. The volume of information collected is awesome. From Butterfly McQueen speaking about her role as Prissy ("I wouldn't let them slap me, but I thought Prissy needed to be slapped…I thought she was horrid."), to the footage of Hattie MacDaniel's Academy Award speech that is so sincere and touching that it must be considered a gift that we can still see it. It was a scandal that the movie cost $3,000,000 to make: a jaw-droppingly small figure for a movie that paid for itself many, many times over – and *that's* just in financial terms.

"Divine decadence, darling," is what is served up abundantly in *Cabaret*. I was in junior high school when Liza won Best Actress for her tour de force as Sally Bowles – I was furious because I felt that Diana Ross got robbed. I knew, with my consummate adolescent insight, that Liza was merely playing herself in *Cabaret*, but that Diana was acting her little heart out in *Lady Sings The Blues*. Time has told a different tale, however, with *Lady Sings The Blues* being resigned to ignominy and *Cabaret* remaining as a sparkling achievement in movie-making. Winning 8 Academy Awards in a very tight race against such blockbusters as *The Godfather*, *Deliverance*, and *Sounder*, it is Liza Minelli's tour de force, a role of a lifetime. Even her mother, Judy Garland, never had a role like this, so exquisitely tailored to her talents, that even Liza herself had a tough time topping this performance. In fact, she never did, starring in some truly dismal choices such as *Lucky Lady* and *New York, New York*. In *Cabaret*, Minelli plays Sally Bowles, a plucky little trollop who sings at the Kit Kat club in Berlin, during the time of the Weimar Republic. Sally tries very hard to be "an international woman of mystery," but lives in a dream world in which her non-existent worldly and dashing father will soon swoop down and rescue her. She falls in love with Brian (York), a charming and bi-sexual scholar earning his living as a translator. They are both romanced by a wealthy and handsome suitor (Griem), who after stirring their dreams and passions, leaves them flat. The subplots of Brian's students, their fellow boarders at the rooming house, and Sally's various schemes provide an opportunity for wonderful music and staging. Most of the numbers happen onstage at the Kit Kat club. We have addressed the issue of performances within performances before – and the usual question is "Who would pay money to see this?" But in *Cabaret*, the staged musical numbers are spectacular and you would definitely pay good money to see a nightclub performances like those. "Money" and "Mien Herr" are incredible, and Bob Fosse's outre choreography is stunning. The costuming and makeup add to the heightened surrealism, and the Nazi threat adds an element of danger and desperation to a movie that would be hard to classify as a musical, drama, comedy, satire or war movie. The Nazi violence, with a few exceptions, is shown by implication and suggestion. The "Tomorrow Belongs To Me" number is roundly described as stunning and chilling, and after almost 30 years, remains so. The concept of the story itself is enduring, engendering 90s Broadway revival directed by *American Beauty*'s Sam Mendez

This movie scared me to death when I was five. My parents had dumped the four of us at a theatre for the afternoon and two hours later, I was a swollen, puffy mess, still sobbing from the horror I had witnessed. That was 35 years ago, but you'd think it happened yesterday, the way my sister still sadistically laughs at me for being so frightened. I no longer react with fear upon seeing the movie – but it is with a wizened eye that I now look at the scenes that had such impact: and they're still some of the scariest scenes put on film. Done entirely without music, the scenes unreel with alarming suspense. The theme of nature-run-amok has been made into mincemeat in the decades since, but seldom with such a deft touch. Much is made about the outdated special effects, but they are mild compared to the overusage in modern films. Tippi Hedren, whom Hitchcock spotted in a diet drink commercial and became his latest obsession, makes her debut as the cool and soignee Melanie Daniels, socialite-at-large. Hedren, who named her daughter Melanie (Griffith) after her character, subsequently had a less-than-stellar career, starring in such classics as *Teresa's Tattoo* and *Return to Green Acres*. The plot line involving Daniels and her pursuit of attorney Mitch Brenner definitely has problems, but seems necessary to create the atmosphere and set the stage for the real stars of the movie – the birds. There are so many birds in this movie, billing and cooing with an innocence that belies their malevolence, that the nightmare unfolding on the screen must have been rivaled by the nightmare on the set. Tales of tranquilizing the birds and wiring them in place surely would cause distress among animal-rights activists today. Jessica Tandy is chill and formidable as Mitch's mother, Lydia, and Suzanne Pleshette, as schoolteacher Annie Hayworth, is one of the most interesting characters in the movie. And her final scene is most memorable, as she is found facedown in front of her home, pecked to death.

The climactic attack that takes place at Mitch's home is sheer brilliance. As the birds are pecking through the door and gathering in the attack, there is a sense of madness unleashed that is breathtaking. The ambiguity of the ending has been roundly criticized – but it is most successful in leaving behind a sense that the story is not quite over. Of course, it wasn't quite over – it had to be insulted with a sequel, *The Birds II*. The film has acquired a certain campiness over the years that allows the sophisticated viewer to look past the obvious plot devices, and find an arch humor in the classic scenes. From Melanie getting clocked on the forehead by a seagull, to the crotchety ornithologist at the café, to the scene with the guy whose eyes have pecked out, to the amassing of the birds at the schoolhouse, where the children are singing what is surely the longest children's song ever written, the scenes are imprinted indelibly on our memories. So much so, that Tippi has become a popular Halloween costume – just pin a bird in your wig, and you're instantly Melanie Daniels. It's easy to laugh at something that used to be scary, but is there anyone that doesn't think of *The Birds* whenever they see more than a dozen of them get together?

Sissy's well-deserved Oscar for one of the best screen-bios ever. Based on the book of the same name, by Loretta Lynn, Sissy knocks 'em dead as the country bumpkin turned country music star. Director Apted's clear vision of the story magnifies his ability to show a more primitive life (see also *Gorillas In The Mist* and *Nell*), and moody cinematography perfectly captures Loretta's Butcher Hollow, Kentucky upbringing – where 13 is not too young to get married, and the coal dust and poverty-stricken conditions guarantee that life will be short. Along comes the brash and determined Dolittle Lynn, confounding the parents and sweeping Loretta off her feet. Jones plays the character as a hot-headed and directionless young man who comes to believe that his wife may be a talented singer. His life's direction becomes clear, and he makes Loretta his career. It is impossible to cover and entire life and career in 2 hours, and important details are sometimes necessarily dispensed with – but, again, we get to watch Sissy re-invent herself before our very eyes, taking Loretta from being the ill-nourished daughter of a coal miner to being the glorious "First Lady of Country Music" Beverly D'Angelo is the seminal Patsy Cline - brassy and tender, and her brief turn in this film is everything that *Sweet Dreams* with Jessica Lange should have been, but wasn't. The soundtrack was a smash hit, and Spacek and D'Angelo are remarkable for doing their own singing and this helps in securing the film's place as a top tribute. Of the bio genre, there are few to compare with the superiority of this film. *Lady Sings The Blues*, *Your Cheatin' Heart* and *La Bamba* are nice tries, but only *The Buddy Holly Story* comes as close to capturing the true essence of the subject. In the Country Queen realm, television's *Stand By Your Man*, the story of Tammy Wynette, starring Annette O'Toole, did a stand-up job of telling Wynette's story, but, O'Toole's fine performance aside, the production values simply don't hold a candle to the excellence *Coal Miner's Daughter*.

The deification of St. Tina and the deserved crucifixion of Ike, starring the magnificent Angela Bassett, is harrowing and crackling with electricity. Perhaps the only movie with more domestic violence than *Mommie Dearest*, this is the movie bio to end all movie bios. From the earliest scenes of a rambunctious Tina (or Anna Mae, as she was known then) acting up during choir practice, we, the audience, belong to her completely, irrevocably winning us through empathy and admiration for such a feisty, plucky spirit. Showing Ike as a famous R&B star and suave ladykiller at the time he meets the young Tina, Ike wins her through a combination of persistence and flattery, appealing to her vanity and sense of loyalty ("I make them famous and then they run off," Ike tells her). But they team up and, as we know, and make musical history. Their codependency is of the direst sort – he *made* her and feels like he owns her, and she just wants to please him. But pleasing Ike is a tall order, and any success is only temporary. We are taken on a wild ride of spectacular performances in vivid color – both the great achievements of the duo, as well as their darkest hours, but as Ike slides into drugs and domination, the situation is as hopeless as most codependent situations are. We see Tina as she is, once again, beaten to a pulp…but perhaps for the last time. She runs away, and with a wrenching scene in which she appears in the lobby of the neighboring Ramada Inn, begging for shelter, we are begging with her, praying for some nameless act of charity to deliver her from evil. She makes a relatively clean getaway, winding up in the hands of Roger Davies, her manager (and a producer of this film), who engineered one of the greatest comebacks in history. Of course, Ike tries desperately and unsuccessfully to woo her back, telling her how he *made* her, but then becomes ridiculous, uttering to her in 1980, "You ain't no Donna Summers." But we know what the outcome of that is – Tina's personal success and lifetime appointment as posterchild for Survivors Anonymous is legendary. Angela Bassett is one of the finest actresses alive, but has yet to produce anything rivaling this performance. She is backed up by a number of extremely strong performances, especially that of Vanessa Bell, in a stand-up performance as her friend Jackie, who not only proves to Tina that she can escape from Ike, but also shows her a way to inner-peace through Buddhism. During the closing credits, we see the real-life Tina perform the title song, but it is a gratuitous, and even negligent performance, that undermines the audience's belief in Basset as Tina. The crime is that this film did not receive Academy attention – for art direction and costuming alone, it is the exquisite evocation of an extremely lively era and lifestyle – as an almost perfect production, it meshes together the cinematography, script, acting and music into a dazzling and sometimes horrifying, but always riveting tour de force.

This film version of the lifestory of Jacqueline Susann is deplorable in every way. What were these people thinking of? And did this movie actually make into the theatres? Even as a fan of Midler and Susann, it was a completely disappointing experience, with Midler, whose standard schtick is wearing thin these days, playing little more than a parody of herself. If we hadn't already known it was supposed to be about Jacqueline Susann, it would never have become apparent, since Midler misses the mark entirely – beginning with her physical type. As a gifted and presumably self-respecting actress, Midler should have abandoned the project after watching the first rushes. What also should have become apparent from the first rushes, is that Stockard Channing, who seems to play a comglomerate of Susann's women friends, should have played Susann herself. She has the range and skill and look to pull it off – Midler's a great entertainer, but Channing is a far better actress. As Irving Mansfield, Susann's husband and agent, Nathan Lane is well on his way to become the male Bette Midler – a parody of himself, and as predictable as he can be. Lane is just lame in this. The script was a few funny exchanges, but in the hands of Midler and Nathan Lane's overacting, *any* script would get lost. It is much more of a fictionalized account of Susann's life – the episodes of spending time on the *Christina* with Ari and Jackie Onassis are completely fabricated – but it's all for naught anyway. As for the all-important costuming – it is a split decision. Technically many of the clothes were absolutely perfect – they just looked ridiculous on Midler. Jacqueline Susann was fastidious about her fashion appearance, such as it was, and many of the clothes seemed to be exact replicas of the originals. On Susann, the styles were garish and over-the-top, emphasizing her rock-hard desire to succeed at any cost. On Midler, the same clothes were ludicrous. I admire Midler for being unafraid to look ludicrous – it's been her calling card for decades – but the ugly reality is that Midler, who is gloriously Ruebenesque, needed to shed more than a few pounds to pull off Susann's look. The Truman Capote character, played by Sam Street, was fabulous – for his entire 30 seconds on screen, and while the film's reference to the famous feud between Capote and Susann was briefly touched on, it is exactly the sort of incident of Susann's life that is completely obliterated by this fiasco. John Cleese is wasted as Susann's publisher, and Hyde-Pierce is his usual Niles-like anal-retentive self. The producers were right on the money a few times -- music by Burt Bacharach and sung by Dionne Warwick was an excellent choice, if only they had used Bacharach's Sixties style music instead of the dreary new stuff. "Isn't She Great" is simply awful.

Ridiculous fluff, that compounds its error by trying to have meaning. Joan, this time as a congresswoman, Agatha Reed, chairwoman of a committee dedicated to "investigating the high cost of food." Says Congresswoman Reed, "The housewife has been getting it in the neck too long. I'm going to keep fighting long enough so that the American family can take a vacation once a year, see a movie every week and feed an occasional peanut to an elephant." She's all business, but becomes all gushy when she is awarded an honorary degree from Good Hope College, where she was expelled for the crime of having stayed out all night (the parallel to Joan's real life is unmistakable here, as it is in all Joan Movies). The degree causes much consternation on campus ("That would make it the most broad-minded institution in the history of education!") – but Joan is unaware of this as she arrives. The college president, Jim Merrill, played by Robert Young, at his handsomest, happens to be Joan's former teacher – and lover. It was with *him* that she spent the night out, all those years ago, but Joan felt it was better to just disappear rather than try and explain to the skeptical college that they were about to be married. Naturally, this high-profile event will be covered by *Life* magazine – and who does the photographer turn out to be? Yet another of Joan's old lovers – this one, she hung out with in China "during the war", and he thinks Joan might be headed for trouble with her old flame. Eve Arden, playing Joan's assistant, "Woodie," is at her butchest and most smart-alecky in this movie – with her flippant and unnecessary remarks that would make you dismiss her from her job, if you didn't like her so much. But you not only like Eve in this, as in all her roles, you adore her. She is so droll and no-nonsense, you'd like to pay her just to hang around and be one of the boys. When Joan cries upon arriving at her alma mater, Eve tells her it "looks fierce." But Joan says that maybe others only see a collection of buildings, she, Joan, sees youth – herself at 18 "eager, expectant – a little frightened, asking 'What is life? What am I?'" But, of course, if we actually go into depth about Joan at 18, the truth may be a little different.

For me, this is the major problem in watching any Joan movie. You can call her characters whatever you want to, but it's always all Joan, all the time. So, since what we're always seeing is Joan being herself, it's easy to dispense with character's names. It's just that it gets confusing when Joan tries to tell us something patently untrue, like her description of herself at 18 – when we know that at 18, Joan had already been around the block several times. Many men would have described her as eager, and as far as being expectant, she had already had several abortions at this point. But that's a personal problem, and I digress, but I simply wanted to explain why I say things such as "…and then Joan does…" this or that, or "We see Joan as..." when we are not literally watching a home movie.

There is an unintentionally hilarious moment in which Joan is given the Clara Bow doll that she left behind in college – quick arithmetic tells us that Joan and Clara were contemporaries and this is a transparent ploy to make us believe Joan is much younger than she actually looks. It fails. What also fails is an attempt at early-50s political correctness. In the story, Joan has written a book about free speech and made a film (no, not the one about the plumber), and she attracts the attention of an early 50s campus radical, Dr. Pitt, who is about to be fired for his views, which are shockingly similar to Joan's. This is where the movie mysteriously becomes a morality tale –a weak one, to be sure, but perhaps the only thing that keeps it from sliding into oblivion.

The often-reliable Leonard Maltin says this is a "delightful romance" and that Sanders is "superb." Maltin must have confused this movie with something else. Sanders is snide and droll and superb, as usual, – you can imagine his delivery of the line regarding adultery, "Sometimes the chains of matrimony are so heavy they have to be carried by three," –but dull, wooden and dated describe this movie more accurately. The storyline itself, an autobiography with Sanders as a suave jewel thief, Francois Eugene Vidocq, who becomes chief of police but can hardly resist the lure of fine jewels, is entertaining enough, but it has the same kind of hollow historical Hollywood treatment that marred such period epics as *Marie Antoinette*, and certainly the deplorable *Forever Amber* (which screams for a classy remake). Though, in his defense, Sanders tries mightily to add some depth to his character, it is all for naught. I am an unabashed Douglas Sirk fan, but this is 1946, and it is one of Sirk's earliest American efforts, lacking many of the signature touches that would define his florid, breast-heaving potboilers. Sirk is just getting his feet wet here, and made a number of unmemorable films over the next ten years until he struck gold with *Magnificent Obsession*, and hit his stride, bombarding us with such estrogen-fests as *All That Heaven Allows*, *Written on the Wind*, and *Imitation of Life*. But *Scandal In Paris* is hardly his best work – a relatively low-budget affair with cheesy sets and ineffective costuming.

Creaking with metaphors, it is a lovely story to watch, with a knockout cast well-skilled in ensemble acting. But it plods along, documenting the making of a wedding quilt that incorporates the lives of each person who contributes to it. Finn Dodd (what a hideous name), played by Ryder, at her tentative and mysterious best, is spending the summer with her aunts, while finishing her thesis. She is also engaged to Sam (Mulroney), who seems to get needier, as Finn seems to be getting coldfeet. The quilt is a gift for Finn's wedding, and is a labor of love among a group of women whose lives are intertwined in the northern California wine country, each of them sewing a panel that expresses the theme, "Where love resides." But love resides in many different places among these women – from sisters Glady Jo and Hy, entertainingly played by Bancroft and Burstyn, who are exactly the kinds of aunts anyone would like to have in their family, to the prickly Em (Simmons), and the unconventional Constance (Nelligan). So many different stories, as interpreted in quilting panels, do not always make a pretty quilt, and much negotiating and compromise is the very nature of putting the quilt together, as it is in life. Not Ryder's best work, but Burstyn and Bancroft are delightful as the pot-smoking aunts, rockin' out to Neil Diamond's "Cherry, Cherry." Simmons is a pleasure to see – with quite a lengthy career behind her, she doesn't appear often. Samantha Mathis is always charming – it would be nice if things would really *click* for her career. Kate Nelligan is fabulous – I was never able to abide her work, presuming her to be like the kind of tight-assed, judgmental characters that she portrayed. But I unexpectedly caught her in "Frankie and Johnny" (with Al Pacino and Michelle Pfeiffer), and could not believe I was watching the woman I had scorned for so long. Now I look forward to seeing her every time she appears. In spite of many fascinating and multi-faceted characterizations, this vehicle does not serve any of these actresses well. One expects Greatness out of such an enormous and worthy cast, but the Entertain-o-meter stops short of Just Okay, and one wishes that such talent had been applied to a script that utilized their collective talent better. The concept of the story revolving around this group-effort is a fine concept, but director, Moorhouse, has to work hard to keep the story from fragmenting into oblivion. Though not weighing in as a heavyweight, the multitude of fine performances ensures that it is fine entertainment on a lazy day.

Joan, with director Sherman, trimming *all* the fat away from *Craig's Wife* (that means removing every scene in which Joan would *not* be present), and turning it into a tour-de-force for La Crawford. As the epitome of every neurotic, deeply disturbed female that Joan ever portrayed, *Harriet Craig* is Joan with a capital J. Taking the role in her mouth and shaking it into submission, she is playing, ultimately, another facet of Joan herself. But what Joan film role *didn't* become Joan herself – either before or *after* filming? In a case of Joan's art imitating her life, as well as her life imitating her art, Harriet provides Joan with yet *one* more of those peculiar roles – roles which must have been written with *only* Joan in mind, since it would be difficult to imagine *any* other actress in this role. If Rosalind Russell had had this much focus on her in *her* version, *Craig's Wife*, it's hard to imagine if she could have sustained it, since part of Russell's strength was her ability to respond to other characters while seemingly on a course all her own. But Joan, never one to shy away from *any* movie role, makes *Harriet Craig* one the great milestones of her career. And we are indebted to her for it. As she explains to her niece (she *always* has nieces in movies like this – sweet young things who come to live with her and become her indentured servants) about how to "keep men in line," we are given more pure-Joan philosophy. With lines like, "…the average woman *does* put her life in someone else's hands – her husbands'. That's why she usually comes to grief," and "No man is *born* ready for marriage – he has to be trained," it is familiar Joan territory. Familiar now, because we've seen Joan spackling her angst all over movie and TV screens for decades, but along with *Mildred Pierce*, *Queen Bee* and *Torchsong*, *Harriet Craig*, at the time, was a new dimension in Joan's personal psychosis committed to film.

Susan Hayward, impossibly young and beautiful, in this Walter Wanger production, portraying Angelica Evans, a young chanteuse with the world at her feet, but who doesn't want the world. She wants Ken Conway, part of an unemployed singing/songwriting duo (sexlessly portrayed by Lee Bowman), but he is socially beneath her. As the effervescent star of a family of performers (who happens to like a little drinkee now and then), Angelica lacks the ambition to continue her singing career. It's easy to understand why – not having been around in 1947, it's hard to imagine that the kind of singing and dancing that Hayward does as Angelica could ever be popular in real life. But, we digress – suffice to say she gives up her career for love. Hubby, and his partner, played by Eddie Albert get jobs as singing cowboys on the radio (another mysteriously popular career in old movies), and he pens a special song – a hideously slurpy ballad called "Life Can Be Beautiful." Dispensing with the cowboy routine, hubby sings the song on his radio show one night and become an overnight success, a teen idol – this, of course, is a time when teen idols *weren't* teenagers themselves. He gets hooked up with a management company, and acquires an assistant, a little minx named Martha, wickedly played by Marsha Hunt. Little Martha takes over many aspects of hubby's life, rendering Angelica useless, except as a milk machine for the baby. A few little drinkee-winkees help ease the pain ("It puts *poise* in apathetic people," she tells us), but with the drinkees come the attendant drunken dramas and Angelica becomes an embarrassment to her pop star husband. Martha happily manipulates the situation, making sure that Angelica knows that she's no longer needed in every way possible. This culminates in a drunken slapfest at a party, resulting in hubby moving out. Proved to be an unfit mother, Angelica loses custody of her child and naturally dives deeply into the bottle. Drunkenly deciding to kidnap her child, she does so, and nearly kills the child by setting the house on fire with a cigarette. This brings Angelica and hubby back together again, Martha admits there was never anything between them – she just wanted Angelica to *think* so, and everything works out perfectly, with hubby understanding that his wife's alcoholism was caused by his lack of attention to her. Life can be beautiful. Indeed.

"I remained convinced that our prestigious family with its significant connections could still hold sway over history." Thus spake Emily, Duchess of Leinster, in 1798, shortly before her son, the notorious and dashing Irish revolutionary, Edward Fitzgerald, was executed for the murder of a British soldier. The world they knew was rapidly changing, and, indeed, there was little, if *anything*, the Duchess or her aristocratic family held sway over anymore, except each other. But a few short years before, she and her sisters were among the most admired and privileged women on earth. The five sisters, Caroline, Emily, Louisa, Sarah and Cecilia, were the great-granddaughters of Charles II with his mistress, Louise de Keroualle, the Duchess of Portsmouth. Their grandfather, the king's illegitimate son, was Charles Lennox, 1st Duke of Richmond. His son, also Charles, became the 2nd Duke of Richmond. The 2nd Duke married an Irish woman, of whose background, both were deeply ashamed of and desperately tried to conceal. When their eldest daughter Caroline, an intelligent woman with a thirst for sophisticated pleasures, eloped with Henry Fox, 1st Baron Holland, the Duke and Duchess were mortified at her insubordination – marrying a politician against the wishes of her father brought swift judgement upon Caroline, and she was banished from her family. Caroline missed her family greatly and grieved over their estrangement, but from her home, Holland House (the same one on the Holland House liquor labels), she kept discreet correspondence with her sisters. When second eldest daughter, Emily, begged her parents to allow her to marry James Fitzgerald, 20th Earl of Kildare, an Irish statesman, the parents were aghast at the possibility of Irish blood (re-)entering their bloodline, but fearing another estrangement, they agreed to the marriage, partially because it was evident that the Earl deeply loved Emily, and partially because the Earl was extraordinarily wealthy. She had a son, Edward Fitzgerald, a celebrated United Irishman, whose dedication to Irish freedom would have been incomprehensible to his grandparents. Louisa, the third sister, married Thomas Conolly, a kind and loving man, had a brood of children and lived happily ever after. Fourth sister, Sarah, married badly, had an affair, a baby, a divorce, and complete social ostracism all in short order. Fifth sister, Cecilia, died in her teens. There was also a brother who became 3rd Duke of Richmond.

Meticulously adapted from Stella Tillyard's masterpiece by the same name, *Aristocrats* is a story of magnificent scope and grandeur, but told without the usual gassy adoration of the British upper class. Its basis is not embellished reports and embroidered tales, but the massive archives of correspondence and household and historical records left behind by these women. It is as much a story of the sisters' love for each other and their families, as it is a historical drama, but the viewer never forgets that it is through the eyes of these women that we see the epic unfold. As with many epics, it makes short work of some of history's more momentous occasions, but that serves to keep the story focused on the sisters. The production values are top notch. With an excellent screenplay by Harriet O'Carroll, superb direction, and outstanding craftsmanship throughout, *Aristocrats* is as splendid a production as it is a story.

"And now, Mahogany presents…the Kabuki Finale!" This is the movie that made me want to be a fashion designer *and* a drag queen. Who else would be able to sit through this tripe? But if you're a designer *or* a drag queen, or at least play one on TV, this is *delectable* tripe. Just like in *Mommie Dearest* when you *know* you're looking into the heart of Joan Crawford, *Mahogany* makes you feel as if you're looking into the heart of Diana Ross. A vanity production to beat *all* vanity productions, Mr. Gordy showcases his star (who was also his lover, *and*, we now know, mother of his child) in her first non-singing film -- her only other film being *Lady Sings The Blues*. In this self-serving tale of the perils of stardom, Diana, as Tracy Chambers, scales the heights of the glamour and glitter of international high fashion and plummets directly into Bad-Movie-Hall-Of-Fame. Tracy is in school to be a fashion designer, and we know this because we see her riding the bus around town sketching big drag queen-y outfits. But one humiliating interview follows another (Diana *excels* in demonstrating humiliation – lots of teeth-gnashing and tossing her head), and life looks grim. Even the local neighborhood activist (this *is* the Seventies), played by the devastatingly handsome, but not deeply talented Billy Dee Williams, holds no charms for her. He wants to make the world a *better* place, and *she* just wants to make it a *prettier* place. Just when things seem hopeless, her job in the display department of a local department store puts her in the line of vision of a famous, but unstable fashion photographer, played to extreme by Anthony Perkins. Perkins mistakes Ross for a fashion model, and is smitten by her beauty *and* her commercial possibilities. He assigns her the name of Mahogany (since he names *all* of his women after inanimate objects), and she skyrockets, amidst *much* of Miss Ross' signature teeth gnashing, to the very pinnacle of the high-fashion scene. Unsatisfied with such superficial glory, and intent on furthering her own design career, Tracy/Mahogany slips one of her own designs into a fashion show she's modeling in. It is a hysterical, yet painful moment as the crowd falls silent and Mahogany is left on the stage and complete embarrassment. But the day is saved by an older Italian gentleman who becomes her lover and mentor. He bankrolls a design house for her, of course, and she scores another major success. This leads to a particularly favorite scene where Ross is in her element – as the prima donna couturierre, she parades through her workroom, issuing demands and dictums, and eventually becomes entirely unglued, shrieking and cursing at her workers, who, not speaking English, have no idea what she's carrying on about. This scene seems to sum up Ross herself, as so many in this movie do, and she is utterly delightful – but *not* in a pleasant way. Of course, it's inevitable that Mahogany will chuck her entire career in the trash and go home to Mr. Right, having learned her lesson about the ugly business of beautiful clothes, and the viewer sighs a sigh of palpable relief that this movie, this monument to egotism, has finally come to an end. Writing credits go to John Byrum and Bob Merrill. I don't imagine that they put this movie on their resumes.

The magnificent Hayward, again demonstrating her prowess in portraying alcoholics, this time in the true-life story of chanteuse and general party-girl, Lillian Roth. We begin with Lillian as a little girl, being trotted to all kinds of auditions by her scheming and manipulative stage mother, played by Van Fleet. One thing becomes another and soon Lillian is a star (with a repertoire that includes a much too serious rendition of "The Red, Red Robin…"), and Mother is pleased to be accumulating the trappings of luxury that she so richly deserves. But, when love enters the picture, Lillian is smitten and all of Mother's plans are threatened with derailment. When Lillian's young lover dies of an unnamed illness, she is devastated and has no interest in performing. But all-powerful Mother wields her strength, telling Lillian to snap out of it. It is a painful decision for Lillian, but she throws her mother out, and as Mother slinks off to the sidelines, Lillian, like her counterpart in "Smash-Up", soon takes a wee little drinkee to ease the pain. But as all alcoholics know, one drink is too many and a thousand is not enough, and soon Lillian is on the road to ruin. She gets tossed out of all the classiest places, and wakes up in bed with a strange man – even though they're both fully dressed and in twin beds. She falls under the spell of a Svengali, compellingly played by Conte, who convinces her that it's okay to drink, but just know when to stop. Of course, if that were possible for alcoholics, no one would need AA. She runs away and attempts suicide. But Hayward, being Hayward, survives it all, and with the help of AA (and Hollywood) she's back on top in no time. The video box informs us that the popularity of this movie at the time rekindled Miss Roth's career, but to a degree that Miss Roth began imitating *Miss Hayward's* version of Miss Roth. Life imitating art imitating life.

The instrumental "Apache" is playing as Christine Keeler (Joanne Whalley-Kilmer) and Mandy Rice-Davies (Bridget Fonda) are dressing for a night at a *knocking shop*. The montage is pure early-Sixties erotica as these contrasting beauties are fastening their merry widows and applying their frosted lipstick, with the rolling rhythm of the music propelling the delectable visuals. Slipping into their party dresses, with a final command of, "Wet your lips," the girls are stunning, and all eyes are on them.

Cut to: rustling satin sheets and the ecstatic cooing and moaning of two women making very vocal love. The "ooohhhing" and "aaahhhing" is intense and limbs are flailing as the camera travels over the bed, settling on the faces of Christine and Mandy. A final unified sigh of orgasmic lust and the girls dissolve into uncontrollable laughter as their passion is revealed as a charade, and the camera pans to their catch of the evening, a very aroused matinée idol, who, unable to contain himself, blows a battle cry and swandives into bed with them. Steamy and hysterical, it is drop-dead stylish film-making, and only one dazzling segment of a brilliant film.

Rosalind Russell acting. *Imagine*. The very woman for whom the word "madcap" was coined, the woman whose giddy portrayals of fast-talking, double-dealing dames with machine-gun delivery -- *acting*! Well, she *could* act, she just didn't get the chance very much, once she'd been typecast as the motor-mouthed madonna. And in this movie, she acts her little heart out in playwright George Kelly's (mysteriously) Pulitzer prizewinning story of an overbearing, scheming matron who is a little *too* involved with her possessions. Mr. Kelly, uncle of Princess Grace, and by all accounts a big queen, has written one of the all-time great female roles, one that any actress would give her eyeteeth to play. Along with a host of meaty supporting roles, Kelly's sculpting of the role of Harriet Craig is masterful, though at times, it *does* seem a bit dated, now (IMDb.com lists a silent 1928 version, presumed lost, that would be a treat to see). The sensitive and well thought out, yet cold and detached qualities in the movie are a gift from pioneering director and avowed lesbian Dorothy Arzner, who was also the first woman to direct a talkie. Harriet, to whom appearances are *everything*, rules her adoring husband and their house with a velvet fist. When a well-meaning neighbor bring over fresh flowers as a gift, Harriet immediately disposes of them, saying "I can't go around picking up rose petals all day." But her wealth, through marriage, has brought her (*bought* her?) all the things most important in life – a beautiful home and social respect, and she's determined to remain in control of that as long as possible. But all good things must come to an end. After Harriet has isolated her husband, alienated their friends, and lost all her servants, she gets caught up in some ridiculous plot contrivance (that Joan Crawford *completely* does away with in *her* version *Harriet Craig), that serves to bring all her manipulations and machinations to light. Predictably, her husband leaves her, and we see her crack, and realize she's lost everything and that the thing that ostensibly means the most to her – the house – is cold consolation. But the last scene, where her sanity dissolves before our eyes is a glorious and delirious spectrum of emotions in which we see all her defenses and fantasies crumbling before her, as she just as quickly, installs new ones. An overlooked tour-de-force, and jewels in the crowns of Rosiland Russell *and* Dorothy Arzner.

More correctly, the title of the video should be the John Phillips story, since he, indeed, was the mastermind behind the Mamas and Papas. Poor John Phillips – the brilliantly talented songwriter and arranger, who, unable to ignore the allure of drugs and alcohol, died not too long ago. The Mamas and Papas defined the new California folk sound in a way that allowed us to look past the British invasion. Following Phillips career from his early folk music roots, where he met and performed with future wife and Mama, Michelle, the video contains astounding footage documenting the formation of the group. John and Michelle met Denny Doherty -- he, of the baritone as rich and mellow as fine cognac -- and began performing as a trio. Denny had long been pursued by an ardent suitor, Cass Elliot. *Straight Shooter* reveals the story of John, Michelle and Denny being holed up in their New York hotel room with a sizable amount of liquid LSD, while Denny introduced John to the music of the Beatles – and altering the course of pop music along the way. During the same drug-addled binge, Denny's friend, Cass, showed up, imbibed in the same drugs, and the unlikely foursome was created. Cass' silvery vocals completed the palette, which offered a range of sounds that were delicate and mesmerizing, but with great force behind them. Their notorious trip to the Caribbean, financed with an American Express card, and famously chronicled in their song "Creeque Alley," is well represented here – it is on this trip that many of the Mamas and Papas earliest hits were written. When paradise turned bad, they returned to New York, with little hope for a future together as a group. And one night John woke up Michelle to help him write down a song that was going through his head – a little tune that turned out to be "California Dreamin'." California became their home, and suddenly their future was as glistening and alluring as the liquid LSD they were so fond of. The song skyrocketed to the top of the charts and into music history as one of the most relentlessly listenable and timelessly lovely creations ever written, weaving harmony and melody in a style that would become the signature of John Phillips, as well as the Mamas and Papas. They were living on the fast track, turning out one hit after another, and carousing with the Beatles and Rolling Stones. Producing the legendary Monterrey Pop Festival, Phillips was at the zenith of his career, with a dazzling future with the Mamas and Papas, as well as a producer. So dazzling, that Phillips was blinded by the glare, and the future exploded in a syringe loaded with the seductive promises of various drugs. The group unhappily dissolves, John and Michelle break up, and John Phillips never again begins to approach the brilliance that he achieved with the Mamas and Papas – it is a tragedy, incompletely played out in the video, but is a tale of charming innocence and dreams of immortality, when the Mamas and Papas were rock royalty.

"She's catnip to every cat in town," a bartender says of Gloria Wandrous, call girl and Party Girl #1, who is boozing it up, surrounded by a dozen men. Waking up in Wes Liggett's (Harvey) Fifth Avenue penthouse, she discovers he's left her a wad of money and a note saying, "Is $250 enough?" She hurls the money away, scrawling "No Sale" on the mirror with her lipstick. But she seems to forget that she is a call girl, and call girls accept money for services rendered. Unfortunately, Gloria is in love with Liggett, her "john", but he is married to someone else – a society matron poorly played by the cold, patrician beauty, Dina Merrill. As Gloria is leaving, she steals Ligget's wife's $7000 fur coat and starts all kinds of trouble. It certainly would have caused trouble today – the entire film is a PETA nightmare, as Gloria can be clocked wearing suede, lynx, coyote, mink, sable, beaver, and something that looks like skunk. The whole movie has Liz in her last fading bloom of youth, girded-to-the-gills and at the peak of her "eyebrows-of-death" period. Her Gloria-ously voluptuous figure is beginning to bulge and sag, but she is decked out to the nines in drop-dead stylish early-60s glamour. At the time, Liz and Jackie Kennedy were neck-and-neck in the glamour department, and the Jackie look is unmistakably present in Liz's styling. Though Jackie's never would be, Liz's cleavage is on abundant display. Cleavage was such a powerful metaphor for sex, then – a set-piece whose effectiveness would be impossible now (you practically have to show actors rutting on the floor to satisfy the modern taste). Liz was also at the peak of her Eddie Fisher period - playing a harlot on screen after stealing Fisher away from his real-life wife, Debbie Reynolds, only added to Liz's plummeting reputation. Fisher plays Gloria's friend who loves her but is not taken seriously by her. He's such a drip on screen, that you can't help wondering how in real life this guy managed to attract one of the most glamorous women in the world. The suave and very continental Harvey is equally dull, especially as he commandeers that last 20 minutes of the film. The part of Gloria won an Oscar for Liz Taylor – mysteriously, since the work is far inferior to many of Liz's previous films. Liz has proclaimed that this is the least favorite film she ever made – she was simply fulfilling the requirements of her contract. But when Liz is good, she's very, very good, but when she's bad, she gives it all she's got. Director Daniel Mann definitely had a way with leading-ladies. In addition to guiding Liz towards her Oscar, he did the same for Shirley Booth in *Come Back, Little Sheba* and Anna Magnani in *The Rose Tattoo*. Also directing Susan Hayward in *I'll Cry Tomorrow*, Mann certainly excels in these heavy-handed soapers. Based on the racy John O'Hara novel, the dialogue is dreadful. At one point Gloria tells her shrink, "I don't need you any more. I have no problems. I'm in love," as well as, "Someday Wes is going to find himself, and I want to be there." The script was so bad we veered off into a conversation about the yogurt shop murders, and missed a scene full of lots of drinking, ultimatums and arched eyebrows, but we were riveted to the screen as Gloria is screaming, "Mama, face it! I was the slut of all time!" But even when shrieking, Liz is irresistible. And like Gloria says in the movie, "I loved it – every awful moment of it, I loved!"