The Philadelphia Story (1940) ****

The Philadelphia Story (1940) is a remarkable film for several reasons.  First, the small but stellar cast was comprised of three Hollywood stalwarts—Cary Grant, James Stewart, and Katharine Hepburn.  Second, Donald Ogden Stewart’s expertly adapted Oscar-winning screenplay was engagingly witty and humanized Hepburn. Which brings me to the most remarkable thing about the movie—it probably saved Hepburn’s film career.  For all of those reasons, and many more, The Philadelphia Story is a classic Hollywood gem.

For any actor or actress, even Hepburn, being labeled “Box Office Poison” could be damaging.  After several of her films bombed at the box office, Hepburn had to face the fact that moviegoers just weren’t that into her.  To some she seemed hard, aloof, stilted, and affected.  Maybe it was her upper-class Northeastern upbringing or her Bryn Mawr education, but she just wasn’t that likable to many American movie ticket buyers.  Still, Hepburn could always fall back to the one audience that seemed to adore her—Broadway.  So when Philip Barry wrote the stage play of The Philadelphia Story specifically for Hepburn, she was more than happy to finance and star in it. Even before the play was a huge success on Broadway, Howard Hughes bought the film rights for his then-girlfriend, Hepburn, because he believed it was just the vehicle to restart her film career.  He was right, of course, and the rest is Hollywood history.

While the story is somehow labeled a screwball comedy, for me The Philadelphia Story is more of a sophisticated comedy.  The premise, of course, is a bit screwy, but it certainly is not in the screwball realm of The Awful Truth (1937), Bringing Up Baby (1938), or probably the greatest screwball comedy of all time, Easy Living (1937). Hepburn plays Tracy Lord, a socialite on the verge of marrying a complete bore, George Kittredge (John Howard), when her ex-husband, Dexter (Grant), shows up with two reporters in tow to cover the nuptials.  To avoid a family scandal involving her father (John Halliday) and a chorus girl, Tracy agrees to allow the reporters, Mike (Stewart) and Liz (Ruth Hussey), to take pictures and write an article for Spy magazine. Of course, this isn’t the only reason Dexter has crashed his ex’s wedding—the flame of love still burns bright for his rigid, unforgiving ex-wife.  And, this is what the story hinges on—Tracy’s inability to accept anyone’s human weakness, even her own.  In between exchanging sharps quips with Dexter, her father, and her beyond hilarious mother (Mary Nash) and sister (Virginia Weidler) and soulfully philosophizing with Mike, Tracy somehow grows up before the audience’s eyes and becomes, dare I say it, human.

Interestingly enough, while Grant and Hepburn had undeniable chemistry, as previously shown in Sylvia Scarlett (1935), Holiday (1938) and Bringing Up Baby (1938), most of the film focuses on a budding romantic relationship between Tracy and Mike.  Hepburn had wanted Spencer Tracy to play the part of Mike (this was two years prior to her having ever met Tracy) but he was unavailable, which probably was a blessing, because when you think about it who could have better humanized Hepburn than Mr. Likable himself, Jimmy Stewart?  He, along with director George Cukor, did such a good job of bringing out Hepburn’s vulnerable side that Stewart won his only Oscar (besides his honorary one).  Strangely enough, Stewart and Hepburn never did another film together, and this was also her last pairing with Grant as well. Oh well, both Grant and Stewart moved onto the world of Hitchcock and Hepburn, well, she finally got to work with Spencer Tracy, so I guess things worked out for everyone in the end.

Overall, The Philadelphia Story is a highly enjoyable film.  The story is witty and the cast is engaging.  It also serves as a historical footprint in the film career of Hepburn, because without it things may have turned out very differently for the woman who would go on to be recognized as one of the greatest film actresses ever. 

 

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The Mortal Storm (1940) ***

Released more than one year before Pearl Harbor, director Frank Borzage’s The Mortal Storm (1940) was a Hollywood rarity—it openly criticized the Nazi Party.  Even though Hitler’s reign of terror in Germany and parts of Eastern Europe went unchecked for over six years before the start of WWII, Hollywood, for the most part, stayed quiet on the subject until the U.S. entered into war with Japan, and then Germany, in 1941. So, when MGM distributed The Mortal Storm in June of 1940 it caused a slight buzz—especially in Nazi Germany, which not only banned the movie but all MGM films in the fatherland. This fact alone makes the movie special, but the story and acting also make this one of the most important pre-WWII anti-Nazi films ever made in Hollywood.

Based on the 1938 Phyllis Bottom novel of the same name, The Mortal Storm takes place in Bavaria (Germany).  The story begins on January 30, 1933. This date is important to the plot for two reasons: 1) Professor Viktor Roth (Frank Morgan) is celebrating his 60th birthday and 2) Adolf Hitler is named Chancellor of Germany.  Professor Roth has a beautiful family and is a distinguished scientific university professor on this date. The film sets out to show that the extremism of Nazism can destroy anything in a very short amount of time. You see, Professor Roth is non-Aryan (for some reason the story doesn’t come right out and say Jewish, even though we do see Professor Roth wearing an armband in a detention center which has a letter “J” on it) and believes in free thought and scientific evidence. These things don’t play well with the Nazis—the movie seems to indicate that they dislike Professor Roth’s science more than his religion, yet somehow they tie both together, as he refuses to denounce his belief that there is no difference between the blood of one human being to another, so I can somehow overlook the side-stepping of the Jewish question.

What makes the story compelling, however, is how Nazism can irreparably fracture relationships.  While I can’t completely wrap my mind around why Professor’s Roth’s two stepsons, Otto (Robert Stack) and Erich (William T. Orr), would join the Nazi Party in the first place (although they are von Rohns, which indicates that they are of noble descent, so that could be why), I think Borzage does a good job of showing their confliction between family and Party loyalty. For them, I think, it’s not the anti-Semitism that appeals to them but the idea of Germany regaining its status in the world.  Still, the closing scene of the film, which finds Otto walking silently through his empty family home, which has been destroyed by the philosophy his Nazi armband represents, is quite moving.

Of course, it is the complicated love-triangle between Professor Roth’s daughter Freya (Margaret Sullavan) and Fritz (Robert Young) and Martin (James Stewart) that is at the center of the movie.  In the beginning, Freya and Fritz are happily in love and become engaged. While Martin is disappointed by this, he’s more concerned with the Nazis taking over Germany.  He’s a lot like Professor Roth—he thinks people should be allowed to think for themselves and not be forced to join political parties they don’t agree with.  Fritz, on the other hand, is a follower—he thinks the Nazis can rebuild the glory of the German Reich.  This, of course, puts Martin at odds with his childhood friends, Fritz and the two von Rohns, as well as what seems like their entire village.  His audacity of standing up for a non-Aryan school teacher, Professor Berg (Granville Bates), and his refusal to join the local Nazi party puts a target on his back.  And, Fritz’s hardline stance destroys his relationship with Freya, who gravitates toward Martin as a result.  The pivotal scene of the film, which I won’t completely disclose, spotlights how destructive Nazism can actually be for lifelong friends.

For me, the standouts in the film are Stewart, Sullavan, and Maria Ouspenskaya (who plays Martin’s soft but steely mother).  Other than Gregory Peck, I don’t know of any other actor who could so expertly play the moral center of a film like Jimmy Stewart. The Mortal Storm is probably one of Stewart’s most nuanced good guy portrayals ever—there are no railings against wrong or manic cries for justice. Instead, he simply and soft-spokenly explains how he feels about Nazism.  And, while I’m not a huge fan of Sullavan, she is markedly compelling as Freya.  Her conversations with Fritz regarding the end of their relationship and her inquiries about the whereabouts of her father show that given the right material that she could pull off depth of character.  Finally, while she only had a few scenes, Ouspenskaya made the most of them.  You can see where Martin got his wisdom and countenance from, as Mrs. Breitner is not afraid to stand up to injustice.  The scene where she has Martin and Freya drink from the bridal glass is heartbreakingly stellar.

Overall, I think The Mortal Storm is a historically important Hollywood film. While it is practically forgotten today, it was an extremely important movie in 1940.  Yes, it was, by all accounts, a box office failure and critics thought it was dated, but it did something that most Hollywood films didn’t—it exposed the destructive nature of the Nazi Party in Germany—not as a war movie with soldiers and tanks, but as a film about the destruction of a family.

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His Girl Friday (1940) **1/2

There’s something unusual about director Howard Hawks’ screwball comedy, His Girl Friday—it’s not all screwy. In fact, there are quite a few dark moments in it that are not standard fare for the genre.  This unusual quirk and the witty, rapid-fire repartee makes for an interesting viewing experience.  Of course, it helps that Hawks coaxed out two great performances from his principal leads, Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell.

Adapted from the heralded Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur play, The Front Page, His Girl Friday flips the script, so to speak, by making Hildy Johnson (Russell) a female reporter on her way out of the slimy bullpen and into respectable matrimony.  Unfortunately for Hildy she has two things standing in her way: her ex-husband and soon-to-be ex-editor, Walter Burns (Grant), and her own professional ambition.  Of course, this doesn’t bode well for her fiancee Bruce Baldwin (Ralph Bellamy).  It also doesn’t help that she delivers the news of her impending marriage to Walter on the eve of an execution that has political implications.  Walter needs his best reporter for the biggest story in town and he stops at nothing to ensure that Hildy writes it.  As the story grows bigger by the minute so does Hildy’s love of the newspaper game.

Sure, His Girl Friday is a screwball comedy.  Spit-fire dialogue infused with sexual innuendo and inside jokes abound throughout the movie.  Of course, Hildy and Walter are the two smartest people in any room and seem to relish jockeying between themselves to determine who is actually the smartest between them.  Alas, this means that others have to play the one-upped or, worse, the dumb sap, like Bruce.  But who cares, it’s all in the name of good, rollicking fun!  But is it… There’s a strangely dark side to this film that is quite unusual for the typical screwball comedy. 

For one, the big news story revolves around the impending execution of Earl Williams (John Qualen), a man who killed a black police officer.  We hear and see the police practicing for his hanging. And, when Hildy goes to interview him in jail there aren’t any hijinks—it’s a serious conversation about what led Walter to the gallows.  There’s also a few dramatic scenes that revolve around Walter’s friend Mollie Malloy (Helen Mack) and the callous way that the press treats their subject matter.  For me, this is one of the reasons that I don’t love His Girl Friday.  If you’ve seen it then you know that there’s a pretty horrific event that takes place near the end of the film and that almost without a beat the story moves back into screwball land—this is jarring, even if Hawks’ is trying to portray just how jaded the journalistic world is.

Still, who can resist the battle of the sexes between Grant and Russell.  He’s a reprehensible opportunist who knows how to use words to his advantage and she’s a fast-talking broad with an interesting fashion sense who knows all of Walter’s tricks.  They are a match made in matrimonial hell—but they are fun to watch.  Interestingly enough, Russell was far, far, far from the first choice for the role of Hildy, but after a slew of actresses (Carole Lombard, Claudette Colbert, Katharine Hepburn, Irene Dunne, Jean Arthur, Ginger Rogers, etc.) either turned down the role or were deemed too expensive by Columbia Pictures, Russell was given the role she is probably best known for (even though Auntie Mame is well-remembered, too).  And while Grant got top-billing, Russell obviously was the star and heart of His Girl Friday—funny how things work out sometimes. 

Overall, the inside jokes alone make His Girl Friday worth watching.  For example, when Walter is asked to describe what Bruce looks like he answers, “He looks like that fellow in the movies—Ralph Bellamy.”  And, then there’s the classic line Bruce quips when the Mayor (Clarence Kolb) says Bruce is through, “Listen, the last man that said that to me was Archie Leach just a week before he cut his throat.”  I could go on and on about how hilariously the dialogue is delivered.  Needless to say, His Girl Friday is a fast-paced, antic-filled screwball comedy—with a few odd somber moments. 

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Babes in Arms (1939) **

As a fan of the larger than life production numbers that Busby Berkeley choreographed for such films as 42nd Street (1933), Gold Diggers of 1933 (1933), and Footlight Parade (1933), I must admit that I found his Babes in Arms (1939) to be rather pedestrian. Furthermore, if the last scene, “God’s Country”, were cut, I wouldn’t believe Berkley had anything to do with it, sans the fact that he’s credited as the director in the beginning of the movie.  And, how in the world was MGM allowed to say this was based on a Rodgers & Hammerstein musical when almost all of the original Broadway songs were cut and replaced by mediocre melodies?  The only thing that saves Babes in Arms for me is Judy Garland’s beautiful voice—and even that is somewhat tainted when she has to sing with Mickey Rooney and/or Betty Jaynes. 

Tough times hit the vaudeville world when the talkies take over at the box office and old troopers like Joe Moran (Charles Winninger) and his wife Florrie (Grace Hayes) find they can’t make a living anymore.  When Joe gets the old-timers together for a revival tour he says they can’t take any excess baggage along—this means no kids, even if they are more talented than their “has-been” parents. Foreseeing that things aren’t going to go well for their out-of-touch parents and with the threat of being sent away to a trade school, Mickey (Mickey Rooney) decides that he and the other kids should put on their own show in their hometown.  And, so he writes and produces his own musical—which we never actually get to see, sans one unfortunate number, “Daddy Was a Minstrel Man” in which almost the entire cast performs in blackface.  I won’t spoil the ending, but needless to say it ends like most 1930s musicals—happily, at least for those in the film, perhaps not so much for musical lovers.

While I didn’t really like Babes in Arms, I can’t say that it was a bad film—it just wasn’t very good.  I don’t know if MGM was in a hurry to cash in on how well Judy Garland’s The Wizard of Oz (1939) did at the box office and decided to rush it through post-production or what, but there is a lack of substance to it that just irks me.  I don’t care if it earned two Academy Award nominations (Best Actor, Rooney—really?--and Best Music) and made a boat load of cash—even more than The Wizard of Oz—oh, the inhumanity!—it’s not what I think a top-notch musical should be.  It doesn’t help either that I dislike every musical number except “Good Morning” and “I Cried for You”, both of which Garland primarily performs alone.  Another pet peeve is that I have to listen to Jaynes and Douglas McPhail sing the same song twice, “Where or When”, in the span of five minutes. I could have done without the first rendition, let alone a back-to-back rehashing of the song, which sounded exactly the same as it did the first time I heard it two minutes earlier!  And, finally, suffice to say, I was not happy to see Garland sing in blackface—even if the song was paying homage to that old vaudeville standard, it still doesn’t leave a pleasant image in my mind—which is how I also feel about seeing Bing Crosby perform“Abraham” in blackface in Holiday Inn (1942). Yes,I know Garland had done this in a previous film, Everybody Sing (1938), but fortunately I’ve never seen that. 

Oddly enough, other than the two memorable songs sung by Garland, the most interesting thing about Babes in Arms are the ancillary performances of Guy Kibbee and Margaret Hamilton. Kibbee’s Judge Black’s conversation with Hamilton’s Martha Steele, who’s the head of the Welfare Board, about what is best for the vaudeville children is probably the most interesting dialogue exchange in the entire film. More of them and less of Baby Rosalie (June Preisser) would have done wonders for the movie, I’m sure.

Overall, Babes in Arms is probably the least interesting musical I have watched that appears in the 1001 Movies book. Thankfully, Judy Garland’s voice got me through it. 

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Ninotchka (1939) ****

When MGM marketed director Ernst Lubitsch’s political satirical 1939 comedy, Ninotchka, they used the catchphrase, “Garbo laughs”. While Greta Garbo had most assuredly laughed in her previous films, this was her first comedy film and she played her part perfectly.  It helped that screenwriters Billy Wilder, Walter Reisch, Charles Brackett, and Melchior Lengyel’s Oscar-nominated script was tailored made to fit Garbo’s serious on and off-screen persona.  As a result, Ninotchka benefitted immensely from having the perfect script for just the right actress who was supported by an eccentric cast, and who was directed by the only man who could pull it all together. 

When Lubitsch decided to make Ninotchka he wanted to cast Garbo in the lead but was worried that she might not be able to play the part as he wanted.  As such, he had an interview with her in which after several minutes of anxious, serious small talk he asked her, almost accusingly, “Can you laugh?” Garbo, for her part, was amused by the question and told him she believed she could.  But, Lubitsch pressed on and explained that he didn’t want a small, polite laugh but that he wanted a “wide-open and completely spontaneous laugh”. Garbo said she’d have to think about it for a day.  When she returned the following day she answered Lubitsch by saying, “Your question and the idea--can you laugh is silly. And I love it.”  She then proceeded to laugh quite heartily, as did Lubitsch, and they, of course, ended up making a Oscar-nominated film that showcased probably Garbo’s most rounded performance ever.  Oh, and the conversation also turned into one of the best film marketing campaigns ever.

Most of the story takes place in 1920s Paris, where three Soviet emissaries, Iranov (Sig Ruman), Buljanov (Felix Bressart) and Kopalsky (Alexander Granach) are trying to sell the crown jewels of the Grand Duchess Swana (Ina Claire). The jewelry sale is of great importance to the Soviet people, as it is expected that the year’s crop is going to be quite poor and the money will go toward feeding the nation.  However, the emissaries are beguiled by the luxuries of the Western world and end up being sidetracked by the Duchesses’ smooth-talking lover, Count Leon d’Algout (Melvyn Douglas).  When the pending jewelry sale ends up in the French courts, the Soviet government decides to send in reinforcements in the form of a no-nonsense hard-liner, Nina Ivanovna Yakushova, “Ninotchka” (Garbo). 

Of course, it is Ninotchka’s stolid, straight-talking, all-business nature that makes the story as funny as it is.  Her tone is set from the moment she steps off the train and refuses to allow a porter to carry her bags and asks him, “Why should you carry other people’s bags?” To which the porter answers, “Well, that’s by business, Madame.” Her retort, “That’s no business. That’s social injustice.”  His reply, “That depends on the tip.” The audience laughs, but not Ninotchka.  And the story continues on like this for quite some time, with Ninotchka matter-of-factly addressing the bumbling antics of her comrades and finding herself appalled by the consumerism of the Western world: two-thousand francs for a hotel room could buy a cow for the Soviet people; ordering raw beets and carrots in a French restaurant; and, inciting ladies’ room attendants to strike for better wages.  Through it all, Garbo plays her Oscar-nominated part to the hilt, never giving away that she is in on the jokes that the audience is laughing at. Her willingness to allow her true persona to be the butt of the joke is what makes the film so great. In one of her first scenes in the movie, her character is asked, “Do you want to be alone, comrade?”, a direct jab at her infamous line from Grand Hotel (1932) which became synonymous with her on-screen and off-screen personality. 

Yet, Ninotchka would have not been quite as good as it is if Garbo’s character didn’t transform a little, and that’s where Douglas’ character comes in.  Even a hard-line Russian girl can be sidetracked by a smooth-talking man—even if she constantly one-ups him with classic lines like, “Your general appearance is not distasteful,” and “We don't have men like you in my country. That is why I believe in the future of my country.”  And, yes, he is what finally makes her laugh a “wide-open and completely spontaneous laugh” with his complete ridiculousness.

Still, it’s not the love story that draws you in, it is the personal, though hilarious, transformation of Ninotchka. Through Ninotchka’s true education to the workings of the world and the true nature of communism, Lubitsch is able to show his main character’s growth as well as to expose the idiocy of the Soviet system.  No one did satirical social and/or political comedy better than Lubitsch, and Ninotchka was the perfect vehicle for him to attack Soviet propaganda.  Perhaps 1939 wasn’t the best time to tick off the Soviets, as less than three months prior to the film’s release the Soviets had signed the Non-Aggression Pact with Hitler.  In any case, Lubitsch’s cunning but polite ridicule of the Soviet system is perhaps the best film depiction of communism of its time.  He would, of course, follow this successful political satire up with perhaps his greatest satire, To Be or Not To Be (1942), when he took on the Nazis—you see, he was an equal-opportunity ridiculer.

Overall, I adore Ninotchka.  While I love Garbo drama, I most admire this performance because it is her most-rounded role ever.  Additionally, I’m a sucker for well-done satire, and when it so deftly exposes the true nature of a political party or a historical mindset all the better.

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Gunga Din (1939) **

Director George Stevens’ Gunga Din (1939) is a product of its time.  Loosely based on the Rudyard Kipling poem of the same name, this 75-year old film celebrates British colonialism in a strangely uneven way.  At times, it is a buddy comedy and at other times it is a serious action/war picture—as such, it is difficult to pigeonhole it into a particular genre.  The film itself is not bad, but its plot has not aged well and can be off-putting to some.

Set in the Hindu Kush region of India, circa 1880, the British are dealing with a local murder cult known as the Thuggee who are also freedom fighters.  When the Thuggee murder an entire outpost and disable the telegraph line, three sergeants are asked to lead a small group of soldiers to investigate and repair the telegraph.  Sergeant Cutter (Cary Grant) is a cockney soldier always on the lookout for a get rich quick scheme, usually in the form of buried treasure. Sergeant MacChesney (Victor McLaglen) is the leader of the group, who has a fondness for elephants. And, Sergeant Ballantine (Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.) is counting the days until his discharge so he can get married (to Joan Fontaine) and go into the tea business. It’s obvious the three men are great friends, but the prospect of Sergeant Ballantine leaving the group to get married causes both friction and joviality in the story. 

There are many reasons why Gunga Din has not aged well. First, an American film celebrating British colonialism in a post-colonial world is very rarely viewed fondly. Second, most, if not all, of the Indians are played by white men wearing body paint.  You add this irritating detail to the fact that Gunga Din (Sam Jaffe) sacrifices himself for the British army at the cost of the lives of his countrymen and you can’t help but cringe.  Furthermore, after allowing the Guru (Eduardo Ciannelli) to give a rather impassioned speech about how old and accomplished India is compared to that of Britain, screenwriters Ben Hecht, Charles MacArthur, Joel Sayre, and Fred Guiol then portray him as a complete madman.  Additionally, when one considers that the Indian people were, for the most part peacefully, trying to extricate themselves of British rule in 1939, led by Gandhi, a picture glorying the bravery and might of the British army seems a tad insensitive. 

The overall atmosphere of Gunga Din doesn’t abate the movie’s overall insensitivity, either. Had the film been a more focused, dramatic look at the conflict between the British and the Thuggee, it may have been more palatable.  Instead, Stevens jumps back and forth between seriousness and inanity.  While it was great to hear Grant’s natural cockney accent, his screwball antics throughout the film are grating to say the least.  And, while one can’t complain about anything that celebrates the bonds of soldiers, there is a fine line between showcasing and ridiculing such bonds. Gunga Din does not traverse this line well, and, as such, there is an uneven feel to the overall production.  Had the film been more focused, and the runtime cut by about 15 to 20 minutes, I think I would have enjoyed it, even with its insensitive message, a lot more than I did.

Gunga Din did earn one Academy Award nomination for Best Black and White Cinematography (Joseph H. August), which was probably the best thing about it.  Shooting massive battle scenes in the middle of the Sierra Nevada and Alabama Hills and then trying to pass them off as having taken place in the Khyber Pass was no small feat, but August and Stevens pulled it off.  Still, this is not enough to make this a must-see film, either.

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Daybreak (Le jour se lève) 1939 **

There are two important, though strange, reasons why director Marcel Carné’s Le jour se lève (Daybreak, 1939) is still considered an important element of French filmmaking. First, and probably most importantly, it is considered by many critics to be the greatest cinematic example of French poetic realism—I do not concur and will speak to that momentarily.  Second, it was suppressed not once but twice for two very extreme reasons.  With a resume like this, is it any wonder why Le jour se lève retains a place in some critics’ film Pantheon? Alas, for me, at least, it does not shine quite so brightly.

Jean Gabin was the greatest French actor of his generation. He worked with the best French directors: Jean Renoir, Julien Duvivier, Jacques Becker, and René Clément, on some of the most important films to come out of France in the 1930s through the 1950s.  Still, he was a difficult man to work with and he had a notorious eye for the ladies—specifically one named Marlene Dietrich.  As such, when he did try to make it in Hollywood during the days of Vichy France, things went very poorly for him and he never became an international star like his fellow countrymen Maurice Chevalier or Charles Boyer. Still, he embodied the handsome, hard-working man with a strong conscience that appealed to French audiences—hence, his portrayal of François in Le jour se lève.

François is a simple foundry worker who falls in love with an innocent flower shop girl, Françoise (Jacqueline Laurent).  Sounds simple enough, doesn’t it?  Well, from the very first minute of the movie you know it’s not, because a man gets shot and proceeds to have one of the most over-the-top death scenes ever—falling down not one flight of steps, but several—and then is only pronounced dead by a blind man (Georges Douking) poking him with a stick. The police come and our hero and murderer, François, barricades himself in his room for a day so he can remember everything that led up to the moment that he pulled the trigger. Ah, but this isn’t your ordinary Hollywood flashback.  No, no one says, “It all began…” to us or an interrogating detective—just a simple dissolve and we are in the foundry with François when he first meets Françoise.  This was such a revolutionary film technique that it  was deemed too confusing for the audience and a title card had to be added at the beginning of the film to explain what was going on. 

The story itself is intriguing and allegorical at the same time.  Of course, François represents the recently defeated Popular Front and the police are viewed as pawns of Fascism, this is where the poetic realism comes into play, but at heart the film is nihilistic and depressing.  Think about it, François falls in love with an idealized woman (Laurent) who is distracted by womanizing dog trainer, Valentin (Jules Berry), who promises to take her to beautiful, European hotspots.  And while she refuses to engage in a sexual relationship with the hard-working François, she most assuredly begins such a relationship with a man who trains animals to do what he wants. Oh, and then there’s Clara (Arletty)—the woman smart enough to leave Valentin and to see what a good man François is.  Perhaps I’m biased here, but in a way, François got what he deserved in the end because Clara was obviously the best woman for him, but instead he throws her over for the idiotic, and dare I say it, boring, François. 

Okay, so yes, Le jour se lève is full of poetic realism.  François is a working class man with a fatalistic world view who destroys his one shot at happiness by killing someone (although, I would argue that he was on the wrong path in regard to which woman he should choose).  From start to finish there is a cloud of bitterness that hangs over the story that is irritatingly devastating.  Still, I cannot concur with those who believe this is the masterpiece of the genre—as Jean Renoir’s Grand Illusion (1937) is a far superior film, and while it does not have the quintessential tragic ending as does Le jour se lève, stylistically it is a better representation of poetic realism. 

Le jour se lève’s overt socialistic and fatalistic themes did not play well in Vichy France and it was banned in 1940.  Not willing to account for their own cowardice and connivance in the wake of the German invasion, Vichy leaders called the film demoralizing, and it was not shown in France again until after the war.  As if the Nazis and collaborators weren’t enough, RKO decided it wanted to make a remake of the film in 1947 and attempted to buy up all copies of the movie and destroy them.  Now, I like Henry Fonda, but RKO”s remake, The Long Night (1947), was a bastardized, horrible version of Le jour se lève. Thankfully, some people in France kept a few copies of the film out of the hands of RKO and it still lives on today. 

Overall, the story of Le jour se lève is intriguing. Still, while I enjoy both Gabin’s and Arletty’s performances (hers more so), I found Laurent and Berry unpleasant to watch.  She due to her vacuous personality and he due to his unending need to overact.  And, finally, when you begin a film with the ending there needs to be something in the main section of the movie that allows you to understand why someone would commit murder—and here, there is nothing. Instead, at the end you ask yourself, “Really?”—even if it was poetic realism.

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