Then there are films we see often and sometimes love and are sometimes nonplussed by. We may screen one of these for friends and they get a headache and sigh in exasperation, and we too sigh, and turn it off, wondering what we ever saw in it, only to watch the rest of it by ourselves a few days later and fall back in mad love. Such a film for me is BRINGING UP BABY (1938).
Then there are films we don't even have on DVD, but for some reason we keep seeing them, usually on TCM. Eventually we seem them so damned often they too bend reality and meld into our lives. We usually love many things about them, but a few jarring elements keep us from really swooning, such a film for me is BELL, BOOK AND CANDLE (1958).
I've introduced all three this way because all three are mythic 'comedies of remarriage' (ala the book by Stanley Cavell), and that means they're confirmed reality warpers in that they are truly 'modern mythic,' reflecting our lives and relationships in and of the moment we're watching them like a funhouse mirror, like Tarot cards, like I Ching. They are 'screwball comedies' with the screwball being no longer a baseball pitching term, but an orgiastic ballroom term implying Crowley-esque sex magick abandon --all three film involve magic of one sort or another, be it conjuring (BOOK), sleight of hand card tricks (EVE), or animistic shape-shifting (BABY).
But what's truly diabolical about them is the way multiple viewings bring out a kind of subtextual unspoken paranoia that even the director or writer might not know about, wherein 'accidental' meet ups and romantic sabotage take on a whole new conspiratorial light only after several years and go-rounds. Maybe these aspects were in the original story, but in turnaround with censors or producers or stars were weeded out in favor of other emphases. These tropes are still there, underneath; they like incantations read between the lines instead of spoken. Later, much later, deeper meanings are at last discerned, and what's revealed is that the insidious plotting of girls going after guys is way more sophisticated than vice versa. Guys are dopey and obvious, but girls are so subtle even the filmmaker, writer, or actress herself might not notice. And certainly not the censor.
And so it dawned on me lately that in BRINGING UP BABY, Kate Hepburn is sabotaging Cary Grant's life deliberately so Aunt Elizabeth and her lawyer Boopie i.e. Mr. Peabody will give her the million instead of Grant's stuffy museum. She does get it, of course. Grant is just not equipped for such advanced intrigue, but she falls for him anyway and promises to fork it over for the museum, though not before one last act of sabotage--the one that's finally not deliberate-- both destroys the old shell and breathes life into the new, miraculously shrinking the huge dinosaur skeleton from wild to tame leopard and yapping dog and then down into a skinny New England bachelorette. The last piece in the puzzle of the past morphs all the incarnations and stages into a Venus de Brontosaurus, with leopard and terrier heads in addition to her snaky brontosaurus mouth (above).
In BELL, BOOK the suspicious coincidence is that Stewart just happens to live above the voodoo art store owned by an old college enemy of his fiancee (Janice Rule). Any smart witch expert would already be smelling a spell that made him notice the 'apt. available' sign as he passed perhaps, but it's never mentioned in the film. Think it over and of course she's lured him to live there deliberately in order to wreak further revenge on Janice, who wrote poison pen letters in school and stole boyfriends. Consider the witchy situation in ROSEMARY'S BABY, at the end when we find out that Mia Farrow and her lout husband were lured to the Dakota by a magical draw, that she was "chosen." Witches are like film producers, planning everything down to the smallest detail. For Gil everything just seems to come into place by chance, she seems faintly surprised... In BABY, Susan just happens to be at the golf course when David is playing with the lawyer for her aunt (who's going to decide where the million goes), to steal David's car and ball, and then keep going slowly undermining David's credibility.
In the LADY EVE the paranoia is more overt since we know from the beginning Jean (Barbara Stanwyck) is a sharpie out to fleece Henry Fonda's rich snake handler. Cards and gambling are her and her father's form of elemental magic. And as with the witches in BELL, the truth of their superiority to sucker sapiens must be kept secret. She and her father (Charles Coburn) can only show off their skill when alone together. When Fonda tries to impress the old man with a clumsy card trick he feigns amazement, only to momentarily forget himself later and exhibit a piece of card shuffle virtuosity worthy of W.C. Fields, remembering where he is only in mid shuffle and quickly concealing it, just as the witches in BELL conceal their existence from the populace, for the most part.
The relative ethereal 'magical' nature of Eve/Jean (short for Eugenia) and Charles Coburn/Col. Harrington in EVE is established early on by their Olympian view down upon clumsy Adam/Hopsy/Henry Fonda as he climbs Jacob's ladder up onto the ship. Their relative celestial height (the scarcity of passengers on their upper deck perch) is ascertained in a slow pan up from steerage, with its packed Preston Sturges grotesques. "I hope he's a wizard at cards!" Jean says, before dropping her apple on his head with flawless aim. As with Cary Grant in BABY and Stewart in BELL, Fonda never has a chance. He's outwitted from the start, a mortal mouse in betwixt the sphinx paws of immortal Woman.
The thing about true love in all these films is that, when it comes, it's not fun. It's a drag, snuffing out magic's elemental flame like a sharp draft, almost as if it's put there by the producers to appease censors, as a de facto obligation to the production code and the human reproductive system. We'd like to see Gil keep doing her sexy witch routine and to see Jean/Eve become a veritable Maya of illusion. Instead she refuses a huge alimony settlement, tries to reform her father, even yelling at him for winning a mere $30,000 from her new 'love.' In short, Jean becomes a sap. She plummets from her Olympian height. And let's not even mention the drecky way Kim Novak rains on the other witches' parade and eventually starts wearing virginal white in BELL. It makes on shudder.
The dreaded moment when the lovers fall in love in all three of these examples happens off camera, tangled up with sex to the point only a dissolve can untangle them. Naturally we're resentful when the magical beatnik girl falls in love with the nerd, for we hate to see our goddesses fall for the oldest con in the book, the genetic bait and switch sinker of love, marriage and probably children to some schmuck in a bow tie. In BABY we find out the the next day that Grant finally is ready to confess his love ("I've never had a better time!") though we're never sure when exactly he decided he loved her; for Stanwyck in EVE it's during an unseen stretch of time on the boat while Gerald and Harry suit up for action ("and I don't mean old maid!"); in BELL BOOK AND CANDLE the falling in love bathed in magical Off-camera poetic dialogue set to Central Park B-roll on Xmas morning and frankly it never quite gels because Jimmy Stewart is just too old and too naive and contemptuous of anything remotely out of the ordinary to resonate as a hip Greenwich village denizen, or even a true New Yorker.
Sometimes as a critic you can write your way into new appreciation for something, literally fall for your own story. Are these three women doing that? Perhaps it's because the men are so pure. The "you know me, Mack, nothing but reptiles!" Fonda can leave me kind of ambivalent, but he's so perfect in EVE because he plays it so straight. He's the perfect patsy; she falls in love with the idea of being married to someone rich and easy to fluster.
That's why in the end artifice and illusion are cinema's--as well as woman's--stock and trade. Without all the smoke and mirrors no one would ever hook up of their own free will. The man wants to fuck and run and it's the woman's task to ensnare him like Venus flytrap luring the unvary fly. She mustn't betray her true feelings at first, mustn't tremble the leaves and tip off the prey; she must stay aloof in the same way the image mustn't include a boom mike shadow, otherwise the illusion won't be complete enough to draw them in.
In each of these three films the woman's grand illusion-making is continually threatened by a draggy patriarchal element that threatens from without: in EVE, it's the bulldog guardian William Demarest, who 'knows a cold deck when he sees one' and that 'that's the same dame'. We want him to suffer for narcing even if he's right. He's like the poor people who vote Republican. But here's a secret: the real rich despise such bulldog loyalty in their mug underlings, and it's for that same reason we despise Demarest's cockblocking. Even though we know just how manipulative Eve's plans are, we want them to come true, and when love conquers all, we applaud by rote, as we must, our own social castration... and the end credits. Of course though, by that time it's earned. There wouldn't be a movie without it, and without both sucker and Eve growing some too, her recaptured innocence no longer as offensive, and his 'clued-in' attitude less judgmental.
In BRINGING UP BABY the draggy patriarchal elements are more than useless, except that Grant places so much import in them -- Mr. Peabody, Aunt Elizabeth, the shrink, and of course the sheriff, all are just blurs along the roadside --it's Grant's own nervousness that attaches meaning to them, to the point Grant even has to remind the sheriff to lock the door to his own cell. He clings to the familiarity of his routine like a life vest even though he's nowhere near water. So Hepburn pours water down his pants.
In BELL BOOK AND CANDLE it's Gil herself who is the draggy patriarchal element. Her own fear of 'repercussions' to her magic cause her to bully her aunt into swearing off spells, even as, ever the sexist, she allows cousin Nicky to continue. Though she tortured Jimmy Stewart's fiancee, Miss Kittridge, all through college she doesn't openly admit it to him, so projects her guilt. It begins to dawn after many years of repeat viewings that Ms. Kittridge is actually a sane, rational adult, a professional working artist and if openly contemptuous of the Zodiac club, so what? She wasn't heckling the band or anything overtly common. To use the vernacular of THE CRAFT, Gil isn't really Rachel True.. she's Faruza Balk! Which is better, so why put her in the True position?
Hopsy (Fonda) at least learns his lesson: that "the good aren't nearly as good as people think and the bad aren't nearly as bad." And the lucky among us have felt that feeling he describes, of knowing one's future mate long before this: "we seem to go way back" is the echo through all three films. Eve has been everyone from his first schoolgirl crush to the island he found Emma on. As Stewart finally admits at the end of BELL, who's to say what's real?
For example, sometimes I hear a person whispering my name under the desk as I write, like a beckoning ghost, or inside the creaking of my chair (like just now). To an artist or a writer there's no such thing as just auditory hallucinosis; it all means something, if you let it. Sometimes at night I feel a presence over me and I wake like I just leaped out of hell. I shrug it off and go back to sleep...if I let it mean something I could wind up in the looney bin.
But love is an even worse hallucination to take seriously. If you let it mean something it destroys you utterly, leaving only a tuxedo or white dressing gown-wearing stranger in your wake... that stranger fades too... in a hazy spray of handshakes and corsages, rising in rainbows but soon enough descending along the crusted barnacle hull of biology's yar craft.
But as long as we ignore these strange churning magicks --dismiss them as just the creaking of a chair or a little flash of sleep apnea--we're immortal, lost in the dream, and the grim black sea recedes dinosaurlessly back along it's sullen shoreline, counting the minutes printed on the Netflix label, like a patient fisherman.