Psychedelic Film Criticism for the Already Deranged

Saturday, April 21, 2012

Tennessee Williams at the Mill of Rubes: THE FUGITIVE KIND


If a bunch of method-trained NYC actors crashed their bus in the middle of nowhere Louisiana and tried to pass as locals so as to not get lynched, the result might look a lot like The Fugitive Kind (1959). Marlon Brando--radiant, and way too good for it all--plays a Christlike (coded queer) guitar-slinging drifter who winds up in a romance with older Italian shop owner Anna Magnani. Together they face a hardened mob of drunken good-old-boy characters whose raging fire's fueled by Anna's bitter, sweaty invalid husband (Victor Jory, practically stealing the movie). In other words it's the kind of vehicle the gay drunk genius Tennessee Williams cranked out by the dozen for his muse/avatar, Magnani, plopping her down in the midst of his usual rentboy deep south fantasias, there to emote and assume postures and be as out of place as a weeping marble Madonna statue in the middle of a rowdy redneck saloon.

So she's running a general store in this Nowheresville town, scarred by memories of racist mob violence against her late father (for daring serve drinks to colored people at his wine bar), and yet she stays married to racist invalid Jory, who's dying and sweaty, strung out on morphine upstairs. Into all this strained soapiness walks Brando, his snakeskin jacket a symbol of his individuality and his handling of his guitar as awkward as a lavender honeymoon. He could have hot mess Joanne Woodward (top), who's never seemed sexier, but he prefers glum middle-aged Magnani, thus hinting that his character is not entirely straight. He wants a mother, not a lover. And while he claims to be free, he's so closeted/closed-off that snakeskin may as well be a strait-jacket.

The film's stiltedness is perhaps partially explained by it's being based on a play called Battle of Angels which had been buried in Williams' desk for twenty years before he finally exhumed and reconfigured it into something called Orpheus Descending. What a title! What else is Orpheus gonna do if not descend?
The 1950s-early 60s are remembered as oh-so repressed but the success of Williams' plays at the time is a reminder they were the age of pop culture Freud, birth control, and the Kinsey report, People were intelligent and if you were white, straight, married, college-educated, and between thee age of 18-50, you were totally allowed to get decadent. Large and intelligent and starved for controversy, this demographic ate Williams up, sparagmos-style.

That said, even he'd clearly run out of things to say by the time he dug his old Battle of Angels-cum-Orpheus out of hiding. Who among us hasn't gone thumbing through old work for inspiration? But he should have left the Battle alone. After all, he had already taken the best bits out of it and used them in other plays.

Also, director Sydney Lumet's shadowy noir style seems way too sober and judgmental for the dirty south. His actor-coddling and expressionist shadow is pure big city noir, not the backwards county where Fugitive unfolds. Elia Kazan had that old New Deal commie respect for the humble uneducated man, and even his intolerant rednecks had dimensions beyond the usual stereotype villainy, but Lumet's gang is raw undiluted evil, set up for us to throw rocks at with no awareness of the irony in that.

Most glaring of all the problems though, to my mind, is Brando. He's the most unconvincing, uncomfortable looking drifter/troubadour since Sterling Hayden in Johnny Guitar (1954), with which Fugitive would make an apt if excruciating double bill. Both concern guitar slinging outlaws hooking up with middle-aged super-butch saloon/store owners and battling mobs of two-dimensional vicious townsfolk together as their place burns up. Oh my god, it's the same damned movie!

The thing that Johnny gets that Fugitive doesn't is that stock outlaw guitar heroes need to be played by less awesome actors than Brando or Hayden to not seem forced. Sterling's is just too big a persona to fit into generic guitar playing drifter outlaw dungarees. Even his crazy generals and anti-semitic war vets have complexly crosshatched pathos, and Brando is an even bigger actor than Hayden, so why is he trying so hard? Each monologue is practically hung on the wall of the Whitney like an Americana masterwork and I don't mean that as a compliment. The dialogue wouldn't be bad for a normal writer, but this is Williams. We expect to be boggled and we've already seen this collection of archetypes and deep south incidents before, in better Williams adaptations: Woodward's bleached strumpet was already essayed by Carroll Baker in Baby Doll and Sue Lyon in Night of Iguana; Anna Magnani had already done the horny middle-aged Italian widow in The Rose Tattoo; Ava Gardner stole (and likely improved) the Magnani role in Iguana; the dying redneck husband shivering in the junky morphine prescription heat was done by Burl Ives in Cat; and as usual there's some unspoken homosexual implications, i.e. Jory and his dumb redneck brother have suspicions about our guitar-wearing Brando like he's a Skipper who didn't kill himself after his queerness got de-closeted at his last port of call; the idea of the hunky male downstairs at the general store while the local boy fumes is straight out of Baby Doll's cotton gin envy, or Anthony Franciosa's jealousy over Newman's success in The Long Hot Summer (by Faulkner but similar).

A main problem in Fugitive, aside from these cliches, is that we can't quite believe an Adonis like Brando would be bothering to hang around these stifling swampy Louisiana backwaters in the first place, taking odd jobs. The beginning indicates he was busted hustling and is trying to go straight, but an actor of Brando's caliber has no business being a mere noble; his teeth are too perfect, his demeanor too polished. He's out of jail, why not split for NYC and hustle there? A gorgeous boy like him could make a fortune or at least find a nice sugar daddy rather than putting up with a vicious mob just so he can get with this frumpy broad Magnani.

Either way, the gay subtext is the only way any of it makes sense. The vicious hatred the town rubes have for anyone wild or different seems a beard for homophobia. Brando's 'crimes' here aren't otherwise great enough to stir the wrath of the town in quite such a vicious, heated way. What the hell is a 'mixed party' anyway, if not code for a pre-Stonewall 'mixer'? The handful of saints like Maureen Stapleton as a local painter are talked to by Brando in hushed cobra monotones until they sway before him like hypnotized chickens, surely such a talker could hypnotize hateful rubes into liking him if he wanted to. It's clear Brando's outlaw prefers a firehose crucifixion to any kind of real acceptance.

What Brando's 'fugitive kind' doesn't grasp is that beautiful people only trudge through the dirty south for a reason. Paul Newman understood: in Sweet Bird of Youth his cocky rentboy is shanghaiing a drunken Hollywood patroness and her Cadillac so he can rescue his hometown sweetheart from her cliche'd Kingfish-y mayor father, and it works because-- though Newman is in some ways even prettier than Brando--Newman the actor knows the way to seem a realistic redneck is to taint one's beauty with cocky, needy cluelessness. When an already-perfect demigod puffs out his chest and struts to impress he suddenly seems faintly ridiculous and that's why Newman's performance works where Brando's fails. In refusing to show off and betray the insecure little boy behind the bravado, Marlon never quite 'gives' us anything. He's so wise to his own bullshit he barely says an untrue word, which means he barely says anything, just orates a series of trite poetic monologues of the sort Williams knew, once, were best kept in a file drawer.
  
Streetcar was subtler by actually being more histrionic --that's the paradox Fugitive director Sydney Lumet doesn't seem to understand, and maybe wouldn't until Klute eight years later: No one should ever be all the way 'beautiful' and making a Williams play work involves letting an actor become so much themselves that the seams of their persona break and the hideous lonely hunger of their soul comes busting out like taxidermy sawdust. A master of getting sawdust out of his actor's taxidermy persona masks? John Huston, as in his Williams adaptation, Night of the Iguana. 


A director able to understand the Williams sawdust mill principle but not to successfully harness it? Joseph Loesy in Boom! (1968, above). Here Taylor and Burton merely dump sawdust tonnage upon the stage as if it's a suitable shortcut to brilliance. But of course that doesn't work. The pain has to be real, the sawdust fresh, the stitches in the mask newly ripped, to grab us.


And while sometimes you need a villain-- Karl Malden in Baby Doll, who, like the racists of Fugitive, digs on torching Italian-owned business; or Jack Carson's doltish 'no-neck monster' brood in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, or the closeted lesbian stereotypes like Ms. Fellowes in Iguana--when Williams is at his best there's no villains or hicks or closets at all. In Streetcar everyone is sympathetic, even the brute Stanley is charismatic, a pagan god and rapist gorilla all in one, but he is the put-upon party, sick to death of Blanche and her joneser high-hattin' and with good reason. When Williams is done right his monologues are ranted or recited the way we natter on to people we know aren't really listening to us in real life. When Williams is done wrong, as he is in Fugitive Kind, monologues go on while the onscreen listener stands at rapt (i.e. vaguely bored) attention, like at a poetry reading.


All that said, it's still fascinating as a film, just for its Williams laundry list affect. Brando is gorgeous and at least when he does sing and play it's actually his voice and guitar doing it (hearing Brando cautiously sticking to a few lightly brushed chords and singing in a half-whispered croon works only because you wonder if his character really doesn't know how to play and it's just no one's told him because he's so gorgeous - it happens). And Woodward lights up the screen as the wild drunk nymphomaniac but she's not around for whole stretches of the film, and we're left with this half-baked, zombie-like romance between Magnani and Brando.

This tepid romance is just not convincing and whole stretches are formulaic but if you're a Williams, Brando, or Lumet fan (and you should be all three), you need to see this movie if for no other reason than to unlock the joys and motivations of the other, better films. Somehow seeing a genius faltering backwards into amateurishness makes his great work all the more noble. There's a great fountain of truth and enthusiastic idealism one can drink from when indulging amateurishness: the amateur's inability to dilute his poetry's potency in the minutiae of realism is like watching a clumsy magician give his tricks away, i.e. it's fun on a whole other level than intended.  The poetry is still fresh and raw, so you can feel the rush the author felt while writing it, his swooning in drunken euphoria over a late night typewriter. Such a euphoria can help us all find the courage to become alcoholic titans, to write into existence the scalpels that will tear open future actor's masks so they might sprinkle the sawdust of the soul upon silver screens yet to be... even if for no good reason.

1 comment:

  1. This is a poem. Beautifully written and completely true.

    ReplyDelete

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