Sullivan's Impossible Travels

 

Sullivan and his butler

What an astonishing film! It reaches heights (and, to be true, depths) that other movies don’t approach. Always watchable, the story lurches between starkly opposing genres and tones, and never successfully resolves them. There are at least three different genres contained within the film:

o   A smart Hollywood comedy of manners, much like Sturges’ earlier The Lady Eve; a cast full of gifted character actors (an English butler, two film studio bosses, a would-be film actress)

o   social issues, just a few glimpses of what must have been common sights: a night camp for the homeless; hundreds of tramps  running to join a freight train; a church with a singing pastor, accompanying the congregation

o   Slapstick humour, from silent film comedies, as when the car Sullivan hitches a lift in goes at top speed with the motorhome behind it trying to keep up and causing chaos in the motorhome galley

How the three ever manage to come together is difficult to imagine. Any other film would have collapsed with just two of these themes. Let’s look at what works, and what doesn’t: 

The conversation scenes between Sullivan and his entourage: his two butlers, who severely remind him that trying to see the poor is a foolish activity;

The wonderful dialogue between Veronica Lake as a would-be actress buying a cup of coffee for what she thinks is a hobo (“Can you get me an introduction to Lubitsch”?

Most unexpectedly, a few magical minutes where a pastor in a black church asks his congregation not to look down on the prisoners coming to watch a movie. To the best of my knowledge this is one of the very few moments of pre-1960s Hollywood in which a black actor appears in a part that is not clearly subservient and demeaning. He sings a song with his congregation, and they all watch a Disney film together.

Joel McCrea is that strange phenomenon, a leading male who is just a shade too mundane and ordinary-looking to be a perfect romantic lead like Cary Grant. But in this film he is perfect as the idealistic, well-meaning but rather ineffectual film director who believes he should get more experience of real life. He is tall and handsome, so we feel confident he will not suffer too much in the real world, but in any case he is surrounded by an entourage of people who give him constant advice and shield him from the everyday.

These were the successes. What about the failures?

Veronica Lake (playing a part without a name, just “the girl”) has a moment of magic in her first scene. She doesn’t know who Sullivan is; he is just someone down on his luck. She buys him coffee (it’s the last thing she buys him) and for a moment they converse as equals. But within a few minutes the truth emerges; he is a fabulously wealthy film director, and her attitude changes. She herself recognizes the change: 

The girl: “You know, the nice thing about buying food for a man is that you don't have to listen to his jokes. Just think, if you were some big shot like a casting director or something, I'd be staring into your bridgework saying 'Yes, Mr. Smearcase. No, Mr. Smearcase. Not really, Mr. Smearcase! Oh, Mr. Smearcase, that's my knee!'”

 That’s typical of this film, which is both bravely commenting on but enslaved by the social system of its day. Later in the film, she is desperately trying to tag along with him; she has become subservient and dutiful. 

The whole premiss of the film is compromised in the same way. Sturges’ aim in this film is stated in the first scene – and immediately knocked down, just as Sturges probably was by his own studio bosses:

Sullivan: “I want this picture to be a commentary on modern conditions. Stark realism. The problems that confront the average man.”

            Lebrand: “But with a little sex in it.”

As fast as we reach a serious message, it is undercut by knockabout comedy (a car chase, or people being pushed into a swimming pool) and the movie loses all its taut energy. Not entirely vapid, because it is almost always redeemed by the sparkling script that holds you spellbound by its wit and readiness to talk about things never before mentioned in Hollywood: 

Policeman at Beverly Hills station: How does the girl fit into the picture?

John L. Sullivan: There's always a girl in the picture. What's the matter, don't you go to the movies?

Finally, the film collapses (as you suspected it might) because Sturges can’t resist hammering home his message. For a few magic seconds, we see a church full of people laughing their heads off at a Disney cartoon; but nobody in the congregation laughs at the prisoners being given a treat at the same time in the same place. Even Sullivan laughs. For a few seconds, the movie has respect for others, and is profoundly moving. But then the skilled film-making disappears as Sullivan spells out the message, as if we weren’t capable of seeing for ourselves:

Sullivan:  There's a lot to be said for making people laugh. Did you know that that's all some people have? It isn't much, but it's better than nothing in this cockeyed caravan.

 Forget any condemnation of the crazy excessive wealth of the studios and stars, or the system that creates such stark contrast of wealth and poverty. It’s all about laughter.