In a Lonely Place (Nicholas Ray, 1950)

 

Gloria Grahame and Humphrey Bogart

What a curious film. Hollywood movies, at least those of the 1950s, were not expected to end without any resolution. In this one, the hero, Dixon Steele, played by Humphrey Bogart, is a screenwriter with a propensity to violence. He is implicated in a murder, which he did not commit, but the suspicion is enough to make him lose his cool at any moment. He falls in love with a neighbour, Laurel Gray (Gloria Grahame), but her love isn’t enough. At the end of the film, he is cleared of the murder … but walks away, into the night.

Why would Bogart make such a film? Even more astonishing, the film was made by his own production company, so he couldn’t claim he accepted an inferior part. The part was written for him. 

My suggestion is that Bogart recognized the new dimension in his acting role, a dimension that is the reason why we watch his films today. As a private detective, Bogart (whether Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon, or Philip Marlowe in The Big Sleep), played a loner who nonetheless remained principled. He represented, for the audience, a point of integrity in a world full of evil and corruption. Bogart must have felt that this role suited him, and if David Thompson is to be believed, he was far more successful in these roles than he was as an out-and-out villain (with more than 28 films as the baddie). 

So, to Bogart’s credit, he was one of a handful of actors who could play good or evil roles. Cary Grant, for all his accomplishments, was a hopeless villain (and I don’t imagine Charlie Chapin would have made a convincing villain either). In this role, as Dixon Steel, he retains his integrity and principles, but he is so adamant about not following compassion that he appears as a oddball, a misanthrope, as well as a misogynist. In other words, he attempts to carry the private eye role into another area. I assume Bogart’s intention was that we, the viewers, admire Dixon Steele, but we recognize he is difficult to deal with (and presumably nowadays would regard him as a classic case of PTSD). Implicated in a murder, Steele talks to the police captain with an incredible insouciance, comparing himself to the dead woman’s boyfriend, the other suspect: 

Dixon Steele: It was his story against mine, but of course, I told my story better.

Of course, Dick Steele is also a misogynist, but that is what I would expect of a film made in 1950. This is part of the baggage of the time, and not worth complaining about now. Unfortunately, the film shows its age by the abrupt about-turn in Gloria Grahame’s character. For the first couple of scenes, where she and Bogart are flirting, there is a magic in her dialogue and character that is only rivalled by the best screwball comedies. Her lines are assertive and adventurous, but not simply subservient:

Dixon Steele: How can anyone like a face like this? Look at it...

[leans in for a kiss]

Laurel Gray: I said I liked it - I didn't say I wanted to kiss it.

Dixon Steele is the man of truth. He is asked to write a screenplay based on a book he knows h  isn’t going to like, gets a clerk to read the book for him and retell it to him, and then refuses to congratulate himself when the director likes the resulting script. Presumably acceptance of the script means success, income, and reassurance: but not for Dixon Steele, the man of principle, in the middle of Hollywood (the last place you would expect to stick to your principles).

So at the end, when Bogart walks out on the girlfriend, on happiness, on being settled, we respect him, yet we hate him. He is a monster, let’s face it; it would probably be the same if the private detective ever married any of his lady friends. But in the detective films, the question never arises. Part of writing a successful film script is not to include the uncomfortable moments: it kills the fantasy. Elliott Gould, at the end of The Long Goodbye (1974), doesn’t marry anyone either, but we don’t mind or care. Perhaps we feel instinctively that Gould would never strike anyone in uncontrollable anger, while Dixon Steele looks to be perfectly capable of unwarranted violence at any moment. It makes for uncomfortable viewing. 

Network: the impossibility of avoiding light entertainment

 

For much of its two-hour duration, Network (Sidney Lumet, 1976) was very different to usual Hollywood fare. It was genuinely engaged with contemporary society. The opening was riveting, with TV anchor Howard Beale announcing he intends to commit suicide on air. What makes the scene remarkable is that although we are in the control room while the live announcement is taking place, none of the executives notice what is being said. The truth is that they aren’t really bothered about what he is saying. That irony sets the scene for a remarkable, if not quite unique, movie. Once they are told about Beale’s rantings, instead of dismissing him, the executives use him to attempt to improve their ratings. 

There is a tradition of biting satire directed at television in Hollywood, not surprisingly, and other sharply satirical treatments of the media include Sweet Smell of Success (1956). But this film is, for the most part, a sharper satire than most. I say for the most part, because while Howard Beale (a remarkable portrait by Peter Finch) goes steadily mad, the film turns its attention to the most unlikely of love affairs, in the most hackneyed Hollywood style. Max Schumacher, head of the news division, has a torrid affair with another senior executive, Diana Christensen (who looks twenty years younger). The affair is highly unlikely. Christensen is a woman on the make, who would stop at nothing to reach the top  - so why should she bother with a recently sacked veteran who has no continuing influence in the organisation? I couldn’t help thinking that the bitterest irony was her denunciation of news bulletins as just the same as the entertainment shows (“I watched your 6 o’clock news today; it’s straight tabloid.”). That denunciation loses much of its power in a movie that sags alarmingly in the middle to depict the same kind of love affair we had been watching for years: an old man and a young woman, who suddenly seems to lose all her self-possession in the arms of a man who could almost be her father. For several minutes, the lovers, now ex-lovers, denounce each other with grand statements from the pen of Paddy Chayefsky that sound just like every other sitcom on TV. The trick is to create an impressive-sounding statement with an air of finality, which is then followed by an equally impressive-sounding statement, and so on. This is not dialogue, it’s successive one-liners, and it sounds dreadfully stilted. For example: 

Max Schumacher: I’m the man you presumably love. I’m a part of your life. I live here. I’m real. You can’t switch to another station.

Diana Christensen: I was married for four years, and pretended to be happy; and I had six years of analysis, and pretended to be sane.

These remarks are not really part of a conversation. They are set pieces, as shallow as the TV attitudes condemned by the rest of the film. They don’t belong here (see, I’m learning to use the style myself). Network would be an even greater achievement if it had managed not to go soft in the middle.

The Museum formerly known as the Cambridgeshire Folk Museum

 

The collection of traditional Fen objects

Oxford and Cambridge have a similar problem. The university tends to dominate much of the activity and tourism in the city, with the result that the local museum has always suffered. By “local” I mean a museum dedicated to the town rather than to the university. You can appreciate their problems, since visitors to Oxford and Cambridge usually come for the university, however intangible that institution might be (I remember visitors to Oxford asking me where the university was, because you could be in the middle of Oxford and not notice it). 

The Museum of Cambridge has more problems than that of Oxford. First, it has changed its title, if not its remit. It was founded as the Cambridge and County Folk Museum in 1936. At some point in the last few years it changed its name to the present Museum of Cambridge. This is a misnomer, because it covers Cambridgeshire as well as Cambridge. 

The Museum is situated in an historic inn, which partly dates back to the 16th century. However, nobody would claim the building is highly significant. The collection, of around 30,000 objects, isn’t highly significant either. When I visited the Museum last weekend, I didn’t see one object that would I would describe as unmissable. 

The Museum has a series of small rooms, covering a smattering of subjects from Cambridge and the county. One room is devoted to brewing. One room contains objects relating to the Fens. One room has old domestic utensils. In other words, it is similar to several other museums within a 75-mile radius. 

The "I used to have one of those in my house" type of collection

The problem with a museum that has nothing distinctive is that there is no real reason for visiting it. A few years ago, the Museum was in the headlines because it was threatened with closure, something that seems to have been averted by appointing new trustees. Yet for me the fundamental questions remain. Both times I’ve visited the Museum I would be hard pressed to say there was anything in it worth saving. What is the scope of the Museum? it doesn’t really attempt to cover the history of anything. There are some scraps from Cambridge history, but no attempt at explanation or interpretation. There are even some old oars, from Cambridge college rowing teams; oars on the walls represent a low point for the individual colleges, and what they are doing in a museum which covers everything outside the university is beyond my imagination. Of all the things to collect and display, university memorabilia should be low on the agenda.

I was fortunate to be shown round the Museum by the chair of the trustees, Roger Lilley. His enthusiasm and knowledge was infectious, and he mentioned the impressive online project Connecting Cambridge, which aims to collect oral histories at a very local level.

But despite Roger’s enthusiasm, my doubts about the museum remain. In a city full of attractions like Cambridge, a collection needs to have a distinct identity. I can find out about the Fens from Wisbech, Ely, and King’s Lynn museums. I can find old domestic appliances in any number of old houses and collections. There is no compelling reason to visit this museum: it lacks a big idea. Even Mildenhall Museum, which has none of the Mildenhall Treasure on show (all the originals are in the British Museum), still makes an attempt to explain why Mildenhall is famous by the use of replicas and information boards. There are very few information boards here.

The Museum could, like the Pitt Rivers in Oxford, emphasise its folk connections. There are a (very) few objects linked to witchcraft and folklore. The Museum could try to show the history of Cambridge in a meaningful way, with references to prominent local employers such as Pye, ARM, Sinclair, and Chivers (of Histon). The Museum could attempt the difficult feat of a collection relating to Cambridgeshire, which covers both rolling chalk scenery (in the south) and the Fens (in the north): two very different habitats and histories. The University-managed Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology currently has an excellent exhibition relating to the archaeology of Cambridgeshire.

Saddest of all, there is no longer a café. The first time I visited, there was a very sweet café with old cups and saucers, run by lovely old dears. This time, the café was firmly closed. 

Thousands of people must walk past the Museum every day on their way around Cambridge, yet I can’t in all honesty recommend that they stop for a visit to the institution still known to most locals as the Folk Museum. Better to go to a collection with a single theme, such as the David Parr House. My (admittedly personal) dream would be a museum dedicated to the history and growth of the town of Cambridge. Not from the point of view of one college, but explaining how the Roman settlement was located here, why the town missed out on the industrial growth that Oxford experienced in the 20th century, but how Cambridge has now become a powerhouse of biomedical research and IT start-ups. That is a remarkable story: from Sinclair Research, to the BBC Micro, to the mighty ARM. That, for me, would be a distinctive theme for a museum.  

North by Northwest (1959)

 

North by Northwest (1959) is regularly included as one of the great films of Alfred Hitchcock. Given the detailed critical appraisal handed to Vertigo and Rear Window, I expected something far more dark than this. Instead, I noticed the jokes (including the hospital patient whose room Grant accidentally enters, and who immediately cries out "Don't go!") 

My immediate motivation for watching this film (I had seen it before, but so long ago that I had forgotten it) was to explore the role of Cary Grant. David Thompson recently reviewed two biographies of Grant, and how both of them attempted to get to the bottom of Grant’s magic. I read with fascination about how Grant’s mother was incarcerated in an asylum for over 20 years, with what horrific effect for him I can hardly imagine. I then watched a documentary, Becoming Cary Grant, by Mark Kidel, which revealed some more interesting facts – but at the same time clothed this documentary in an annoying cod-psychoanalytic tone that was more simplistic than Hollwood in the 40s and 50s, suggesting that LSD gave Grant some insight he had been lacking, and had several shots of a stand-in playing Grant on the couch with his analyst. 

At this point, I thought, let’s go back to Grant himself. Let’s see again one of his  quintessential performances. North by Northwest  is seen as one of Grant’s best performances. After watching the film, read the relevant section of Hitchcock by Truffaut, Thompson on North by Northwest, as well as Robin Wood  (Hitchcock’s Films, 1965).  Armed with all this background, what did I make of it?

This is indeed, as Thompson claims, more in the tradition of the Hollywood screwball comedy than a thriller. Just as Jacques Lourcelles in the Laffont Encyclopedia of Cinema states, the film is a masterclass in presenting life-threatening danger right alongside humour, much of it self-deprecating, constantly setting up suspense and then piercing it with humour, often suggesting that Grant is not the hero he would like to be. 

2.      Wood compares North by Northwest with Goldfinger, and claims that NBN is a greater film because of its moral stance. That sounds like someone who attended lectures by Leavis (as Wood did), but I don’t think it is a valid distinction between the figure of James Bond and Roger O. Thornhill (the character played by Grant). James Bond films never include a role for James Bond’s mother. If there is a moral progress in this film, you could say it is moral progress shared by many other knockabout comedies – and the progress is in fact questionable (see below).

3.      For me, on seeing the film a second time, the least effective scenes were the most famous: the attack by a crop-dusting plane, and the final sequence on Mount Rushmore. Why were these scenes so ineffective? Partly because Grant, like Bond, cannot die. His persona does not include dying. But perhaps more fundamentally, these are the only two scences in the film where the humour, so well linked by Hitchcock, is less apparent. For a moment, Hitchcock concentrates on the action, and pure action is not his strongpoint.

4.      Nor is heroic action Grant’s strongpoint. Grant is great at one-liners, looks wonderful in a suit, but starts to lose his charisma when in a situation of true jeopardy. Insecurity, yes, self-deprecation, yes, but expressing fear, or looking convincing in a stage fight is not really what he does.

5.      In Wood’s view, Grant through the film moves towards a “proper” relationship with women: from being married twice (he states they both divorced him) to accepting a “mature” love affair. The problem with this view is that Eva Marie Saint (Eve Kendall) represents so many conflicting viewpoints at the same time in the film. She is the sexy, inviting woman on the train; the cold and calculating temptress who will spend the night with Grant just so she can send him to a certain death in the interest of her mission; but the implications of these attitudes leave the scriptwriter with too many loose ends. You can’t commit your life to someone who sent you to your death a couple of scenes ago.

There are also questions about Eve Kendall’s morality. How did she become the mistress of a spy? This predates her recruitment by the US authorities, so presumably it was a conscious decision, but she describes it flippantly as

“I had a spare evening, so I decided to fall in love”? Such talk worked when flirting with Grant, but makes her judgement rather suspect when she falls for one of the most evil people on the planet. With such knowledge, could Grant ever really be happy? Would he not suspect her to the end of his days?

6.      And what about Leo Carroll, usually the figure of authority in so many English films, stating in his very appearance that he is willing to let Grant go to his death in the interest of security? Why, as Grant points out, is he willing to prostitute Eve Kendall for the same end? Doesn’t this suggest a lack of morality, rather than a moral focus?

7.       And why doesn’t anyone notice that Martin Landau is depicted as the utterly villainous homosexual, who knows things because of his “womanly intuition”? Such a line would be excised from any film made today.

No, this film does not have moral gravity, at least, no more than many screwball comedies. The “secrets” are so vague we are never told what they are. The villains are stagy. No, for me, NBN remains memorable as (a) the US remake of The 39 Steps, and none the worse for that.  I would say the achievement of the film is Grant moving from shallow and irresponsible (and dishonest) to becoming responsible, but without losing his self-deprecating humour. He is the man you most want to go to bed with – and there would be plenty of laughs along the way.  

 One final comment in its favour: Grant made this film when he was 55? Yet Hitchcock managed the great feat of making Grant look at least ten years younger, and still sexually alluring. A few years later, in Charade (1963), he looked like an OAP in the wrong place alongside a young heroine. Here, he succeeds brilliantly. Perhaps that is the mark of a great director: he maintained the image of Grant as the laid-back, wise-cracking man we would all like to be (even if we are all held back, like Thornhill, by our mothers).