Saturday, August 03, 2013

MORE 52 PICK-UP: CLAIRE TREVOR & COMPANY IN "MY MAN AND I"



             
                In preparation for the Supporting Actress Smackdown’s return,  I remain immersed in all things 1952 (the upcoming Smackdown target year).  In this case, a ‘52 film hardly anyone ever talks about.
                “My Man and I” is an odd kettle of fish. It touches on hot button issues like racism, violence and alcoholism. But it’s served up by early 50’s MGM – a studio forever tripping over its starched petticoats, keen as mustard to meet the Hayes Code more than half-way. So the script’s full of pussy-footing , seasoned with regular dollops of wave-that-flag.  It’s also patly condescending in its endorsement of ethnic stereotypes as a source of sideline comic relief and sentimentality. And, of course, Metro being Metro, the whole kit ‘n’ kaboodle’s  overlit like mad. But it’s got a strong director, William Wellman – a guy with a reputation for being tough on actors. Was this the case here?  Who knows?  But his four principals all deliver admirably in fairly unpromising circumstances. 
                Ricardo Montalban’s not the first name that comes to mind when you think of great acting. And he’s got an almost impossible part here. The character’s basically a Mexican-born Pollyanna, eternally beaming about his new U.S. citizenship papers, brandishing a letter from the White House,  delivering  unsolicited civics lesson at the drop of a hat. And yet – against all odds - he kind of makes it work. Of course, he’s got that insistently appealing voice. But what Montalban radiates (beyond impressive looks and gentlemanly sex appeal) is a kind of good-natured serenity.  Pre-“Star Trek “, wrath was generally not part of his thing. In “My Man and I”, Montalban savours dubious dialogue as if he really believes it.  Lines that would’ve defeated a more accomplished but less intrinsically sunny actor. Sincerity really does count for a lot. Plus he never seemed to convey arrogance, the stock in trade of Metro’s other Latin Lover, Fernando Lamas . Not to say that didn’t have its appeal.  But Montalban generally gave off nice guy vibes , politely spiced with Latin aptitud.  One reason both fit comfortably into early 50’s Metro  was that each had  talents that could be plugged into the studio’s (then peaking) movie musical cycle. Montalban danced superbly (he partnered Cyd Charisse several times);  Lamas was a fine singer. But Montalban probably benefited most from the Metro association because occasionally he was able to wangle a solid dramatic vehicle. Like “Border Incident” and “Mystery Street”, both atypically gritty for MGM and both pretty darn good.
                The script of “My Man and I” isn’t anywhere near the quality of those two, mainly following, as it does, the implausible romance between Montalban and Shelley Winters. She’s a depressed, down-market lush (when we first meet her she can’t scare up two bucks to pay her bar bill) and a terminal bellyacher. Never afraid to look like ten miles of bad road, Shelley dives right in, no looking back. Of course, this kind of role’s right up her alley. But she never gives the impression of just going through the motions.  Sloppy, whiny, playing sick as a dog in parts of the film, she’s nothing if not invested.  Ready at all times to slosh a bucket or two of noirish suds all over the proceedings. I like it.
                On the basis of versatility and ubiquity in the 50’s, Wendell  Corey might easily be called a utility player. But that phrase sells him short. He was a genuine artist, with a seamless knack for fleshing out roles, supplying depth and recognizable humanity. Often beyond anything in the script. And that applied to whatever role he was handed – genial neighbour, callous villain or anything in between. Just watch him as a disturbed man stalking Rhonda Fleming through a mid-50’s nightscape in “The Killer is Loose”.  It’s a portrayal so unhinged, so genuinely loopy, you’d swear at moments he’d come completely unmoored.  Yet it’s his performance that really gives “The Killer is Loose” what claim it has to being bona fide art. Corey’s brand of professional honesty often made him the focal point of audience interest and /or sympathy no matter where his name was in the billing. Time and time again, he refused point blank to disappear into the woodwork in vehicles custom- created to showcase leading ladies like Crawford, Stanwyck, Margaret Sullavan or Loretta Young. I remember how sensational  Corey was in 1948’s “The Accused”. As a matter of fact, it still makes me grumpy when I remember that it was Robert Cummings, not Corey, that Loretta Young wound up with at the end of that picture. But don’t get me started on Robert Cummings, a performer always at sea in drama - and forever compounding the offense by being so smugly, infuriatingly unaware of the fact.
                Anyway, Corey lends his welcome presence to “My Man and I”, teamed here with veteran Claire Trevor. These two are nothing if not pro’s. Virtually never  bad. Wellman gets them to go the extra mile, too – if not, in these circumstances, to greatness – at least to a serious level of excellence. They’re cast as a hard-bitten couple here (I think the script says married  17 years). Eking out a living as none too industrious tenant farmers on a barren lot that looks like Tobacco Road ,California branch. These two have spent most of that time sniping at each other – and getting pretty good at it.
Samples:
Corey:  “ I could use some help around here”.
Trevor:  “Doing what? Drinking beer?”
Corey:  “Why don’t you go make a bed?”
When Corey hires Montalban to do some grunt work around the place, Trevor puts down the fly-swatter long enough  to make a couple of spiky passes (in that dry-ice voice of hers) at the new arrival  . When she spots Montalban with his shirt off, Trevor’s hungry look clearly telegraphs  she’d like to see a lot more. Her perfunctory apology for an earlier racist dig is more exploratory come-on than act of contrition. With her standing and Montalban stretched out on the ground with a cool drink, she brings one bit of suggestive banter  to a consummately giddy climax with a quick, lascivious kick to the sole of his shoe. Then saunters off , having made her point. The plot has Latino-baiting bully Corey cheating Montalban out of his wages, framing him on trumped up charges, then giving Trevor an ugly thrashing to scare her into backing up his scam. Which she does. It’s Trevor, weary to the bone, who first begins to grasp the sheer poisonousness of their bad behaviour.
     “There’s something I’m trying to remember – whether the first rotten thing we did was to each other or somebody else. Maybe I shouldn’t worry what the first rotten thing was. Maybe I should just try  to figure out what our last one’ll be.”
                Trevor had plenty of practice playing hard-luck dames.  Springing this particular specialty of hers on the world in “Dead End”(’37) , hardboiling it to perfection  in  47’s “Born to Kill” and winning an Oscar for it the following year in “Key Largo”. For her, the emphasis was always on character, not cosmetics. Yet, it has to be mentioned that Trevor was a very good looking woman.  She just never let that get in the way of the real job at hand.  Always more focused on nailing a scene than on making sure her profile was perfectly lit. Even in the drab housedresses she’s stuck with in “My Man and I”, there’s no mistaking Trevor’s terrific figure. In “My Man and I” what kept hitting me was her physical resemblance to Lana Turner.  Of course, in the 50’s, the real (if that’s a word that can even be applied here) Lana was still being marketed as an increasingly empty signifier of generic glamour. Fur stoles, strategically marshaled accessories;  with lips precision-polished, hair Guilaroffed to a fare thee well. And those Lana Turner eyelashes, stiffened to attention  - inevitably more alert than the eyes behind them.  Just look at Trevor’s eyes as she peers over a sad –sack window-pane in “My Man and I”. You only see the top half of her face, but the whole soul’s on display, real honest-to-goodness feelings and frustration leaping off the screen. If Lana’d ever been able to summon up this much firepower, it might’ve been goodbye Ross Hunter, hello Rossellini. Redemption’s what this film wants to be about. And it’s Trevor’s performance that genuinely conveys something about whether  redemption’s even possible  -and, if it is, can it ever be more than momentary?
“My Man and I” stumbled into half-hearted release late in ’52. When nobody was looking, apparently .
Because it arrived and left with zero fanfare, existing, it seemed, only to add a little more red ink to Metro’s ledgers. I’d bet  money  that Academy members never even thought of Trevor at nomination time. They should have. She’s marvelous here - proof that, when experience, professionalism and inspiration converge, terrific things can happen – even in unlikely places.

No comments: