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.
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