Hello, Dolly! (1969)

 

Hello, Dolly! is the film adaptation of the enormously successful Broadway musical, which was based upon a 1954 play from Thornton Wilder, The Matchmaker, which had already been adapted into a non-musical film in 1958. I say all of that because the film itself is such an old-fashioned picture that you have to remember that the source material had already been quite thoroughly worked over for decades. Besides, the whole plot is set in 1890 and involves a widowed matchmaker (the title character of Dolly Levi) trying to help others get married but also focusing on landing herself a rich husband. It’s not exactly breaking new ground in storytelling.

Much of the criticism of the film nowadays has to do with the selection of a young Barbra Streisand, just 26 at the time of the film’s release, to portray the lead character, Dolly Levi. The Broadway musical famously starred Carol Channing, who was apparently not even considered for the role because the studio was going to spend so much money on the film and she wasn’t a big enough “name” to carry it. I think the criticism of the casting choice is a bit unfair even if I would enjoy seeing what Channing’s legendary performance might have been like on film. Perhaps Streisand was too young for the part as originally written, but young women become widows too and she certainly brings a great deal of energy to the part. Yes, she borders on slapstick at times, but the story itself is so… wild? that it fits.

Besides, when you hired Streisand in the 1960s, you got that voice. She was already a music superstar, and all you have to do is listen to “Before the Parade Passes By” or the title song to realize how much she truly brings to the enjoyment of the film. Her voice is perfect for all of the Jerry Herman songs from the Broadway musical that are included here, and I enjoy the range she brings to “So Long, Dearie” near the end of the film. She had just made her film debut in Funny Girl the year before, a role that won her the Oscar for Best Actress, and she was as reasonable a choice for the time as any other person besides, perhaps, Channing.

By the way, if you want to talk odd casting decisions… Walter Matthau was certainly an odd choice to play the male leader, Horace Vandergelder, a half-a-millionaire from Yonkers who becomes the object of Dolly’s attempts to get married again. He’s certainly no singer, as his big number, the misogynistic “It Takes a Woman,” proves beyond a doubt. He’s also not a dancer, as the production number associated with the song ably demonstrates. Throughout most of the film, Matthau wears that typical hang-dog expression of his, and it doesn’t really do much to help us understand what Dolly sees in him. He does know how to deliver a punchline, though, so perhaps that was in his favor.

Director Gene Kelly (yes, that one) and his team of filmmakers take a very slow pace to the plotting of the film. As delightful as some songs are, they just seem to go on forever. Take “Put on Your Sunday Clothes,” which was used to such great effect in WALL-E (2008). It’s certainly a fun song, but as I was rewatching the film, I kept thinking that it could be half as long and would maybe be twice as effective. It’s not a sung-through musical, but you might be mistaken in believing it is after watching “Before the Parade Passes By” amid the 14^th Street Parade and all of the intertwining storylines that merge there.

The filmmakers do pay great attention to detail, particularly the costumes and the sets. Streisand wears some magnificent gowns, which I dubbed “the red one” and “the purple one” and “the gold one.” The spectacular gold beaded number during the climactic musical moment in the film is certainly worthy of the Oscar nomination for costume design. Besides, you can’t miss the succession of impressive big hats that she gets to wear. The production design justifiably won an Oscar, and all you have to do is look at the details in Irene’s millinery shop or the Harmonia Gardens restaurant to see why. Even the sheer scale of the production is impressive. I can’t imagine who difficult it was to wrangle all of the extras for the parade or for the restaurant sequence.

The supporting cast is filled with talent, and the secondary plots sometimes become much more interesting than the central one. Tommy Tune, here in his first film role before he became a Broadway legend, plays an artist in love with Horace’s niece, Ermengarde (Joyce Ames). The pairing of the tall Tune and the not-so-tall Ames is used to great comic effect, especially in a sequence involving a dance contest. As Cornelius Hackl, a clerk in Vandergelder’s store, Michael Crawford, pre-Phantom of the Opera, is a comedic delight. He’s also a very gentle singer, bringing a nice delicacy to “It Only Takes a Moment.” and he acquits himself nicely in all of the many dance numbers he’s in. It’s tough to see how the sexy Phantom emerged from the skinny fellow in this film, but you can tell he’s already a talent.

Marianne McAndrew makes an impressive debut as Irene Malloy, the owner of the hat shop who was Horace’s initial choice for a prospective wife. McAndrew is quite charming and funny. She knows how to deliver a line with the right amount of delicacy or sarcasm, and she makes for a solid secondary romantic lead here. Barnaby, the other store clerk, is played by Danny Lockin, who is a fantastic dancer. He steals whatever number he’s featured in. He’s well paired here with E.J. Peaker as Minnie Fay, who isn’t given much more to do than giggling and dancing, but she’s still delightful to watch at both.

Dolly’s job is to find Horace a wife (she already has, but he doesn’t know it’s her), get Cornelius and Barnaby together with Irene and her assistant Minnie Fay, and get Horace to support the marriage of Ambrose Kemper (Tune) and Ermengarde. No small feat, certainly, given all of the moving parts. Everyone shows up together at the Harmonia Gardens for a sequence that serves as the highlight of the film. It has it all—music, dancing, slapstick, energy—and it moves more quickly than much of the rest of the film.

The title song for the movie takes place in the restaurant and is the biggest production number of them all. Since all of the plotlines lead to it, it takes up quite a bit of time. The dancing waiters have their own number first, and the choreography by the great Michael Kidd is just astonishing—so energetic and precise. At one point, Cornelius and Barnaby get caught up in all the dancing and help with putting on quite a floor show. If all the restaurants did this nowadays, it might be more fun to dine out although you’d likely be quite hungry if you’re waiting for someone to serve you while they’re busy prancing about the restaurant.

And then Streisand as Dolly makes her grand entrance at the top of the restaurant’s grand staircase. She’s in that stunning golden dress and has long feathers of gold and green in her hair. It’s just her and the male dancers (quite a handsome group) for almost eight full minutes. She even encounters the delightful Louis Armstrong as the orchestra leader and duets with him for a few lines, even providing a little jazz vocalizing with one of the greatest jazz artists of all time. It’s interesting to note that Armstrong had a number one hit with the title song in 1964 and even won a Grammy Award for it. It is wild to watch once again as an entire restaurant comes to a halt while she belts out a song and dances around the place. Is no one impatient for their food? I guess realism isn’t the point, though, is it?

The film was released in a so-called roadshow version that included an intermission with music. That must have made for quite a long day. It’s not a great film overall, honestly, despite being fun to watch. Streisand and the supporting cast and the production design are all worth some attention, but it certainly seems odd that in the year that saw Easy Rider and Midnight Cowboy, the Academy was still nominating old-fashioned films like Hello, Dolly! I think the exclamation mark is mandatory, by the way.  

Oscar Wins: Best Art Direction-Set Decoration, Best Sound, and Best Score of a Motion Picture—Original or Adaptation

Other Oscar Nominations: Best Picture, Best Cinematography, Best Costume Design, and Best Film Editing

Marooned (1969)

 

Marooned is a rather excruciatingly slow movie about three astronauts trying to return to Earth after their mission to a space station has been cut short. Richard Crenna, Gene Hackman, and James Franciscus portray the astronauts who are unable to fix a malfunction on the spaceship Ironman One that’s preventing them from reentering the Earth’s atmosphere. Retrofiring or something like that won’t work, so there’s talk almost immediately about how the three are likely to die in space. There are some possibilities to rescue or save them, such as having some experimental craft that’s never been fully tested swing by and pick them up, or maybe the Russians can help them out if they will cooperate with their American rivals for space exploration. Oh, and there’s not enough oxygen for all three of them to make it home anyways, but they try to stay quiet and sleep as much as possible to conserve the oxygen they do have, and watching people sleep does make for such a compelling movie experience, doesn’t it? Gregory Peck plays the NASA leader back on Earth who has to remain stoic as he subtly suggests that one of the men sacrifice himself for the other two. The astronauts’ wives also show up three times during the course of the film, basically to give pep talks to their doomed husbands. Lee Grant plays the wife of Crenna’s Jim Pruett, and she’s the most matter-of-fact and seasoned wife; Grant knew how to make the most of a few moments of screen time. A young Mariette Hartley plays the wife of Hackman’s Buzz Lloyd, and how she manages to deal with his weirdness after a spell of oxygen deprivation is a master class in keeping one’s emotions mostly in check. Nancy Kovack’s Teresa, wife to James Franciscus’ Clayton Stone, gets the least amount of screen time and less of an opportunity to demonstrate much range here. The women aren’t the focus, but it would make for a much more interesting movie if some of the other sequences were shorter and we had a chance to know more of each woman’s backstory. The plot involves a lot of talking, most of it in technical jargon, and the story seems to unfurl almost in real times when it moves its slowest. It’s only about 134 minutes long; it just seems much longer. Marooned was released only four months after the moon landing, and it must have freaked a lot of people out by tapping into both the excitement and fears about space travel. The Oscar-winning special effects are pretty cool, especially the moments when the astronauts are floating around outside of the ship. The cinematography is also nice and clear, and the production design creates a very realistic simulation of both the spaceship and the control center back on Earth. Interestingly, an edited version of the film from 1991, now entitled Space Travelers, was lampooned on Mystery Science Theater 3000, the only Academy Award-winning film to achieve such a dubious distinction. What did the MST3K critics most note about the film? Its slow-moving plot…

Oscar Win: Best Special Visual Effects

Other Oscar Nominations: Best Cinematography and Best Sound

True Grit (1969)

 

The 1969 version of True Grit is beautifully shot. It features some lovely location shooting in Colorado and California (standing in for Arkansas and Oklahoma), and the cinematography should have received some recognition from the Academy Awards. Instead, it’s primarily known for the Oscar-winning performance of John Wayne as Marshall Rooster Cogburn, who is hired by teenager Mattie Ross to locate the hired hand who shot and killed her father. Ross (played by Kim Darby with great precision of language and body movement) wants to join Cogburn as he looks for Tom Chaney (Jeff Corey), and like she does with everyone, she wears the marshal down until he relents. Cogburn has a reputation for being good at his job but not especially concerned with what others think of him or with following the strictures of the law. They are joined by a man named “La Boeuf,” a Texas Ranger who wants to bring Chaney to justice for killing a state senator in Texas. He’s played by Glen Campbell, who also sings the Oscar-nominated title song over the film’s opening credits. Campbell and Darby are both fine actors, but the showy part is certainly Wayne’s, and except for the moments when Darby’s Mattie Ross is brokering a deal with someone, True Grit is really a showcase for Wayne’s performance. He can be gruff and short, touching at times, and quite funny when he plays drunk. It’s a performance unlike most of the roles he played in his very long career, and the award was an acknowledgement not only of this particular role but for his entire body of work and what it represented. In addition to Darby and Campbell, True Grit features some supporting performances by some famous actors. Robert Duvall plays Ned Pepper, the outlaw Rooster has been tracking for a long time and with whom Chaney has joined. Duvall was already making a name for himself in roles like this, starting with his portrayal of Boo Radley in To Kill a Mockingbird. Dennis Hopper plays another of Ned’s associates, marking quite a contrast from his other famous movie from 1969, Easy Rider. Strother Martin also has a fun couple of scenes as a horse trader who winds up on the losing side of a bargain with Mattie. True Grit is a classic Western in many ways, featuring lots of action, but it has more than its fair share of dialogue during the times that Rooster, Mattie, and La Boeuf are riding horses on their way to find Ned or stopping to rest for the night. Much of the script follows the outlines of the Charles Portis novel upon which it is based, and a 1975 sequel (simply titled Rooster Cogburn and costarring Wayne and Katharine Hepburn) and a 2010 remake featuring Jeff Bridges as Marshall Cogburn don’t quite compare to the original film’s beauty.

Oscar Win: Best Actor in a Leading Role (Wayne)

Other Nomination: Best Original Song (“True Grit”)

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969)

There are essentially three parts to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The first part of the film follows the adventures of Butch and Sundance and the Hole in the Wall Gang in the U.S. West, particularly the rather haphazard ways in which they robbed banks and trains. The middle part of the film, a rather long sequence, follows Butch and Sundance as they try to escape a six-man posse that has been sent to kill them. The final portion deals with the adventures the two men have after they and Sundance's girlfriend flee to Bolivia. This is a rather unconventional Western—at times, it's really almost a comedy—and one of the early films of the so-called New Hollywood that would come to dominate in the 1970s. It's a real treat to watch, primarily because of its two main stars and their chemistry together.

Paul Newman and Robert Redford paired for the first time in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and they were so successful that the director of the film, George Roy Hill, united them again in 1973 for The Sting, a movie I've described as just about as perfect as a film could be. Their earlier collaboration comes pretty close to perfection, aided by the Oscar-winning screenplay by William Goldman. Goldman wrote some great interaction between the two men, and each is given ample opportunity to demonstrate his acting talent. What most people remember about this film, I would imagine, is the quick-witted banter between Newman's Butch and Redford's Sundance that Goldman created.

Butch is the talker, the idea man of the gang. He's the one who always comes up with the plans for which banks or trains to rob. It's a different member of the gang, though, who suggests robbing the Union Pacific train both coming and going. Harvey Logan (Ted Cassidy, who would later play Bigfoot on several episodes of The Six Million Dollar Man) thinks that the railroad company will load the train for the return trip, thinking the gang won't suspect money to be available both times. As is typical of their somewhat inept skills, the gang members (under Butch's direction) use enough dynamite to blow up the entire train, not just the safe, on the second journey, but before they can pick up all the cash, they are quickly attacked by a posse that jumps out of a small train that pulls up behind the one they've just robbed. It doesn't take long before Butch and Sundance realize that the posse is only looking for the two of them.

The middle portion of the film follows the two outlaws as the traverse the western frontier, tracked all the way by the six men. As Butch keeps asking, "Who are those guys?" It turns out the posse has been hired by the head of the railroad, who is understandably upset that his train keeps getting robbed and/or blown up. Butch and Sundance wind up on a cliff over a river and have to make a decision. In one of the more famous moments of the movie, Sundance admits that he can't swim, to which Butch jokingly replies, "The fall'll probably kill you." They survive the jump, though, and make their way (with Etta Place, played by Katharine Ross, by their side) to Bolivia after a side journey to New York to enjoy a little big-city life.

In Bolivia, they try to rob banks, but their Spanish is too weak. They try to learn from Etta, but Butch, in particular, keeps messing up, even with notes. Eventually, though, they master the art of bank robbing in a foreign country and start to enjoy themselves. After Butch spots one of the members of the posse from the United States, though, he and Sundance attempt to go "straight" (no pun intended) and find legitimate jobs as payroll guards. It seems the payroll for the mining company where they are hired keeps getting stolen by thieves. Ironic, isn't it?

I won't make too much of the fact that this is a movie where the key relationship is between two adult men. One of them already has a steady relationship, Sundance's romance with Etta, but she is apparently just as willing to be Butch's lover. They have a long bike ride to the tune of "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head," and she wonders aloud what would have happened had she met Butch before she met Sundance. Butch only seems able to have fun with prostitutes, but when he is left alone while Sundance and Etta share a bed or a dance, you might reasonably wonder who it is that he wishes were free to be with him. All buddy movies have, it seems to me, an implicit sense of the homoerotic or, at the very least, the homosocial (to use Eve Sedgwick's term). I won't even mention the fact that they share one horse for a large portion of that middle trek to avoid the posse.

What's ultimately most intriguing about this movie is that we begin cheering two outlaws. Butch and Sundance are obviously not on the side of law and order; they are self-professed criminals. They talk about getting out of the business, but it's really too easy for them to succeed. Instead, we get a continuing series of ideas from Butch and then the actions by Sundance, particularly his prowess with a gun, to back up those ideas. Newman and Redford did not play the first anti-heroes to become the focus of a movie, but this movie helped to cement that kind of character in the public consciousness forever. And having two stars with this much chemistry together was certainly one of the major starting points for the buddy pictures that were to follow for decades afterward.

I'd also like to address the moments in the film when the makers have chosen to use sepia tone rather than natural colors. The film is, of course, based upon actual people, but both Butch and Sundance have more legend than historical fact associated with their exploits. The sepia tone seems to indicate that sense of the past, the way that events were seen then, the way that our memories are often "colored" by time or forgetfulness. As the title credits point out, “Most of what follows is true.” Those moments in sepia are perhaps the stories that have been passed down, such as the opening sequence where Sundance shoots the gun belt off another man without injuring him. And the final freeze-frame, also in sepia tone, is one of the more remarkable endings in film history. I'll leave it to you to determine what you think happens at the end; it's been the subject of debate since this film was released in 1969 (although why it's been debated is beyond me).

Oscar Wins: Best Story and Screenplay Based on Material Not Previously Published or Produced, Best Cinematography, Best Original Score for a Motion Picture (Non-Musical), and Best Song Original for the Picture  ("Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head")

Other Oscar Nominations: Best Picture, Best Director (George Roy Hill), and Best Sound

Anne of the Thousand Days (1969)

Anne of the Thousand Days, a 1969 nominee for Best Picture, details the attempts by Henry VIII (played by Richard Burton) to obtain the affections of Anne Boleyn (played by Genevieve Bujold), despite still being married to Katharine of Aragon (played by the inestimable Irene Papas). This movie works well as a costume drama; there seemed to be a lot of those during the 1960s, and most of them were heavily British in influence and/or execution. This lavish film is no exception.

Interestingly, the film covers much of the same territory as The Tudors, the television series currently on Showtime for its second season. All of the palace intrigue is there, as are Henry's famous temper and Anne's flirtatious personality. Even the portrayal of Queen Katharine is similar, making her to be almost saintly in her devotion to a man who clearly no longer loves her. The great difference, of course, is in the portrayal of Henry. Here, the king is played by Burton as a man closer in age to the historical figure. In the Showtime series, Jonathan Rhys-Meyers plays Henry more as randy younger fellow dedicated to getting his way and acting out of a sense of entitlement. While I'm all in favor of historical accuracy, who wouldn't rather see Rhys-Meyers nude or semi-nude? Still, Anne of the Thousand Days presents the story in fascinating detail. The costumes and sets are all spectacular, and the acting is, for the most part, uniformly good. (Watch Anthony Quayle as Cardinal Wolsey, for example, as he manages to use both facial expression and elaborate costume to convey what he's feeling.)

I do have one problem with this film's representation of history, and that's with its depiction of Thomas Cromwell, the king's lawyer. If you believed this film, you'd think that Cromwell was responsible for all of the "bad" (at least, damaging) decisions that Henry made with respect to Anne and Katharine and the Church. He's portrayed as truly evil, not an unusual characterization for a lawyer, to be certain, but not one that history fully bears out. I suppose each film deserves a villain, and this movie, in trying to keep the focus much of the time on the love story, has made Cromwell into that figure.

Similarly, the film spends much time on the courtship of Anne that Henry undertakes but little on the aftermath of the relationship. It is relatively late in the film when they wed and she is presented as queen. However, after giving birth to Elizabeth, Bujold's Anne must face the coldness of heart that Henry's all-consuming desire for a male heir brings. It does seem that he changes his disposition too quickly and diverts his attentions to Jane Seymour (the future queen, not Dr. Quinn) too rapidly. Undoubtedly, the birth of another daughter was quite a blow to Henry, but the film might have benefited from more time on what led the king to abandon the woman for whom he had so long fought and for whom he severed ties with the Catholic Church.

Still, I enjoyed this film because it represents one of those movies that on one level is such a product of its time period. The late 1960s saw more women become involved in the movement for equality, and Bujold's queen is a clear reflection of that attitude. The film depicts Henry in all his male chauvinist posturing, and Bujold's speeches to him sound so much a part of the women's movement. (Listen to her discussion of her daughter Elizabeth's future reign as an example.) I had a similar reaction years ago when I saw the 1968 version of Romeo and Juliet. That film is a testament to the influence of the hippies, yet the filmmakers managed to keep it very faithful to Shakespeare's original text. Similarly, Anne of the Thousand Days reminds us both of what we've learned of Henry VIII and his six wives (well, three of them anyway) and reflects the era of its making.