Teresa Wright and Dana Andrews in the The Best Years of Our Lives.
I have decided to try a seasonal thought experiment which I pose as a question:
Where does one go to find love?
True love I think of as a charitable and self-confident state of mind incorporating respect for another, admiration for and appreciation of the beloved’s personal qualities, and generosity of spirit.
A just treatment of my Gedankenexperiment in a real-world context would exceed my scope today. Instead, I shall focus upon cinematic archetypes and specifically upon the romantic creations of classic Hollywood.
I prefer old Hollywood for three reasons.
First, the Hayes Code forced studios of the Golden Era to present romance elliptically, thus more effectively engaging both the analytical mind and the imagination.
Second, because classic Hollywood reached its creative apotheosis within living memory of World War I, of the economic depressions of the 1930s, and of World War II, its pictures were crafted by and for people who understood hardship, i.e., by and for adults.
(By “adults,” I mean individuals who know that reality exists and cannot be altered through either wishful thinking or childish tantrums; who understand that with the privileges of adulthood comes responsibility; and who, whenever possible, keep in mind the fact that a healthy, positive sense of humor is of greater practical utility than is an internal grievance bureau.)
And third, fueled by the rich life experiences of old Hollywood’s creative class, and perhaps in response to audiences’ sophistication (because the U.S. educational system of that era emphasized rigor and critical thinking), classic Hollywood more often than not depicted human nature accurately.
So where to find love in those stylish black-and-white films?
The madcap romantic comedies of the 1930s, while at moments hilarious, derive nearly all their laughs from pathological relationships and situations. One does not envy the protagonists of His Girl Friday, My Favorite Wife, The Awful Truth, or Bringing Up Baby.
The onscreen dynamics of real-life lovers Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy suggest gladiatorial combat rather than cooperative partnership. (The same can be said of the films of 1960s supercouple Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton.)
One might consult lists of “Best Romantic Classics” and therein find Brief Encounter (1945) and Intermezzo (1939). Both are well-written, well-acted, high-quality pictures. Both are worth seeing as character studies. Neither offers an example of healthy love.
Dangerous High-Romantic Drama
Brief Encounter (1945)
Revealing that Laura (Celia Johnson) and Alec (Trevor Howard) part ways at the end of Brief Encounter is not to offer a spoiler, since the picture opens with their parting before revealing their story through flashbacks.
When I first saw the film, I felt heartsick for Laura as she grieved for the loss of her Great Love. More recent viewings, however, have cast the story in quite a different light.
Playwright Noel Coward and his team of filmmakers managed to create in Alec a believable opportunistic predator for whom the naive, inexperienced, Romantic Laura (the film’s narrator) is an all-too-easy mark.
We can see (although she does not) Laura’s point of no return: Alec makes an inappropriately intimate remark; Laura pauses, smiles, and leans toward him, when the healthier response would have been to withdraw and begin planning a retreat.
From that moment, Alec is in charge of the relationship. He manipulates Laura subtly but ruthlessly, guiding her in what to think and how to feel, and telling her what she wants to hear. It is only through an accident of good fortune that she avoids ruining her life.
My feeling today over the closing credits of Brief Encounter is not, “Why can’t they be together,” but rather, “Thank God she got away.”
Intermezzo (1939)
Intermezzo might strike uncomfortably close to home for anyone who has crossed paths with an artistic genius.
In 1930s Stockholm, virtuoso violinist Holger (Leslie Howard) meets young, dewy-eyed Anita (Ingrid Bergman), a piano prodigy, at a family party. Within days, they become emotionally enmeshed. Within a very few weeks, they form a partnership, both professional and personal.
Their liaison is doomed, because neither character is fully adult. Holger, in particular, is an overgrown, willful child and an emotional vampire, totally self-absorbed and driven entirely by his needs. He would be unable to function without a circle of codependents that includes his manager, his wife, and even his minor children. Those enablers tolerate his maladaptive behaviors because of his musical genius.
Intermezzo’s writers charitably (and perhaps uncharacteristically for a Hayes-era film) provide Anita an out and a future, although she remains blindly devoted to Holger.
One wonders whether she ever realizes how close she came to losing everything.
Putting Love to the Test
Some of my favorite film romances feature mature adults forced by circumstance to measure their feelings against, and perhaps sacrifice their relationships to, competing and exigent demands.
Always Goodbye (1938)
It was the romantic leads, Barbara Stanwyck and Herbert Marshall, that drew me initially to Always Goodbye.
Stanwyck was a wonderful actress with a reputation as one of the kindest and most small-d democratic stars in Hollywood.
Marshall I would watch in anything. He specialized in portraying sophisticated gentlemen who cloaked steely resolve in impeccable manners.
Margo (Stanwyck) and Jim (Marshall) meet by accident. They form a bond initially of mutual respect and friendship which evolves over months and years into devoted love. Unfortunately for them, circumstances essentially of their own creation compel Margo and Jim into making painful choices.
Always Goodbye is a beautifully crafted and poignant exploration of true love. It is well worth watching and free on YouTube.
Casablanca (1942)
Casablanca’s was a chaotic production. Working from an unfinished script, neither the actors nor the director knew until the final days how the picture would end. No one had any idea the film would strike such a chord as it did, much less that it would become an all-time favorite, or that so many of its lines would enter the American vernacular (e.g., “I’m shocked – shocked! – to find…,” “Play it [again], Sam,” “We’ll always have Paris,” “Here’s looking at you, kid,” and “Round up the usual suspects.”)
Casablanca presents two romantic storylines that must inevitably clash, as they both involve the lovely Ilsa Lund (Ingrid Bergman). Ilsa idolizes her heroic and chivalrous husband, Victor Laszlo (Paul Henreid). She also passionately and desperately loves Rick Blaine (Humphrey Bogart), whom she had met at a time when she believed Victor to be dead.
In a remarkably mature piece of dialogue, Victor confesses to Rick:
“I know a good deal more about you than you suspect. I know, for instance, that you’re in love with a woman. It is perhaps a strange circumstance that we both should be in love with the same woman. The first evening I came to this café, I knew there was something between you and Ilsa. Since no one is to blame, I – I demand no explanation.”
As in Always Goodbye, external circumstances – this time driven by events far beyond the characters’ control – influence the lovers’ fortunes in Casablanca.
The picture’s iconic (oft quoted and oft parodied) closing scene finds Rick unilaterally choosing the resolution he believes is best for the three principals — “Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.”
In my opinion, he makes the right choice.
Now, Voyager (1942)
Now, Voyager is an atmospheric coming-of-age story about the evolution of Charlotte Vale (Bette Davis) from a neurotic, prematurely middle-aged spinster into a graceful and self-possessed young woman. Charlotte’s metamorphosis is aided in no small part by her meeting Jerry (the wonderful and always adult Paul Henreid), who deeply loves and admires her for herself.
Charlotte and Jerry meet several times over a period of years. Jerry’s effect on Charlotte’s life is in every case positive, as is her effect on his.
Ultimately, they know they cannot be together. Confronted with a moral and ethical quandary, Charlotte and Jerry agree that they must sublimate their feelings for each other.
They achieve mutual understanding in the picture’s final scene, sealed with perhaps the most romantic use of cigarettes ever captured on film.
Presenting Human Nature and Love as They Truly Are
Back Street (1932)
Back Street is both a love story and a cautionary tale for young women.
Headstrong Ray (Irene Dunne) chafes at her restrictive early-1900s upbringing, defying her parents often and fueled by her conviction that fun and adventure are to be found outside the social conventions.
Bored by the courtship of a decent young admirer, Ray opts for a liaison with an exciting financier who happens to be married.
The film deals more directly and candidly with its sensitive subject matter than would have been possible a few years later under the Hayes Code (although, of course, what today would be front-and-center is offscreen).
Back Street is an effective and affecting morsel of food-for-thought. Even a contemporary audience can understand Ray’s motivation, recognize the risks she undertakes by becoming the kept woman of a married man, and sympathize with the loneliness of her inevitable isolation. Social mores have changed since the early 1900s, but human nature has not.
Love Affair (1939)
The remake of Love Affair, An Affair to Remember (1957), is better known than the original, in part because its male lead (Cary Grant) was a superstar.
In this case, the original is actually the better film.
Lead actor Charles Boyer is believable as inveterate lady’s man Michel. Irene Dunne’s Terry has the poise and wit to hold her own with Michel and plausibly keep his romantic interest. Although the extent of the characters’ shipboard involvement is discreetly obscured, the sexual chemistry between Michel and Terry is palpable in a way one never senses in the sanitized remake.
The characters seem real. Their relationship rings true. Their motives make sense. Consequently, the picture delivers an emotional journey more poignant and a denouement more satisfying than the remake was able to achieve.
The Best Years of Our Lives (1946)
One might not normally consider The Best Years of Our Lives — a picture that follows three servicemen profoundly and indelibly changed by World War II as they attempt to resume civilian life in a small, middle-American town — to be a love story.
It is that, however. The characters’ arcs and struggles are artistically paralleled by and distilled into the evolution of their personal lives.
We see bank officer Al (Fredric March), whose pragmatic wife Millie (Myrna Loy) employs humor, patience, and common sense to preserve for herself and especially for her two children the economic and social value of her marriage.
We see Homer (Harold Russell) riven by fears that the affection of his sweetheart Wilma (literally the girl next-door, played by Cathy O’Donnell) cannot survive the grim realities of his war injuries.
Dana Andrews’ Fred follows the most complex character arc. An ex-bombardier, he has returned home without transferrable skills, either professionally or personally, and with an ill-advised wartime marriage, all of which he needs to address before he can in good conscience court his new love Peggy (Al’s daughter, played by Teresa Wright).
The Best Years of Our Lives richly deserved its Best Picture Oscar. By any measure, it is a great film.
Dana Andrews probably ought to have won an acting Oscar for this role. Fred was the story’s emotional center, and Andrews’ performance was superb. The fact that Andrews garnered not even a nomination for The Best Years of Our Lives remains one of the Academy’s great injustices.
Andrews may well merit an article all to himself. Perhaps someday I will write one.
For now, I shall leave you with the recommendation that you watch The Best Years of Our Lives in order to see some of the best work of his career.
Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone!
📷: NYDailyNews.com
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