The Women of 1975: Barbra Streisand

Barbra Streisand in “Funny Lady”

Grade: ***

One of only two actresses ever to be involved in an Oscar tie, Barbra Streisand returned seven years after her triumphant turn as Fanny Brice in “Funny Girl” to reprise the role in its handily-titled sequel “Funny Lady.” Switching up established legend William Wyler for man-of-the-moment Herbert Ross the film unsurprisingly failed to live up to its predecessor, garnering mixed reviews despite a slew of praise for Streisand herself. This sequel is far from terrible, but neither does it evolve Brice’s tepid story into something worthwhile, benefitting from the charm of an assured James Caan, but otherwise a colourful failure. 

While through the course of “Funny Lady” the journey from ‘girl’ to ‘lady’ begins to ring true, Brice is still a dramatic entertainer on and off the stage, and still relatively hopeless in love. Far more primed for the prospect of eventual heartache, Streisand imparts a cynicism in Brice she herself may have adopted in the period between the two films – in which she divorced Elliot Gould – rattling off trademark one-liners with more caustic impact, and much warier in flirtation than her younger portrayal. She and Caan have more chemistry as opposing forces than Streisand mustered with a dull, uptight Walter Matthau in “Hello, Dolly!” because the actress knows how to come across as conservative without alienating the viewer. In many ways Fanny is reckless, but she isn’t the impulsive, thrill-seeking performer of all those years ago, more of a genuine diva these days, tired of trying too hard and blaming everyone else for her misfortune. 

It’s possible that the biggest obstacle for Streisand in “Funny Lady” is that she doesn’t feel ready to be this much of a showbusiness stalwart, where her energetic presence can’t always be put to good use. As an actress who always seems younger than the roles she’s playing, this lady is still a breath of fresh air, but the film doesn’t afford her the showcase of pizzazz that the original required of a debutante motivated and expected to claim everyone’s attention. Streisand’s shtick feels worn here; in part two of a series which has already trod on the juicier aspects of Brice, and which increasingly feels like a soapy episode with nothing else to say about her. This is still great work within the confines of “Funny Lady” itself, but really we’ve seen it all before.


Accolades: Golden Globe Nomination (Best Actress in a Leading Role, Comedy/Musical)

"Dead End," and William Wyler's Way with Actors

This past weekend I sat down to watch William Wyler's "Dead End" knowing little more than it was one of Oscar's 1937 Best Picture nominees, and therefore required viewing. The film, which takes place over the course of one night, concerns the struggle between the upper and lower classes encased within an inner-city neighbourhood. Gangsters, prostitutes, and teenage delinquents prop up bureaucrats in healthily-detached luxurious apartments, as the two social factions clash, instigating the intervention of local police.

The charms of "Dead End" largely counter its wan misadventures: the rabble of streetwise teenagers and their guardian-of-sorts (a delectable Sylvia Sidney) furrowing a way-of-life for themselves amidst a society that's clearly neglecting them; the way Humphrey Bogart's gangster-character roams around the tenements staking his claim for the place, knowing that he's bigger, better, and worthy of bigger enemies than he entertains. These people are a small-scale impression of how civilisation works, and an undoubted part of the social commentary Wyler et. al are aiming to voice.

I'm not convinced that the film really commits enough to dramatising the social impact (an open-ended resolution for one of the characters emerges as neither here nor there), and it doesn't seem particularly concerned with delving into the motivations of the upper classes in this period either. From many of the films in the Thirties (including "Dead End") you can sense a tangible contempt of high society, but when you stack this project up against more comedic enterprises like "My Man Godfrey" and "Holiday" it doesn't quite cut it. Satire most likely gleaned better results because of the production code: it's harder to get around taboo issues when you're working harder to make a point?

Regardless of the merits and faults of the film I was surprised to learn that, as well as a Best Picture nomination, Claire Trevor managed to get a mention in the Best Supporting Actress category. It was the first of three for Trevor: she followed it up with a winning performance as an alcoholic in "Key Largo" (which also starred Humphrey Bogart), and a final nod in 1954 for William Wellman's "The High and the Mighty." The reward in "Dead End" came for playing a hooker and former love interest of Bogie's, who manages to coax some money from him in her extremely short amount of screen time. Suffice to say, I'm not really on board with this Academy pick, but her flailing dramatics in "Key Largo" - as well as the film itself - are definitely worth a look.

All of this talk of nominations led me to an informative article about William Wyler's penchant for getting Actors nominated for Oscars. Between 1936 and 1968 this happened 36 times, which is the most accumulated by any director by a comfortable margin (Elia Kazan takes runner-up with 25). He has also directed the most acting winners with 13. 


Those are:

Walter Brennan (for "Come and Get It" (1936) (co-directed with Howard Hawks)
Bette Davis (for "Jezebel" (1938))
Faye Bainter (for "Jezebel" (1938))
Walter Brennan (for "The Westerner" (1940))
Greer Garson (for "Mrs. Miniver" (1942))
Teresa Wright (for "Mrs. Miniver" (1942))
Fredric March (for "The Best Years of Our Lives" (1946))
Harold Russell (for The Best Years of Our Lives (1946))
Olivia de Havilland (for "The Heiress" (1949))
Audrey Hepburn (for "Roman Holiday" (1953))
Burl Ives (for "The Big Country" (1958))
Charlton Heston (for "Ben-Hur" (1959))
Hugh Griffith (for "Ben-Hur" (1959))
Barbra Streisand (for "Funny Girl" (1968))

I've seen all but 5 of the 36 (Brennan x2, Ives, Granville, Perkins). Save for Davis, Garson, and Streisand I'm not particularly impressed with many of these, but if you look at the 36 overall, it's a pretty good bunch. Egregious omissions would have to include Ruth Chatterton in "Dodsworth" (who I wrote about a while back) and Terrence Stamp in "The Collector". Both can feel aggrieved considering their co-stars were also nominated. 

How many have you seen, and which are the best?

Fly On The Wall

The Collector (1965)

Directed by William Wyler

Starring: Terrence Stamp, Samantha Eggar

Grade: B

Does it matter if a victim is a powerless woman in a shower, a frantic, headless teenager, or simply Neve Campbell? I found William Wyler's The Collector a difficult film to like because of its victim, rather than the mentally unhinged kidnapper who places her in a position of vulnerability. Terrence Stamp's kidnapping of Miranda Grey, an arty bit-of-stuff student livened by Samantha Eggar, begins with the meagre pedestrianism of the film's Kent Countryside setting. Bad things can't possibly happen from inherently "good" intentions? Stamp, as the suggestively harmless Freddie Clegg, is head-over-heels for Miranda, his abduction of her treated little more than a natural piece of foreplay. As she wakes up from her chloroform-enduced stupor her actions are understandably inconsistent, but one feels that the initial exchange between Miranda and Freddie is a little stagy and stilted. Debate occurs. The tea and biscuits come out. But should we expect anything of a filmic victim? Is rationality too unforseeable? After all, nobody knows how they would react to this predicament, should it occur.

What is for sure is that as characters they exhibit directly opposing ideologies, of which we are constantly reminded. The Collector menacingly draws attention to their differing demeanors and viewpoints, the uptight stingy loner heaping all of the tension into the court of Miranda, who must defend everything that she is about. The Collector's chief mistake is making us too aware of what each of the characters is about, or at least trying to demonstrate this through silly, lazy means. Miranda's favourite book, The Catcher in the Rye, is dissected by Freddie in truly philestine fashion, and their essential differences are brought to the forefront in disappointingly plain terms: this man is all about himself, this woman is eager to explore. It's not to say that The Collector doesn't benefit from politics but the extent to which the two are at war with each other feels primarily mechanical and extracts from some of the unsettling confrontation. Terrence Stamp's dark, studious eyes contribute much more to his character than the narrative devices that accompany them. Particularly blatant is his coveted collection of dead butterflies (hence the film's title) which horrifies Miranda to the extent to which she later interrogates him about whether he intends to "collect" her. The reaction is rather terrifying, and does elevate the tension somewhat, but forms part of my main qualm with The Collector's tendency to demonstrate the sinister through rationale and mediation.

And yet, Wyler eeks so much out of a dull, stagnant setting, emphasising the power relations with menacing angles, boxing Eggar into dark corners and charting her fall from grace with monstrous precision. One gets the impression that Wyler extracts a lot from Eggar herself, and is at his most Hitchcockian in that Freddie in part feels like an authorial vessel, or at least a part-'victim'/faux-'villain' in the piece. Eggar, who conveys the defiance and panic of a fleety woman to whom 'repression' would undoubtedly exist in much more complex ways in the outside world, feels trained in the more explosive scenes, but in confronting Miranda's exasperation at the starvation of culture and concentrated banality of her new setting, she is at worst empathetic and at best a paladin.

I once met a psychologist who'd interviewed Fred West. Wyler's attempts to delve into the motivation behind abduction and obsession is rather like an evaluation of someone similarly beyond rationale. The Collector is a hell of a brave film for confronting the relatively unrelatable with what is, essentially, a battle of logic. It's a technique that's bound to deter people from fully committing to this film's ideas about obsession and practicality (I doubt Wyler would want that anyway) but deserves attention for portraying both Freddie and Miranda in a way that transcends traditional ideas about criminals and victims, and still managing to make its final point so utterly lucid.

Actress Profiles: Ruth Chatterton in Dodsworth (1936)

Dodsworth opens to ambitious, rectilinear art direction and luscious cinematography. It's a prelude to the European glamour that will inevitably follow, Samuel Dodsworth's sale of his own motor company in favour of retirement and a journey to Europe with his beloved missus the end of the line for the working man. His friend picks up on this in the film's opening minutes, more than hinting that Mrs. Dodsworth, Ruth Chatterton's Fran, is leading this dynamic businessman into a life of smoke and mirrors. It's an accusation that we deem as rather harsh in the beginning. After all, this woman has (presumably) stood by him since marriage, looked after his home, raised his kids, and so isn't she entitled to some me-time with her husband? As it turns out Dodsworth's friend isn't too far away, and one of the many effective realities of Ruth Chatterton's enthralling performance is that her betrayal is such an instinctively long-lasting one, and yet by the time it comes seems completely unpreventable. This film works wonders in allowing us to see husband and wife both for what they are, despite aligning us very much with the male party.

Chatterton, like all thirties leading ladies, has immeasurable beauty, and her character is refreshing in the sense that she knows and is able to exploit this beauty instead of it being relayed to her by a handsome knight in shining armour. Not that she doesn't need affection, in fact she craves it, but more through the fear of an unknown future than body hangups. She's rather like Scarlett O'Hara, navigating the male population of Seven Oaks for ninety minutes, assuredly desired but never wanting to think about tomorrow. But while O'Hara was young and understandably carefree there is an err of desperation to Fran's self-preservation and fascination with her own lofty image. An antidote to Huston's direct, honest and upfront hero the film is keen to place her at its main focus point, and it's a brave move of Chatterton to make Fran so unsympathetic. Her dismissive gaze renders spouse Samuel (and us) as powerless voyeurs to her vanity, and as she revels in the newfound power and freedom afforded through ascension from housewife to playgirl, Chatterton and Dodsworth become especially valuable, offering up different perceptions about the meaning of marriage, and how those vows concerning love, honour, and forsaking all others can become diminished or moulded with time.

Fran is not a particularly likeable character but shares the fate of fallen women like Stanwyck, Signoret, Taylor et al. that fished a line out to AMPAS and duly received a chomping response, which in turn makes it all the more surprising that she was passed over for other Actresses, most unfathomably Luise Rainer's bizarre turn as a jilted performer whose repertoire features a song about bumblebees nonetheless. It's also strange that Dodsworth was able to grab other nominations for picture, director William Wyler, actor Walter Huston, and supporting actress (Maria Ouspenskaya for a three-minute scene with Chatterton), but not for its leading lady. Alas, you can't win them all. Ruth Chatterton is more than worthy of her fancy flick, emanating the insidious desires of Fran without drawing attention to them, and believably, palpably wrestling with time.