Some people's favorite villains are the ones with the biggest gadgets, the deepest vendettas, or the loopiest plans for world domination. I get it. Who doesn't want to see a hero prevail over crotch-splitting lasers, flying monkeys, or Satan's minions? That kind of victory is exciting, high-stakes, splashy stuff. But for me, the more terrifying evil is the quiet, intimate kind that goes on right under everyone's nose: the mean girl spreading life-destroying rumors (These Three), a seemingly doting husband carefully driving his wife mad (Gaslight), and of course, any number of domineering mothers.

If Freud had been a girl, Mrs. Henry Vale (Gladys Cooper) in the 1942 romantic drama, Now, Voyager, would have been his worst nightmare. Mrs. Vale is the matriarch of one of Boston's oldest families, with a couple of grown sons we don't see much of and a 30-something daughter, Charlotte (Bette Davis), who lives at home. Since the day the child was born -- unwanted and late in life -- Mrs. Vale has told her what to do, where to go, whom to see, what to wear, what to eat, and when to talk. As a result, Charlotte is a thick-set, hand-wringing bundle of nerves, whom everyone in the family treats as an object of either pity or fun. 

We meet Charlotte on the day her kindly sister-in-law, Lisa (Ilka Chase), decides to help the poor girl by introducing her to Dr. Jaquith (Claude Rains), a friendly psychiatrist who runs a sanitarium in the country. Mrs. Vale thinks the whole idea is preposterous. Why, Charlotte isn't having a nervous breakdown, she's just seeking attention; simply one of her latest peculiarities. No one in the history of the Vale family has EVER had a nervous breakdown. The idea! Charlotte, stop that blubbering at once!

Bette Davis does a grand job of it, tricked out in a padded suit under an awful dress, insanely sensible shoes, and one big eyebrow. She walks like a person whose every move is scrutinized (because it is) and reads insult and contempt in every word she hears (because it's there). Dr. Jaquith manages to get Charlotte away from her mother for a quiet talk up in her room. She is skeptical and mistrusting, but when Jaquith shows a genuine interest in her artwork (Charlotte, in sublimating her intense frustrations, has turned naturally to the old whaler's craft of scrimshaw), she opens up slightly with a tale of mother-thwarted romance on the high seas. She gives Jaquith a box of tightly carved ivory in thanks for his kindness and attention.

When Charlotte's niece, June (Bonita Granville, see evil child above), spies the gift in Jaquith's hand she teases her aunt about it in that casually cruel way pretty girls sometimes have with their plainer acquaintances; it is certainly the way her family has taught her to talk to Charlotte. Dr. Jaquith has seen enough. He insists that Charlotte check into the sanitarium immediately, giving old lady Vale a piece of his mind in the process.
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After several months of weaving and eyebrow therapy, Charlotte is a new woman. Almost. Dr. Jaquith and Lisa give her a recovery gift of a pleasure cruise to South America, with the instruction to live a little and to try new things. One of the new things she tries is hanging out with handsome hard-starer, Jerry Durrance (Paul Henreid), an unhappily married man with great clothes and a sexy way of lighting cigarettes. The two get stranded on shore after a car wreck and fall in love. As you do.

Alas, it can never be; he is married, if unhappily, with two children to consider. Charlotte reunites with her cruise with a good deal more confidence and Jerry goes off to build stuff in the jungle or whatever. Once back in Boston, everyone is amazed, if not entirely delighted, by Charlotte's transformation. Even the loathsome June is nicer and apologetic. Charlotte 2.0 charms the entire family, with one notable exception: her mother.

​It seems the Mrs. Vale developed a heart problem (you think?) while Charlotte was away and has needed a nurse (the wonderful Mary Wickes) day and night since. But now that she's back, the old battleaxe expects Charlotte to take up her former position as unpaid, browbeatable servant. Bolstered by her shipboard romance, or more likely months and months of therapy, Charlotte politely but firmly refuses to return to the way things were. Mrs. Vale, not liking this newfound independence one bit, promptly throws herself down the stairs, but Charlotte holds her ground. Time passes, and the two women reach an uneasy truce. Charlotte gets engaged to a nice enough man and all seems to be working out.

Until one night, she runs into Jerry at a party. The two must pretend they've only just met and have a silly non-conversation along the lines of "(Louder than necessary) Architecture, that must be very interesting -- (slightly quieter) Oh Jerry, how I've longed to see you." "(also louder than required) Yes, building a hospital...(lighting two cigarettes) darling, how I love you." They say goodbye again and Charlotte realizes that she can't marry the new nice guy because she doesn't love him. Back home, exhausted, she tells her mother that the engagement is off and the two quarrel. The ONE TIME Charlotte says something remotely mean to her mother, the old lady's heart gives out and she DIES. 

Now that's commitment to the villain project.
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Wracked with guilt, Charlotte checks herself back into the sanitarium. It doesn't take as long to bounce back, partly because she has tweezers now and other therapeutic tools, but also because she meets an awkward young girl with self-esteem issues there; a girl who reminds her of herself at that age. Turns out the child is none other than Jerry's daughter, Tina, and Charlotte takes her under her wing. It gets a little weird after that, boundary-wise, but in the end, Charlotte finds a calling, Dr. Jaquith gets to build a new wing at the sanitarium, and Jerry, one supposes, finds some other ladies to share cigarettes with.

​I'd always imagined -- in the world beyond the movie -- that Charlotte wound up with Dr. Jaquith somehow. He's infinitely more suitable than Smoky McTwoCigs. Or how about she just chooses not to be with anybody. Why not? This is one of the few films where the heroine saves herself in the end: she gets some much-needed romance on the high seas; gets out from under her mother's toxic control; develops a relationship with her remaining family; declines to marry a guy she doesn't love; and uses her Boston money to help others. 

I don't know why they call this a romance; this is a success story.

This post is my contribution to the 2016 Great Villain Blogathon, hosted by Speakeasy, Silver Screenings, and Shadows and Satin.

SO much evil in the world -- get reading!

Before Fox Films finds out it's there.

A film like this makes you wonder how commercial air travel ever got off the ground, so to speak. I mean, it was nice that you could smoke (or second-hand smoke anyway) the entire trip to stave off nerves, but in those early days the bus may have been a surer thing. Greyhound certainly seems to have been the service model for the air carrier in this picture.

Phone Call from a Stranger begins with attorney David Trask (Gary Merrill) in the process of leaving the wife who cheated on him. She regrets the affair, but he can't move past it, so he decides to hop a plane and start fresh in Los Angeles -- kids, schmids. At the airport Trask meets up with three other people with big problems: alcoholic doctor, Robert Fortness (Michael Rennie), would-be musical actress, Binky Gay (Shelley Winters); and Eddie Hoke (Keenan Wynn), obnoxious traveling novelties salesmen.
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The plane, however, is a local (which I guess was a Thing in those early days) and keeps running into delays. Trask and his new acquaintances get to talking and we get some juicy backstory on each, which comes in handy later. Binky latches onto Trask because it's her first flight ever and she tells her story out of sheer nervousness: that she is going home to her husband after trying and failing to make it on Broadway, but is afraid her battle-ax of a mother-in-law, a former Vaudeville star (Evelyn Varden), is going to be horrible and make her life miserable. She is not wrong to be concerned.

Upon finding out Trask is a lawyer, Dr. Fortness seeks advice on how to turn himself in to the District Attorney on account of five years before, he drove drunk and caused an accident that killed his colleague (uncredited Hugh Beaumont) then pinned the blame on his dead friend. Fortness's wife (Beatrice Straight) lied to protect him, but their marriage has suffered ever since and he now wants to put things right.

Eddie is just a pain in the ass, what with the nose-glasses, joy-buzzer, and cheesecake picture of Bette Davis c. 1932 that he keeps showing around and claiming is his wife (as IF). But he is the one who insists that the four of them (whom he nicknames The Four Musketeers) exchange contact information so they can get together in years to come and recall this crazy, mixed-up trip.

This is why, when the plane crashes and kills three of the Four Musketeers, David Trask is able to contact each of his traveling companions' survivors to share something important with each of them. The exercise is cathartic for him, particularly after talking with Hoke's wife, who turns out to be actual Better Davis, c. 1952 though, and paralyzed from the waist down. It should be noted that Bette Davis was married to Gary Merrill at the time this picture was made and their scene together is breathtakingly uninteresting.

Nutshell: I don't consider this to be a particularly memorable movie, but three performances make it worth seeing:

• Shelley Winters, who is engaging, natural, and funny throughout. Yeah, she dies, but that was kind of Shelley Winters's thing: at least she didn't drown in this one.
• Keenan Wynn is great, but his character is so irritating you kind of wish you could like him better.
• Evelyn Varden (who was in another movie Shelley died in) rocks the awful mother-in-law.

Sadly, the remaining characters and portrayals are less sympathetic. Michael Rennie is wooden and forgettable, as per yoozh, and I'm sorry, but I've never cared for Gary Merrill at all. Who knows what Bette Davis was trying to do with that wise invalid schtick, and I found the eternally regretful sob in Mrs. Trask's voice enough to hop on a doomed plane myself. There is a surprise in Beatrice Straight, but only because I'd forgotten she was in the picture and otherwise think she's wonderful. She did what she could.
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That said, you may as well give Phone Call from a Stranger a whirl since it's available in its entirety on YouTube. Click while you can!

This post is my contribution to the CMBA Fall Blogathon: Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, sponsored by the Classic Movie Blog Association. 

So many great entries on this fun theme, but don't take my word for it: Go read and enjoy!

I can't remember the last time I saw this picture in its entirety. I've seen the parodies and the drag homages a number of times fairly recently, but it's quite possible that it's been more than a decade since I watched the original.

Here's how the movie got back on my radar: A couple weeks ago, I saw Rain again and was feeling pretty sympathetic toward Joan Crawford. That got me in the mood to watch Mommie Dearest again, which I thought was hilarious when it came out and kind of boring and irritating* last weekend when I gave it another go. One of these days, I may write about that movie here, but don't hold your breath. It's a screechy, clunky, slog.

Naturally, Mommie D got me thinking about My Mother's Keeper, B.D. Hyman's awful, mean-spirited, whine-fest about growing up with Bette Davis for a mother, which I read and detested** when it came out in 1985. And B.D. Merrill (at the time) was the worst thing in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?.

So here we are back in 1962. 

And B.D. Merrill is still embarrassingly bad as the teenager who lives next door to former Hollywood star Blanche Hudson (Joan Crawford) and her sister, Jane (Bette Davis). No one ever really sees Blanche, because she has been confined to a wheelchair since the mid-1930s, the result of a car accident for which Jane was responsible.

In the days of vaudeville, Jane was famous nationwide as "Baby" Jane Hudson, precocious singer, dancer, and breadwinner for the Hudson family. Father Hudson accompanied Jane on stage, spoiled the pants off her, and was cruel to and neglectful of plainer Blanche. Mother Hudson is cowed by her husband and younger daughter, but is comforting to Blanche, asking her after one particularly stinging slight, to please, as the years go by, remember to be kinder to Jane than their father is to her now.

Blanche does not forget this exhortation. 

Indeed, after talking pictures kill Jane's vaudeville career, Blanche finds her talent in the movies and becomes a big star. As part of her contract, Blanche insists that the studio find pictures for Jane, even though Jane can't act her way out of a paper bag, but Blanche made a promise. Now in her sister's shadow, adult Jane not only stinks, but drinks, and was stinking drunk the night of the crash that crippled her sister.

Back in 1962, Blanche is a virtual prisoner in her room with only a parakeet, a television, some books, a one-day-a-week maid named Elvira (Maidie Norman), and a summoning buzzer, to keep her entertained. Jane has become a blousy, overly-made-up, beslippered wreck, who is eaten up with jealousy when a TV station begins playing Blanche Hudson movies. This has been putting the color back in Blanche's cheeks and an extra drag in Jane's steps as she schleps three meals a day on a tray up to Blanche's room.

Concerned about Jane's increasingly erratic behavior (see parakeet), Blanche has been plotting to sell the house, put Jane in some kind of hospital, and move someplace where Elvira can take care of her full time. Elvira has had her suspicions about Jane for some time, particularly after finding out that Jane has been intercepting, opening, and writing obscenities on the wave of fan mail Blanche has been getting from the TV revival. 

Eventually, Jane gets wind of her sister's plan and begins to hatch one of her own: one that involves starving her sister to death*** and reviving her own career. She puts an ad in the paper for an accompanist and attracts a creepy young composer named Edwin Flagg (an extra young, extra creepy Victor Buono), whose goal is to bilk Jane of every spare penny she has.

Blanche, who has already missed a few meals, has begun to put two-and-two together. While Jane is out picking up adult-sized versions of her old costumes, Blanche wheels herself into Jane's room where she discovers that Jane has been practicing and perfecting Blanche's signature. There are also a few conspicuous check stubs for items that Blanche did not purchase. Completely wigged out, Blanche painstakingly hauls herself down the stairs to the telephone and calls the nuthatch doctor and begs him to come over.

At the exact moment Jane returns from her errands. 

It all goes south pretty quickly for Blanche from there. Jane hauls her back upstairs, ties and gags her, and calls the doctor back in Blanche's voice (actually Joan Crawford's; Davis couldn't imitate her) to say it was all a mistake and everything's fine. Jane also gets an opportunity to fire Elvira, who instantly becomes wicked suspicious and tries (and fails) to save Blanche. That part scared me pretty bad when I was a kid.

Things begin to spiral out of control for Jane. She's done one horrible thing after another and becomes completely unhinged. While Blanche is starving and dying, Jane takes her to the beach -- the last place the sisters were ever happy together. With her dying breath, Blanche tells Jane a secret that softens them both in a way you didn't think possible.

Bette Davis is truly excellent in this film. Her anger, jealousy, weird bits of delight, and even the crazy all worked for me. Joan Crawford is also remarkably understated for her and is very affecting.

But it's Bette's picture. 

I know there's a lot of talk about their famous feud during the making of this film -- how much they hated each other, the pranks they pulled on set. I'm not sure how much of those rumors are true. It seems that after the film's success, the two developed a well-documented hostility toward one another: Bette was nominated for an Academy Award and Joan was not and when Bette lost, Joan went out of her way to rub it in her face. Not nice, but who cares?

Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? is one hell of a good movie that I shouldn't have waited so long to revisit.

George Brent was born in Ireland to an Irish mother and a British father, who was either in the British Army, a shopkeeper, or a newspaperman (mysterious inconsistency among the biographies). Brent was orphaned at the age of 11 and moved to New York to live briefly with an aunt. After returning to Dublin as a young man, he became an active member of the IRA where, during the Irish War of Independence, he got into some trouble and had to escape to Canada to avoid being arrested.

Brent got the acting bug while a student at the National University of Ireland and joined a Canadian theatre company while in exile. Eventually, he made his way to New York where he appeared in stock plays and early silent films, also picking up the first of five wives, actress Helen Campbell (1925-27). In 1930, Brent went to Hollywood to appear in minor supporting roles to the likes of Rin-Tin-Tin and Charlie Chan, and to fail a few screen tests. Thanks to actress Ruth Chatterton, who would become his second wife (1932-34), Brent landed a leading role in her film, The Rich Are Always With Us (1932). 

And the rest is leading man history. 

1932 would see George Brent play opposite some of the strongest leading ladies of the time: Barbara Stanwyck, Loretta Young, and Joan Blondell, Throughout the 1930s and into the early 1940s, he was one of Hollywood's most durable leading men, playing opposite such heavy hitters as Kay Francis, Ginger Rogers, Greta Garbo, Jean Arthur, Myrna Loy, Merle Oberon, and Ann Sheridan (wife number four, 1942-43*). His most frequent co-star (11 pictures) was, of course, Bette Davis, with whom he also had a years'-long love affair.

By the late 1940s, an aging Brent found fewer romantic leads and spent a few years appearing in B pictures before retiring from film in 1953. He made a number appearances on television until retiring for good to his California horse ranch in 1960...with wife number five, model Janet Michaels (1947-1974) whom he survived. Brent died at the age of 80 of emphysema on May 26, 1979.

I like George Brent best when he's a rake or a playboy. His noble, long-suffering do-gooder parts tend to leave me cold, with the notable exception of his portrayal of Dr. Steele in Dark Victory, but only because he puts up with Humphrey Bogart's horrible Irish accent so effortlessly.

But I can watch him in Jezebel any day; he really is a perfect scoundrel.

The Entertainer: Movies, Magic and My Father's Twentieth Century, 
By Margaret Talbot
Riverhead, 2012

Turns out I have seen a surprising number of films that star or feature Lyle Talbot. Perhaps this isn't such a huge surprise, as I am crazy for pre-Code pictures, and having been one of the original horses in the Warner Bros. stable, the man made about 8-12 films a year for that outfit. Talbot could play sniveling, smoldering, or sophisticated, or all of the above all at once, with a dash of dastardly.

Talbot began a career in theater as a magician's assistant, carny, and performer in traveling tent shows throughout the Midwest while still a teenager. He learned to act on the road and eventually wound up in Hollywood, where handsome young men with theater experience could work in talking pictures. Talbot signed with Warner Bros., with other regulars, Joan Blondell, Bette Davis, Humphrey Bogart, Ann Dvorak, and Warren William, and churned out (as noted) a lot of movies every year.

Perhaps because of this, Talbot was one of the founding members of the Screen Actors Guild, a labor union formed to protect actors from the hard hours, grueling production schedules, and multi-year contracts with invasive terms fostered by the major studios. Warner Bros. in particular (and ironically, given the "every man" theme of so many of their stories) was one of the most notoriously exploitative places to work.

Although he never quite reached star status, Lyle Talbot worked steadily in motion pictures throughout the 1930s, '40s, and '50s, then made a successful transition to television, appearing in everything from The Life of Riley  to Who's the Boss?, with a long, recurring role on about 70 of the 50,000 episodes of The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet. The man worked and worked.

He also married a lot and drank a lot, and yes, he was in a bunch of Ed Wood, Jr. movies. 

Last year, the AFI Silver Theater in Silver Spring, Maryland ran a mini-festival of Talbot's early films to celebrate the publication of Margaret Talbot’s book, The Entertainer, which is part memoir, part biography of her father's life and career. Having just bought the book and devoured it, I went to listen to Margaret Talbot talk and to see one of my favorite pictures, Three on a Match, which I'd never seen on the big screen.  As I wrote at the time, her book is a real page-turner. It covers the entire landscape of American popular entertainment of the 20th century — her father’s century — with a journalist’s detail and a child’s affection. 

His is a fascinating story...and now it's available in paperback. Buy it for his birthday.