A PLACE IN THE SUN 1951

“Life is never quite interesting enough, somehow. You people who come to the movies know that.”                                     Shirley Booth as Dolly Levi in The Matchmaker (1958)

No truer words were ever spoken on the topic of what movies mean to us “dreamers.” I, like a great many film buffs (and as the title of this blog reiterates), am a dyed-in-the-wool dreamer. And for as long as I can remember, the allure of motion pictures for me has been their intrinsic link to the fundamental human need to dream, to long for, to imagine, to aspire to, and to hope.

Because I’m essentially an impractical, head-in-the-clouds fantasist for whom dreams have often proved a contradictory source of my greatest joys and deepest sorrows; I've always been intrigued by the curiously dual nature of dreaming. Dreams are inarguably at the root of all human ambition and invention, possessing the power to ease spiritual pain by way of escapism, inciting creativity, and spurring on the imagination to all manner of human achievement. Yet at the same time, dreams are equally prone to sowing seeds of dissatisfaction...fostering discontent and delusion when they create a hunger and desire for things that can never be attained. 

When I think about it, a great many of my favorite novels seem to be about the pernicious nature of idealism and dreams: F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, Nathanael West’s The Day of the Locust, and, apropos of this post, Theodore Dreiser’s Sister Carrie and An American Tragedy. Dreiser being specifically the author I find to be the most compelling purveyor of narratives sensitive to the healing/hurtful siren song that is the myth of The American Dream.

Montgomery Clift as George Eastman

Elizabeth Taylor as Angela Vickers

Shelley Winters as Alice Tripp

A Place in the Sun is the story of George Eastman (Clift), the poor-relation nephew of pillar-of-society industrialist Charles Eastman, who flees a dead-end bellhop job in Chicago to be taken on as a worker in his uncle’s bathing suit factory. George is haunted by his stiflingly poor, rigidly religious upbringing, and is driven—to an almost pathological degree—to overcome the limitations of his meager education and humble origins. Applying considerable initiative toward his ambitions (evinced by his taking home-study courses and devising plans for factory efficiency in his spare time) George appears at first resigned, albeit restlessly, to work hard for his modest piece of the American Dream. But as bedeviled as George is about his impoverished past, it soon becomes clear that he is equally consumed with the desire for the kind of brass ring life his Eastman lineage dangles teasingly just beyond his grasp.

Locked Out
George Eastman stands dejectedly outside the gate of his uncle's estate, Charles Eastman. The large, ornamental "E" on the gate serving as a caustic reminder of a birthright denied

Ultimately, fate deals George an ironically cruel hand when the realization of all of his ambitions and dreams become certainties (his professional advancement and social acceptance coincide with a blossoming romance with the beautiful and glamorous socialite, Angela Vickers [Taylor]) at the very moment news of his impregnation of Alice, the plain-but-sweet factory co-worker (Winters) just as certainly signals the end to all he has ever hoped for.

While An American Tragedy (both the novel and the original 1931 film, which is said to be the most faithful adaptation) posit George’s dilemma within the parameters of a sociopath’s conundrum: George, not feeling much of anything for either girl, weighs the most selfishly advantageous outcome and plots to rid himself of the problematic pregnant girlfriend. A Place in the Sun’s intentionally romanticized construct encourages the viewer to sympathize/identify with George’s predicament. A device that ultimately (and provocatively) implicates us in the tragic turn of events as they play out.

"The reason they call it 'The American Dream' is that you have to be asleep to believe it."

George Carlin

Theodore Dreiser's pre-Depression era novel An American Tragedy sought to address the accepted American belief that hard work equaled affluence and advancement in a country where nepotism, bloodlines, and arbitrary class/social hierarchies impose distinct limitations. A Place in the Sun uses the false promise of post-war American prosperity as the bait that lures dreamers like George Eastman into believing "the good life" is his for the taking.

It always struck me as a little sad that George, so consumed with achieving his own dreams, never stopped to consider that a romance with a handsome Eastman (even a poor relation) might have felt like a dream come true to a plain factory girl like Alice.

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT THIS FILM

A common complaint leveled at A Place in the Sun is that the tension of the film’s central conflict is significantly weakened in having the drab and ultimately annoying Shelley Winters character rendered as such a blatantly unappealing option to the dream-girl perfection of Elizabeth Taylor. The implication being, I suppose, is that if given the opportunity, anyone in his right mind is going to try to drown the sympathetic but whiny Winters if it will help land them the exquisitely beautiful, sweet-natured (and let’s not forget, loaded) Elizabeth Taylor. If that’s true, what does that say about us?

The near-identical beauty of Montgomery Clift and Elizabeth Taylor emphasizes their compatibility

Therein lies my fascination with A Place in the Sun. Instead of turning Dreiser’s novel into just another crime story with a social commentary overlay, George Stevens—drawing upon the entire arsenal of cinematic devices that helped give Hollywood its reputation as America’s “Dream Factory”—idealizes the tale and subtly seduces, making us complicit allies in George’s social-climbing fantasies. He structures the film as an unabashedly romanticized, male Cinderella fairy tale about “fated to be mated” lovers threatened by the ugly specter of poverty and deprivation. The latter is embodied by the likable but difficult-to-root-for Shelley Winters.

With every lovingly-photographed close-up of the impossibly beautiful couple…with every lushly orchestrated romantic idyll captured in passionate tableau…we’re not only encouraged to project our fantasies onto the idealized couple, but to see them as sympathetic souls deserving of having their dreams come true. Something not possible without vilifying the story’s real victim (Winters) as the sole obstacle to their happiness. 

The genius of A Place in the Sun, and why I consider it to be a minor masterpiece, is how, through the juxtaposition of appealing images of wealth and dreary images of poverty, the audience, when faced with the issue of what to do about the blameless but problematic Shelly Winters character, are placed in the same morally ambiguous position as Montgomery Clift.

PERFORMANCES

Only two of the 9 Oscar nominations A Place in the Sun garnered in 1951 were in the acting categories: Best Actor, Montgomery Clift, and Best Actress Shelley Winters (it won a whopping 6 awards, including Best Director for Stevens). The always-impressive Clift brings a heartbreaking vulnerability to what I think is one of his best screen performances. At no moment do you ever feel he is being moved forward by the plot. You can see every thought and motivation play out on his face. 

On A Place in the Sun’s DVD commentary track, much is made of the fact that in taking on the role of the mousy Alice Tripp, blond bombshell Shelley Winters astounded audiences by so playing against type. Winters is, indeed, very good, but if you’re like me and largely unfamiliar with the work of Shelley the sexpot, her role feels right in step with characters she played in a great many of her latter films (1955s The Night of the Hunter comes to mind), and thus her performance doesn't feel like the huge departure it perhaps once did.

If your goal is to make plausible the notion that an otherwise sane man would resort to murder for the love of a woman, you're definitely on the right track if that woman is then 17-year-old Elizabeth Taylor. What a knockout! Overlooked by the Academy, her performance in A Place in the Sun is rather remarkable. She gives a surprisingly mature performance—one of her best, in fact—proving to be particularly effective in her later scenes. Taylor would work again with director George Stevens in Giant (1956), and the truly bizarre misfire, The Only Game in Town (1970).

THE STUFF OF FANTASY

My deep affection for A Place in the Sun extends to the way it uses romantic imagery to convey the illusory allure of desire and longing. And by illusory allure, I mean that dreams are only pleasant when they hold out the possibility of coming true. To want for something you can't have tears you apart.

George is frequently photographed surrounded by idealized images of success and wealth

Like the beckoning light on Daisy's dock in The Great Gatsby
George studies high school classes under the flickering neon reminder of the Vickers family fortune

(Above) "Ophelia", John Everett Millais' mid-19th Century painting depicting the drowning death of Shakespeare's heroine, looms ominously over George's head (below) as he ponders: how do you solve a problem like Alice Tripp?

THE STUFF OF DREAMS

A Place in the Sun is one of those rare screen adaptations of a beloved book that captures the author's intent even though it plays fast and loose with the original text. Theodore Dreiser's 1925 novel was turned into a Broadway play in 1926, and a film by Josef von Sternberg in 1931 (for which it is said Dreiser didn't care).  Screenwriters Michael Wilson and Harry Brown adapted the 1951 film, and while faithful adaptations are fine, I love when collaborators are able to stay true to the feel of an artist's work, even when its superficial form has been altered. George Stevens has created a forcefully cinematic film that tells its story with a language all its own. It's beautiful to look at, wonderful to listen to (the Franz Waxman score is a real highlight), and boasts a slew of first-rate performances. It's a near-perfect film.
Near perfect...

Although Raymond Burr, cast as the prosecuting attorney, is actually fine (I guess. It's the same performance he's given for decades), his close association with the Perry Mason character proves a big distraction to me. When he shows up, this absolutely breathtakingly engrossing romantic drama suddenly becomes a TV program.

Similarly, and due to no fault of the actor himself, the casting of Paul Frees as the priest during the film's pivotal final minutes just sticks in my craw. Why? Because as I child, I watched Walt Disney's Wonderful World of Color on TV for years. Anyone familiar with the show will recognize Frees' distinctive voice as the narrator of a million Disney documentaries. And as he is also the voice of the Ghost Host at Disneyland's Haunted Mansion, every time he speaks I'm thrust out of the narrative. Frees' voice is waaaay too hardwired with Disney associations to work on any level for me. Given that he's also the voice of animated no-goodnick Boris Badenov (whom I adore), I suppose I should just be thankful Frees never resorts to speaking in a Pottsylvanian accent.

Watching A Place in the Sun is an immensely pleasurable experience that satisfies no matter what aspect of its story you choose to focus on: the romance, the social commentary, the crime drama, or, my personal preference, the melancholy discourse on the failings of the American Dream. If you haven't seen A Place in the Sun in a while, it's definitely worth another look. If you've never seen it before, well, prepare to be swept away. I am...every time I see it.

Copyright © Ken Anderson   2009 -2013

IMAGES 1972

At one time or another, everyone has had the experience of waking from a dream feeling, even if only for a second, as though the dream were real. Recently I had one of those dreams where you see yourself, as if in real-time, sleeping in bed, conscious of being asleep and dreaming, yet at the same time aware of being awake, outside of the body, and observing. The way these varied states of consciousness peel away only to reveal other, hidden states of consciousness, each with a psychological validity that crosses over into reality, is like the chimerical equivalent of a Russian nesting doll. It all happens very swiftly, fleetingly in fact, yet while it’s happening, you harbor a tiny fear in your heart that it’s a tossup as to which of these realities is authentic.

This inability to discern what is real and what is imagined is at the core of Robert Altman’s dreamy, trippy, intriguingly abstruse psychological thriller Images. A movie that takes the fluid dreamscape logic of 3 Women, crosses it with the volatile psychosexual menace of That Cold Day in the Park, and adds to it all the schizophrenic character-study subjectivity of Roman Polanski’s Repulsion.

Susannah York as Cathryn

As with Catherine Deneuve’s Carol in Repulsion, when we first meet Susannah York’s Cathryn, she is a woman already deep in the throes of mental illness. Cathryn is a schizophrenic, a fact she appears to be at least subtly aware of (or at least suspects) on some level. Married to her waggish businessman husband Hugh (Rene Auberjonois), the rather solemn Cathryn spends a great deal of her time isolated, as she is an author working on a children’s book.
Altman incorporated In Search of Unicorns, a children’s book Susannah York was writing at the time, into the screenplay of Images. Published in 1973, York’s somewhat euphuistic fairy tale so perfectly suits the dreamlike tone of Images, it’s hard to believe it wasn't written expressly for the film. Moreover, York’s melodious voiceover narration of passages from the book provides an appropriately cryptic counterpoint to the action.

As Cathryn endeavors to patch together the narrative fragments of her children’s fantasy, she engages in lengthy inner monologues that cull forth shadowy images of her past. A vague and disjointed puzzle of images, sounds, and memories from her past that intrude abruptly and randomly upon her present.

Rene Auberjonois as Hugh
Mirrors, lenses, and prisms are a motif Altman employs throughout Images to convey Cathryn's fractured reality 

Cathryn is a woman haunted. Haunted by past infidelities (lovers, both dead and alive, have a nagging way of reappearing, attempting to resume their dalliances); guilt (she vacillates between being both desirous and fearful of having a child); suspicion (she assigns her own deceitful behavior to her husband); and specifically, the unwelcome, ever-encroaching memories of a lonely childhood. Memories, for reasons left unexplained, she struggles to suppress. We’re never explicitly told what is ailing Cathryn, nor is it clear what has recently occurred to accelerate the frequency and intensity of her schizophrenic episodes. What is apparent is that her illness—one the film's subjective POV makes us privy to alone—takes the form of a mercurially shifting reality which, at times, appears to be conspiring to betray her.

Dream Lover
Cathryn's former lover, Rene (Marcel Bozzuffi of The French Connection), reappears after having died in a plane crash three years prior

Although I desperately wanted to see this when it was released in 1972, I was just 14 years old, and Images was an R-rated movie playing at one of San Francisco’s “art house” cinemas. A theater, I might add, whose policies regarding underage attendance were not as flexible as those of my trusty neighborhood moviehouse, thus necessitating many attempts on my part to persuade apathetic family members (or mature-looking friends) to accompany me. In spite of the thriller being promoted with a very eye-catching poster featuring dual Susannah Yorks reflected in the lens of a vintage bellows camera stabbed by a butcher knife (see below), I found not a single taker. So I only got around to seeing Images at a revival theater sometime in the '80s.

Happily, thanks to Susannah York’s brilliantly restless performance; Vilmos Zsigmond’s (Heaven’s Gate) lush and evocative cinematography; the unsettling musical score by John Williams (with Stomu Yamashta); and especially the film’s stylistic similarities to the work of Roman Polanski, Images became an instant favorite that was more than worth the wait.

Fans of Robert Altman will recognize actor Hugh Millais as the bounty hunter in McCabe & Mrs. Miller. Here he plays Cathryn's libidinous neighbor and former lover, Marcel

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT THIS FILM

Few things are more dismal than watching a film that thoroughly explains, spells out, and underlines (with italics) each plot point and narrative twist that you’re left with nothing to ruminate or talk about afterward. While that's a point that can be made about many of the movies-by-market-research released these days, no one could ever say that about a Robert Altman film.

In Images, Altman takes the very intriguing tack of asking us to exclusively share the increasingly fragmented perspective of a schizophrenic. A choice whose not-unexpected effect on the viewer is a mounting sense of disorientation and unease as it dawns that the story's entirety is to be told by a disturbingly unreliable narrator.

Cathryn Harrison as Susannah (Marcel's daughter)
Images plays fast and loose with the audience's reality as well. Each of the characters in the film shares the real-life name of one of the actors (Susannah, Rene, Cathryn, Hugh, and Marcel)

And therein lies the beauty of this film for me. As it grows ever more apparent that Cathryn is losing her grip on sanity, Images becomes a thriller that actively engages and challenges you to piece together the puzzle of the character's life and the film's story. Reality and hallucination merge imperceptibly without benefit of the usual clichéd cinema vocabulary indicators of dissolves, soft focus, echoes, or slow-motion; so a great deal of the veracity of what occurs is continually called into question.
Altman understands that no two people see or experience life exactly the same way, so he doesn't waste time trying to explain his personal point of view in his movies. Instead, he tells his story, then leaves it to each of us to make of it what we will. Even his brilliant DVD commentaries fail to "explain" things for the moviegoer craving answers. Altman is a director who would rather you actively watch one of his films and fully misunderstand it, than to passively sit and be spoon-fed every detail and theme. 

Images is one of those films that reveal more details each time you watch it.
In this scene, Cathryn works on a puzzle with Susannah, the daughter of a former lover. The single POV shot shared by the two individuals - Cathryn's adult hand occupying the left of the frame, Susannah's smaller hand on the right -  hints at the possibility of Cathryn actually working the puzzle alone, sharing the moment with a hallucination of herself as a young girl. Even the subject of the puzzle is suspect, as Cathryn continually says that she has no idea what the image is, yet we know for a fact that it is a puzzle of the very house she is occupying...the house she spent a great deal of time alone in as a child.

To clarify, I’m no fan of the sort of studied incoherence that put David Lynch on the map (and removed him just as swiftly). But I do love movies that demand your attention on first viewing, offer plenty of food for thought after, and later reward repeat viewings with heretofore undiscovered pieces of the puzzle…all laid out for you to find at your leisure should you just care to look. Such films hold the potential for each revisit to feel like a fresh experience.

PERFORMANCES

It’s been widely reported (and corroborated on the DVD commentary) that due to recent news of her pregnancy and concerns about the film’s script, Susannah York wasn’t all that keen on appearing in Images. But if York’s performance is the work of a woman ambivalent about the film she appears in, her years studying at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts were clearly well-spent. Without resorting to ostentatious tics, gestures, and histrionic displays of madness, York inhabits her character to a chilling degree. Never for a moment are you in doubt that you are watching a fully fleshed-out individual, a character comprised of intelligence, imagination, and inner life. All of these, under the circumstances of her character's internal disintegration, convey a certain sadness as we observe a personality slowly submerged by mental illness. 

Cathryn continually confronts images of herself, whether reflected, remembered, or hallucinatory 

Where York particularly excels is in conveying, without words, the vast array of emotions attendant to discovering one’s mind is operating independent of one’s will. Images compels in giving the distinct impression that something Cathryn has likely been successful in keeping a lid on for some time, is now starting to slip through her fingers. Susannah York shows the panic, confusion, danger, and even the humor in Cathryn’s loss of psychological ground. Small wonder that York won the Best Actress award at the 1972 Cannes Film Festival for her work in Images.

THE STUFF OF FANTASY

I'm not sure why, but for as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated by movies dealing with the concept of duality. From Vertigo, Dead Ringers, Don't Look Now, The Tenant, Persona, and of course, 3 Women; so many of my favorite films are psychological thrillers in which the duality of human nature and the fluid quality of reality play a part.  

I'm still one of those who find the inner workings of the human psyche to be a far more terrifying landscape than anything that can be dreamed up by the gore-mongers making horror films today, so I personally consider Altman's Images to be an excellent thriller that effectively packs on the atmospheric dread and character-based tension. The environment Altman designs for his film is one loaded with reflective surfaces, shadowy corners, and interiors comprised of a Caligari-like assemblage of stairs, railings, rooms, and angled archways. Add to this the near-constant tinkle of wind chimes and an eerily deceptive (subjective) soundtrack, and you've got a thriller worthy of both Roman Polanski and Alfred Hitchcock.

Psycho 

THE STUFF OF DREAMS

The best movies are journeys. Journeys that transport us to other lives, other times, other lands, and, in the case of Images, other states of consciousness. Because the written word can so perfectly capture the subtleties of thought and emotion, and music is ideal for the conveyance of mood and feeling, what I have always loved about movies is how they can make real the fantastic. To render in corporeal terms, the dream /nightmare phase of existence where reality and illusion converge in ways that are not always easy to put into words. 

Hidden Behind Her Back
The threat of violence, unexpected and sudden, runs throughout Images

One can describe, academically and emotionally, what schizophrenia must be like, but in Images, Robert Altman finds a visual language capable of conveying a psychological frame of mind. Miraculously, seamlessly, Altman captures a state most of us only know through dreaming: the helpless, floating feeling of reality and fantasy existing as one, with our inability to discern where reality ends, and fantasy begins. The nightmare, of course, would be to have this be our awake, conscious state. Images brings this nightmare to life in a way refreshingly naturalistic and devoid of melodrama.
Even if you're left unpersuaded by the film as a genre thriller, you can't help but admire Altman's ability to take you inside the consciousness of another person, allowing for the vicarious experiencing of the real world through an entirely alien perspective. Although not one of Robert Altman's most discussed films, Images is a favorite of mine. One that fits neatly into his catalog of character studies of women on the verge.  

Who's watching whom?

'TIS A PUZZLEMENT- Piecing together the fragments

The wind chimes signaling a schizophrenic episode.

Elements of Cathryn's life can be gleaned from the "monologues" she shares with hallucinated others.

Note the address of Hugh's liaison given to her by a well-meaning "friend."

Note the soundtrack whenever Cathryn is using the phone  (Dial tones? Busy signals? Voices?)

Susannah's history/Cathryn's history.

Archie, the dog.

Malevolence perceived in everyday objects.

Windows or mirrors? Any difference?

I think it was either Roger Ebert or Pauline Kael who suggested interpolating the word "You" during several conversations where Cathryn references her husband "Hugh."

Copyright © Ken Anderson   2009 - 2013

MAHOGANY 1975

Diana Ross is one of a kind. No disrespect to the pop stars of today (well, that’s not entirely true. I have plenty of disrespect for the pop stars of today, but this isn't the forum), but take away their wigs, costumes, and multi-million dollar stage pyrotechnics, and Beyoncé, Jennifer Lopez, Lady Gaga, and even personal fave, Janet Jackson, all look like suitable candidates for the “&” half of any '60s girl group (à la, Martha & The Vandellas, Bob B. Soxx & The Blue Jeans).

Diana Ross, on the other hand, is nobody’s idea of a backup ANYTHING. She couldn't blend in if she wanted to—which, to hear childhood friend and former Supreme Mary Wilson tell it, is something Diana was incapable of even as a skinny teenager in Detroit’s Brewster projects. Take away Diana Ross’ wigs, makeup, and costumes (unimaginable, I know, but try), and you've still got yourself this thoroughly unique, almost bizarre little lightning rod of a woman with a thoroughly captivating, slightly nasal, honey-coated voice; that extraordinary, CinemaScope smile; enormous, Keane-size eyes; and a body I'd always likened to a satin-draped straight-razor.

In short; an original. Someone so unlike anyone else that she easily stands head-and-shoulders above the crowd…as is…without even trying. Add to all this a genuine talent and charisma capable of holding one’s attention without the need for a phalanx of dancers and laser beams behind her, and you've got yourself Grade A star-quality of the sort conspicuously absent in today’s breed of homogeneous pop music androids culled from TV “talent” competitions and assembly-line image-stylist laboratories.

As someone who grew up with the music of The Supremes and always thought Diana Ross looked and acted like a full-fledged movie star (read: Diva) long before she actually became one; I viewed the Academy Award nomination she received for her film debut in Lady Sings the Blues (1972) as the realization of a professional inevitability and harbinger of things to come in what looked to be an equally successful career as an actress. To some, Lady Sings the Blues was just the successful film debut of another singer/actress along the order of Barbra Streisand's breakout performance in Funny Girl. But to the Black community, Diana Ross making it as a movie star was recognized for the wholly auspicious, thoroughly inspirational landmark it was.

All Bow Down to the Goddess
I love how, in this screencap, she isn't flattered, flustered, or even embarrassed by the hand-kissing. Diana just accepts it as her due. Like the Pope. 

The '70s Black film explosion was a culturally polarizing era in which the gain of increased onscreen visibility for Black women was mitigated by the fact that all too often in these films—specifically those that fit the Blaxploitation paradigm—their participation was limited to that of sassy sexpots or badass kung-fu mamas.

The mainstream success of Lady Sings the Blues signaled a growth and evolution in Black cinema, while Diana Ross' natural crossover appeal (a classy, sophisticated soul that didn't alienate Black audiences; an exotic-yet-familiar Eurocentric glamour that appealed to whites) ushered in a new age for Black actresses in film. Hollywood, after having dropped the ball with Lena Horne, Dorothy Dandridge, Eartha Kitt, and Diahann Carroll, appeared at last ready to bestow upon a Black leading lady, the status of motion picture superstar.

Throwback Stunt Queen / Diana. Doing the Most. Always.
(Someone online described her in these hilarious terms, and I've never forgotten it)

Unfortunately for all but lovers of soap opera, camp, drag queen aesthetics, bad acting, risible dialog, and above all, haute couture excess (i.e., yours truly); Diana Ross’ follow-up to her promising debut film was Mahogany: a problem-plagued production of a creaky "suffering in mink" romantic melodrama that's a virtual 1975 soul-food gumbo of every “women’s picture” cliché of the '30s, '40s, and '50s.

Diana Ross as Tracy Chambers

Anthony Perkins as Sean McAvoy

Billy Dee Williams as Brian Walker

Jean-Pierre Aumont as Christian Rosetti

Mahogany tells the story of Tracy Chambers, an aspiring fashion designer from the slums of Chicago who finds fame and fortune, but not much in the way of happiness, as Mahogany, an international supermodel. Or, as the ads proclaimed, “The woman every woman wants to be—and every man wants to have!” 

Were this a rags-to-riches tale about a male, the predominant conflicts would undoubtedly be of the professional sort…the dramatization of the obstacles impeding the hero’s achievement of his goals. As Mahogany is a film with a female protagonist, it falls into the usual trap of a great many "career woman" movies: it filters all of her professional struggles through the prism of her personal relationships with the men in her life. In Mahogany, Tracy inadequately juggles a trio of suitors, each progressively creepier than the last.

Let’s see what she has to choose from: there’s Brian, the hip Chicago politician who's an old-school chauvinist who thinks everything he is about is the shit, while everything that means anything to Tracy is ethically suspect. There’s controlling, sexually-confused photographer/Svengali, Sean, who resents any attempt by Tracy to achieve independence from him. And last, there’s 60-something Christian, a rather sweetly smarmy Italian Count who financially supports Tracy’s goals so long as she is open to a little hanky-panky payback. She can really pick 'em.

Tracy to Brian: "Something tells me there's more to you than that."
I wish the writers of Mahogany' had felt the same about their title character. In lieu of fleshing out Tracy Chambers' story (what happened to her parents?) or providing deeper insight into what makes her tick, Mahogany is all surface gloss. The film is satisfied with merely presenting Diana Ross as a glamour icon.  

On paper, the casting of Diana Ross as a top fashion model must have seemed like a cinematic slam dunk. Ross had long ago established herself as a thoroughbred clothes-horse whose beauty and flamboyant stage persona had launched a thousand drag shows (and a poorly-made doll by Ideal in 1969). And indeed, had Mahogany been designed as a Vogue photoshoot, all might have gone swimmingly, for when we're asked to gaze upon the luminous Miss Ross, all is right with the world. Lamentably, this being a motion picture and all, it's only when people start to walk and talk that things start to fall apart.

Calgon, Take Me Away
Mahogany, clearly enjoying Sean's fumbling, stranger-in-paradise, amorous attentions

For starters, the script is a disaster. The dialog is tin-eared, and it's hard to fathom the presence of so many post-Valley of the Dolls / The Best of Everything career-girl cliches stockpiled in a film not intentionally conceived as parody or satire. 

Secondly, the performances are all over the map. No two people seem to be appearing in the same film at the same time. The clashing acting styles of Ross (over-modulated), Williams (laid-back), and Perkins (twitchy), have the feel of one of those international productions where each member of the cast speaks in their native language, only to be dubbed later.
This fluctuation in tone is perhaps due to the film's original director, Tony Richardson (A Taste of Honey, Look Back in Anger), abandoning the project—fired or quit, depending on the source—and directing neophyte/veteran control freak Berry Gordy taking over the reins. Ross and Gordy, former lovers, apparently clashed frequently on the set, resulting in Ross staging a walkout of her own.

Everybody's a Critic
Mahogany, here debuting one of her "originals," gets a taste of the kind of
critical drubbing Diana Ross would later receive upon the film's release.

Most grievously, Mahogany fails to make good on any of the opportunities posed by Tracy being an African-American woman daring to dream outside of the narrow social confines of poverty, sexism, and racism with little to rely on but her determination and drive (successful Black models were still rare in 1975). While there are a couple of token scenes broaching the complex and controversial issues of racial authenticity, selling-out, and the European acceptance/eroticization of Black women, the film clearly prefers to spend its time fueling the Diana Ross success myth.
At every juncture, Mahogany invites us to subconsciously blend Tracy's life with that of Diana Ross. Sometimes intentionally: Ross studied fashion design as a teen and grew up in a poor neighborhood. Sometimes unintentionally: Tracy's relationship with the psychotically possessive and controlling Sean McAvoy hits awfully close to home with what's been written about the Ross/Gordy pairing. In its determination to give Diana Ross fans the Diana they love and want to see, Mahogany ultimately avoids being about anything in particular and winds up just being another diva vanity production on par with Streisand's The Mirror Has Two Faces and A Star is Born.

Get used to Diana's throat. You're gonna see a lot of it in this film.

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT THIS FILM

While Mahogany’s somewhat sour subtext will always prevent it from being one of my top favorites (handsome or not, Billy Dee Williams’ Brian is a genuine jerk. And I can’t get past the film’s “Men are allowed to be passionate about their jobs; women are only allowed to be passionate about men” ideology), I do confess to having grown extremely fond of this movie over the years. For all the wrong reasons, of course, but fond of it, nonetheless.

As movies grow increasingly dumber, blander, and more market-researched, good camp is becoming increasingly hard to find. Most bad movies today are bad because they are unimaginative and lazy. Give me an old-school trash movie that jumps the track because it’s carrying a full cargo of ego, pretension, hubris, and delusion. Mahogany has plenty of the aforementioned to spare, plus the added bonus of a lead actress who never really knows when to tone it down, and a parade of ghastly, gaudy, gorgeous fashions. 

A few of my favorite Mahogany moments-

The Kabuki Finale

Mahogany's "stressed out" face

The homoerotic gun battle

These Extras

The Nip Slip

The Interview

Sean playing "Dunk the Diva"

PERFORMANCES

What makes Mahogany so enjoyable for me is, first and foremost, Diana Ross, who I'd be happy to watch if all she was doing was a crossword puzzle. And it's a good thing I feel that way, because, for whatever reason, the sensitive, compellingly natural actress from Lady Sings the Blues (or The Wiz, for that matter) is nowhere to be seen in Mahogany. In its place are scenes of self-conscious, Great Lady suffering and moments that feel as though she's lampooning her own image by behaving like a Diana Ross impersonator. There are a few moments where Ross is actually very good (she has a good, relaxed rapport with Williams in their scenes), but for the most part, I get the impression she's creating her own performance without a lot of directorial guidance.

Always a favorite is the late-great actress and Oscar nominee (Guess Who's Coming to Dinner) Beah Richards, who appears oh-so-briefly as Tracy's Aunt Florence

When it first came out, I was just disappointed in Mahogany and its waste of a one-of-a-kind natural resource like Ross. Now, given that she has made so very few films, I find myself grateful that there exists at least one film where Diana Ross gets to delve into Joan Crawford/Faye Dunaway territory and give her fans exactly the kind of excessive, camp-tastic drag show her recording artist persona has always played upon.

Miss Ross  - Killin' it.
Beyonce, JLo, Lady Gaga, Katy Perry...the whole lot. They should be thankful as hell that young Diana isn't around.  They'd all be eating her dust and chilling in her shade.

Anthony Perkins, playing to type (once again), gives the second most enjoyable performance in the film. As the psycho photographer Sean McAvoy, I think he's supposed to suggest Francesco Scavullo, but he's more Z-Man Barzell from Beyond the Valley of the Dolls. His scenes are fun because they have a suitably electric, edgy, unpredictability to them. And though he sometimes comes off hammy as hell, in this corny and cheesy cinema casserole chronicle, he's just the spice this film needs. 

THE STUFF OF FANTASY

There are two bits of perfection in Mahogany beyond 8th Wonder of the World, Diana Ross: The Oscar-nominated theme song, "Do You Know Where You're Going To?" and the amazing, much-imitated fashion montage sequence that accompanies the instrumental rendition. The montage is credited to Jack Cole, and it's literally the most striking bit of filmmaking ingenuity in the entire movie. It could have been released as a stand-alone film or music video. It's brilliant, it's exhilarating, and I just love everything about it. (Maybe Jack Cole should have directed the whole film!)

Because the full title of the song is Theme from Mahogany (Do You Know Where You're Going To?) I always assumed it was composed for the film. While researching this post, I found out that Thelma Houston actually recorded the song first (with slightly different lyrics) back in 1973! You can listen to it HERE. 

Diana Ross in Mahogany (top left) and Barbra Streisand in Funny Lady (bottom left) channel Modern Dance legend Martha Graham's 1930 dance piece, "Lamentation" (right).

THE STUFF OF DREAMS

Representation matters. And if a film as seriously flawed and inherently silly as Mahogany matters at all (and it does), it's as an alternative vision of African-Americans onscreen. I always like thinking back on how powerful and inspiring the glamorous images in Mahogany must have appeared to young people in the '70s, young Black girls in particular, who rarely got the opportunity to see someone who looked like them onscreen revered for their beauty.  That's why I always give this movie a great deal of credit even while not considering it to be very good. 

And yet, while I greatly admire Diana Ross as a role model, Mahogany has never earned any points for the double-sided message it sends to young women. 

In the '70s, feminism in the movies liked to talk a good game, but when it came to love stories, a great many films ended with the female characters doing all the adapting, while the males pretty much retained the lives they led when we first met them. In 1974s Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore, Ellen Burstyn’s character makes a very good point when she declares, “It’s my life!  It’s not some man’s life that I’m here to help him out with!” Yet by fade-out, Kris Kristofferson still has his ranch and horses and no immediate plans to move to Monterey, while Alice, on the other hand, doesn't necessarily table her dream of becoming a professional singer, but not in Monterey, her goal throughout the film. The not-so-subtle implication being that her dreams of Monterey were the fantasy of a young girl; her relationship with Kristofferson is the real (grown-up) thing. 

That's comedy writer Bruce Vilanch under all that hair

In Mahogany, Tracy Chambers dreams of being a fashion designer. Although her behavior in every sequence suggests a professional ambition backed by considerable drive (she devotes every free moment to working on her designs, attends night classes, and takes her sketches to dress manufacturers), the screenplay seizes every opportunity to minimize her goals, subtly characterizing them as the superficial dreams of a socially unenlightened woman. 

Especially when compared to the lofty, “uplift the race” ambitions of smug, self-satisfied defender of the downtrodden, small-time politician Brian Walker. A man who, when not reproaching Tracy for actually having thoughts and ideas that are not specifically his own, spends his time using one arm to pat himself on the back for his altruistic impulses, the other to start brawls with political hecklers. Instead of Brian and his dismissal of her dreams representing the kind of narrow-minded people Tracy needs to get away from, Brian is presented as the savior of her literal and figurative "soul." And so, at the film's fade-out, Tracy, having left behind Rome and her successful career, is (I can only assume) to be applauded for being mature enough to choose love over a job, and for taking Brian’s Curse of the Cat People proclamation: “Success is nothing without someone you love to share it with!” to heart. 

Despite the fact that Brian has experienced, by film's end, nothing in his own career that comes close to the level of success Tracy has achieved, everything ends on a note of things being "righted" when Tracy returns to his side, vowing to " put her imagination to work” for the cause both she and her man believe in. The message is clear: Women have fantasies and dreams that are self-centered and superficial, while men have ambitions that are righteous and benevolent.

I guess, in a way, it's kind of good that Mahogany isn't a better film. Were it a movie people took seriously, they might actually have paid attention to its message. As it stands, Mahogany is much like a great many real-life fashion models: exciting, beautiful, stylish, a tad overdressed, but without too much to say that's of substance. 

BONUS MATERIAL
A fun and informative review of Mahogany can be found here at Poseidon's Underworld

Diana Ross plays a haughty, arrogant nightclub performer (surprise!) harboring a dark secret in the 1971 Danny Thomas sitcom, Make Room for Grand-Daddy. (She's very good.)

Mahogany lip reading: There are a couple of re-dubbed scenes in Mahogany that, thanks to the wonders of HD TV, one can now easily make out. In the big argument scene between Tracy and Brian (in which Brian subtly tells her that she needs to face the fact that she has no career and is unlikely ever to have one) Diana Ross's voice says, "Forget You, Brian!" while her lips reveal "Fuck you, Brian!" (My thoughts, exactly.) This allowed the film to get a PG rating instead of an R.

Similarly, in a scene set in Rome where Tracy buys Brian a snug-fitting Italian suit, Brian can be heard complaining (in long shot), "I feel like an old sissy in these clothes!" Moments later when Brian mimics Tracy's high-pitched voice, Diana Ross can be heard saying, "Now, you sound like a sissy!" but a look at her mouth reveals she is actually saying, "Now, you sound like a faggot!" Clearly repeating the word Billy Dee Williams said (and later re-dubbed) in long shot.
Shame on you, Mahogany!

Ever the professional, Diana practices her dialog from The Wiz...three years early

When Mahogany was released wide, the original poster art got a Linda Blair head-turning makeover. The aloof, "Get a load of this" Diana was now (after the reviews had come in) all smiles and even more over-emphatic with the self-aggrandizing accolades

Mahogany opened in San Francisco on Wednesday, October 22, 1975, at the Alhambra 1 Theater on Polk Street. I was in high school and worked there as an usher, so I saw this movie a lot. I was in heaven!

Copyright © Ken Anderson  2009 - 2013