HARLOW 1965

There, there…just put it out of your mind. Just put it out of your mind that Joseph E. Levine's Harlow will actually have anything whatsoever to do with the life and career of Jean Harlow, the 1930s MGM star and Hollywood's first "blonde bombshell." Don't worry your little head over anything even tangentially redolent of the '30s seeping in to corrode the assertively mid-'60s vibe and aesthetics of this lacquered, $2.5 million soap opera. Dispense with all hope of accuracy—from made-up names to fabricated events, Harlow is an absolute work of fiction. Don't look for logic—Jean Harlow looks exactly the same AFTER her Hollywood glamour makeover as she did when we first meet her as a struggling dress extra. Don't pay any attention to physics—Harlow and her mother appear to be roughly about the same age. And don't search for credibility—Red Buttons plays a near-mythical character: a "Hollywood agent from Mars" of such ludicrous selfless, principled devotion and honesty he makes the denizens of Hogwarts look plausible by comparison.

The question you'll be asking yourself as the movie's end credits roll   

No, Harlow is a market-driven exercise in expediency and exploitation. A movie as artless and willfully artificial as a Dacron® polyester housecoat. Its purpose is neither to pay homage to its titular subject, nor to say anything meaningful about fame, the film industry, or even recognizable human psychology. It is, pure and simple, an act of commerce. A product designed to capitalize on the popularity of Irving Shulman's sleazy 1964 bestseller Harlow: an Intimate Biography, and a project divined as yet another bid in the campaign waged by producer Joseph E. Levine to sell protégé Carroll Baker to the public as successor to the Marilyn Monroe sex symbol throne (Monroe died in 1962).

Over the years, I've found that by accepting Harlow for what it is—a slick, schlock titillation package with no bearing on Hollywood, history, or even reality as we know it—I am then free to get down to the important business at hand: joyfully reveling in Harlow as a campy, satin-covered, marvelously misguided, miscast, multi-million dollar mistake.

Carroll Baker as Jean Harlow

Red Buttons as Arthur Landau

Angels Lansbury as Mama Jean Bello

Peter Lawford as Paul Bern

Mike Connors as Jack Harrison

Martin Balsam as Everett Redman, head of Majestic Pictures

Leslie Nielsen as Richard Manley

Raf Vallone as Marino Bello

For those genuinely interested in the fascinating and brief life of Jean Harlow (she died at age 26 of uremic poisoning), there are several books available that provide a more fact-based overview of the actress' career than Shulman's largely discredited work of biographical fiction. The internet offers a wealth of information in the form of written profiles and video documentaries available on YouTube. But better yet, just check out any one of Jean Harlow's feature films (my favorite, Dinner at Eight) if you want to get a sense of Harlow's unique brand of star quality, and appreciate how she was more persuasive as a gifted light comedienne than a sex goddess.

Look anywhere but to Joseph E. Levine's expensive-but-cheap-looking rush job, filmed at a careless, breakneck speed in an (unsuccessful) attempt to beat a low-budget rival Harlow film to the boxoffice in 1965. (The 2011 book, Dueling Harlows by Tom Lisanti, details how Levine chopped months off of his own film's pre-production schedule when made aware of an independent studio's plans to release a Harlow movie starring sound-alike actress Carol Lynley, and utilizing an inexpensive television-based technology [saddled with the William Castle-esque name of "Electronovision"] requiring no more than an eight-day shooting schedule.)

According to Carroll Baker, filming on Harlow began without a completed script. 
During filming, a feud erupted between Baker and Levine resulting in the termination of her six-picture deal with his Embassy Pictures. An act that led to her suing the producer (and winning) for breach of contract. Levine's revenge was to have a shrill witch of a character named Cheryl Barker--modeled to look just like Baker--appear in his film next film, The Oscar

Truth be told, when it comes to Joseph E. Levine's Harlow, those unfamiliar with the actual life and personage of Jean Harlow will find themselves at a distinct advantage. The movie is a wholesale work of inaccuracy, gossip, and time-tripping anachronisms; the less one knows (especially pertaining to how people dressed and looked in the '20s and '30s), the better. But while Harlow is valueless as historical biography, it's fairly priceless as a laugh-out-loud comedy of the absurd. A shining, overlit example of that uniquely '60s brand of glossy, overwrought melodrama mixed with tentative sleaze. Harlow promised to salaciously blow the lid off the many myths surrounding the life of the silver screen goddess. Yet, little did audiences suspect that the film's taunting tagline: "What was Harlow really like?" was really a literal, non-rhetorical imploration posed by the screenwriter and producer to anyone within earshot. 

The best way to enjoy Harlow is to ignore its allusions to reality and perhaps see it as a show business parable, the second entry, if you will, in Joseph E. Levine's unofficial "Hollywood as Cesspool" trilogy: The Carpetbaggers (1964), Harlow (1965), and The Oscar (1966).

In The Carpetbaggers, Carroll Baker played the Jean Harlow-inspired movie star, Rina Marlowe. In that film, Rina engages in a wild bedroom tussle with Jonas Cord (George Peppard), a character based on Howard Hughes. The movie Harlow affords Baker a second, undisguised go at Jean Harlow in addition to a copycat bedroom scene in which she gets to wrestle around on a bed with another Howard Hughes-based character. This time in the form of Leslie Nielsen as movie mogul Richard Manley (why some porn star hasn't taken the name of Dick Manley by now, I'll never know). 

As evidence of Harlow's hurried production schedule, note the crewmember captured in the marbled glass in the second screencap above. In her 1983 memoir Baby Doll, Carroll Baker recounts tales of filming being so rushed on Harlow that there was no time for rehearsals, the script was being written as they went along, and, barring any major technical gaffes, the printing of first takes was the norm.

It shows! It shows!

Body Talk
Baker seductively shimmies to composer Neal Hefti's song Girl Talk, a marvelous (ragingly chauvinist) bit of '60s light-jazz that incongruously crops up in this scene taking place in the early 1930s. Although the song went on to become a pop standard of the day (but failed to garner Oscar attention), I've never been able to figure out just what this very modern song is doing in this period movie. But why look for logic? Later in this same montage sequence, Baker actually breaks into a spirited 1960s twist!

Screenwriter John Michael Hayes (The Carpetbaggers) decides on Harlow's point of view: "I can either write the story about a girl who slept with everybody to get to the top, or an innocent girl who fought off the wolves, kept her integrity intact, and made it to the top on her own merits. Which do you think?" Baby Doll: An Autobiography- Carroll Baker -1983

Seriously? Those were the only two options?

Hayes, opting for the latter, reduces the entire scope of Harlow's screen legacy to the banal issue of "Will she?" or "Won't she," thereby making this already trite movie even more insipid than it needed to be. Presented as something akin to a human pressure cooker unable to keep the lid on her own overflowing sex appeal, Jean Harlow is introduced rebuffing the advances of a lecherous actor. And the film tirelessly keeps offering up variations on this theme well-nigh for the next two hours.

Made up to look more like '60s-era Marilyn Monroe than Harlow, and carrying on throughout as though she were Ross Hunter-era Doris Day caught in a loop of The Constant Virgin; Baker sports an astonishing number of flattering, form-fitting costumes, and some of the stiffest, ugliest wigs I've ever seen in a major motion picture. 

Jean Harlow and her agent, Arthur Landau, take in the rear-projection scenery
The real moral behind Harlow is that talent agents
are the most trustworthy people in show business

The plot, such as it is, is summed up by the man who discovers Harlow, the only man who sees her as a talent and not a piece of tail--the saintly talent agent Arthur Landau (whose portrayal as a paragon of virtue can be attributed to his being the main information source for Shulman's book). He tells the wannabe star, "You're the sweet, beautiful girl next door. But on fire inside."

And so the die is cast. Through a passive mother (Lansbury), a parasitic stepfather (Vallone), skirt-chasing moguls (Nielsen), matinee idols (Connors), and impotent husbands (Lawford), Harlow is made up of vignettes that keep hammering us over the head with the same message: The world's most famous sex symbol had a lot of trouble with sex in real life. Zzzzzzzzzz.

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT THIS FILM
Anyone familiar with my twisted taste in movies knows that every complaint fired at a film like Harlow is actually a valentine. Bad movies are made all the time, but it's a special kind of art to make a  watchable lousy movie. And for me, Harlow is a bad movie classic. It's so gonzo in its half-baked, "1930s as filtered through a 1960s prism" sensibilities; it reminds me that they just don't make 'em like this anymore. I love every hair on Carroll Baker's ghastly Dynel wig.

The ever-dull Mike Connors (he'll always be "Touch" Connors to me)
plays a Gable-like matinee idol

I love the vulgarity at the core of movies like this. I love the garish sets, the superficial overemphasis on glamour, the tin-eared dialogue, the broad-strokes acting, and thoroughly loopy disregard for period detail. Perhaps it's cruel and reveals a small spirit on my part, but I have a special place in my heart for grandiose flops like this (that's flop in the artistic sense. Harlow, while no blockbuster, did make money). Joseph E. Levine produced a number of my very favorite "good" films (The Graduate, Carnal Knowledge, The Lion in Winter), but as the saying goes, when he was bad, he was better. Harlow, along with  The Oscar, Where Love Has Gone (1964), and The Adventurers (1970), are the best of Levine's worst. Just brilliantly gauche, sex-obsessed behemoths that look like the kinds of films Ed Wood, Roger Corman, John Waters, or Paul Morrissey would come up with if they'd been given the budget.

In this scene, we're asked to believe that the rather mature-looking Carroll Baker
 is too young to sign a movie contract without her mother's signature.

PERFORMANCES

While I lost my respect a long time ago for what it meant to be a "Method" actor when I learned that Edy Williams was once a student of Lee Strasberg (yes, THAT Edy Williams of Beyond the Valley of the Dolls). Baker puts great stock in her Method training, and indeed, the Oscar-nominated actress (Baby Doll) can be pretty effective under the right circumstances (Giant, Andy Warhol's Bad, Star 80). 

Harlow isn't one of those circumstances. By all accounts, Baker was rushed into this film, exhausted, unwilling, and unprepared. And I'm afraid it shows. Her flat line readings are matched only by her unconvincing display of even the simplest emotions. Of course, given the lines she has to speak, I can't blame her for phoning it in.

The always-wonderful Angela Lansbury is a standout
 in her all-too-brief scenes as Harlow's mother

As is so often the case with female-centric camp-fests like this, the male cast is a dull and sexless bunch. Peter Lawford looks like the walking embodiment of the word "debauched," Raf Vallone has spark, Red Buttons might as well be wearing a sign saying "Nominate me for Best Supporting Actor, please," and Leslie Nielsen proves once again that when it comes to drama, he's a hell of a comic actor. Angela Lansbury, on the other hand, is so good it's as if she'd wandered in from a different movie.
As a fan of Hazel Aiken, the crass, New Jersey hit-woman Carroll Baker played in Andy Warhol's BAD (1977),  I have to say, Baker only shines when she has sarcastic dialogue to deliver. Perhaps working off her feelings about producer Levine, Baker only comes alive (the same can be said for the screenplay) when Harlow requires her character to display contempt for her stepfather, Marino Bello.

Harlow: Cheap, shoddy greaser!

Bello: Nobility runs in my veins.

Harlow: King liar, Prince loafer, Count ne'er do well, Baron loudmouth!

Bello: I'll turn you over my lap and spank some respect into you!

Harlow: I'm too smart to get that close to your lap.

Bello: Perhaps your agent would find a part suitable for me…

Harlow: He only handles people.

Bello: Hey, sweetheart, your paycheck...?

Harlow: There isn't any.

Bello: But I have a horse running at 3 O'clock!

Harlow: Better tell him to walk.

Harlow plays fast and loose with history. Paul Bern (Lawford) is portrayed as
 Harlow's first and only husband. In truth, he was the second of three.

THE STUFF OF FANTASY

They're called clichés for a reason. Harlow traffics in so many over-familiar melodrama/soap opera tropes, even on first viewing you'll swear you've seen this film before.

The tortured, waking up in a strange bed in a sleazy room with a sleazy stranger, scene 

1. A downsliding (albeit, artfully posed), Harlow reacts in silent horror to the depths to which she's fallen

2. In Valley of the Dolls, Patty Duke's less artfully-posed Neely O'Hara doesn't fare much better

 The self-disgusted, "I can't stand the sight of you!" cold cream on the mirror scene

1. Glass in hand, a boozy, bed-hopping Harlow has had her fill of herself

2. In Queen Bee, Joan Crawford finds even she can only tolerate just so much Joan Crawford

The firm and testy "This is for your own good!" avuncular agent intervention scene

1. Harlow's agent tells her she looks bloated, puffy, and older than her years

2. Neely's agent tells her she looks bloated, puffy, and older than her years

 

The hitting rock bottom, "Been down so long it looks like up to me!" beach scene

1. A drunk and depressed Harlow throws herself a beach pity-party

2. In Valley of the Dolls, Anne Welles swallows her dolls with a bit of water (not to mention lots of seaweed and sand)

THE STUFF OF DREAMS
I was eight years old when Harlow was released, but I remember absolutely nothing about the whole Jean Harlow mania that erupted due to Schulman's sordid biography. A huge bestseller; I remember my mother had a copy of the book around the house, but, being unfamiliar with the actress, I paid it no mind. Had I known of the book's scandalous reputation, I'd have been all over it. According to the New York Times, in 1964 all four of the major studios had Harlow films in the works. Only Joseph E Levine's "authorized" version and producer William Sargent's B&W Electronovision version were left standing when the smoke cleared.

Carol Lynley's Harlow opened three months before Levine's version and flopped at the boxoffice (and at the cost of a mere $500,000, that isn't easy to do). Levine's heavily promoted film opened to good boxoffice but scathing reviews.
For her part, Carroll Baker refused to see Harlow, only managing to catch it by mistake three years later when it was shown as the in-flight movie on a plane she was taking to Buenos Aires ("I was trapped! Actually, as I watched it, I was pleasantly surprised," Baker later wrote). Now, who can ask for a better recommendation than that?

Suffering in Mink- my favorite subgenre of film
That's Hanna Landy (Hutch's gal-pal in Rosemary's Baby) as Arthur Landau's wife, Beatrice.

BONUS MATERIAL

The rarely-seen 1965 Carol Lynley "Electronovision" version of  Harlow 

In this film, Lynley offers a very different, less flattering take on Jean Harlow (she's pretty self-possessed), it has Ginger Rogers as Mama Jean (in her last film role, and very good!). Hurd Hadfield (The Picture of Dorian Gray - 1945) is splendid as Harlow's husband Paul Bern. No production values to speak of, but in several ways, an improvement over Joseph E. Levine's version.

These early publicity shots show Baker in more period-appropriate makeup, suggesting that there was perhaps a time in the pre-production phase when authenticity was sought in the costuming and makeup. Had the film been shot in B & W (the way we see Jean Harlow in our minds), I think Carroll Baker would have looked great. But by evidence of that color photo, the period look was possibly scrapped because it was so harsh and unflattering. 

Oh, and can we take a second to talk about that other shameless pitch for a Best Song Oscar nomination - "Lonely Girl" which plays over the film's closing credits? I don't know if it's the song itself or Bobby Vinton's thin, reedy voice, but it all adds up to the musical equivalent of a cat scratching glazed pottery.

Copyright © Ken Anderson  2009 - 2014

PLAY MISTY FOR ME 1971

I have a comprehensive familiarity with the movies of Clint Eastwood that is grossly disproportionate to my relative indifference to him as an actor and director. While neither actively seeking him out nor going out of my way to avoid him, I’ve nevertheless somehow managed to see roughly 19 films starring the empty chair monologist of the 2012 GOP convention. That’s neck to neck with the number of Joan Crawford films I’ve seen…and I like her!   

Part of this I lay at the feet of my older sister. In my youth, she harbored such a take-no-prisoners crush on the former Rawhide star that whenever one of his movies played at the local theater, going to see it was a fait accompli in our house. No discussion. No argument. No resistance. I saw Paint Your Wagon, Coogan’s Bluff, and all those indistinguishable “rob, rape, ‘n’ shoot” spaghetti westerns of his, more times than I can possibly count. 

The other, more persuasive, part of this I attribute to Eastwood’s rather savvy handling of his career. Clint Eastwood has always had an eye for choosing roles that don’t press too heavily against his self-professed limited range, yet often they are in films with themes that are intriguing enough in their own right. Movies I would be interested in checking out independent of any consideration of Eastwood's participation. The Beguiled, Tightrope, The Bridges of Madison County, Unforgiven, A Perfect World, Million Dollar Baby, and Sudden Impact are all films I wanted to see in spite of Clint Eastwood, not because of him. 

Clint Eastwood as David Garver

Jessica Walter as Evelyn Draper

Donna Mills as Tobie Williams

Can we all pause for a moment to appreciate these awesome/awful '70s hairdos? 
Clint rocks an intricately sculptured, casual mass of blow-dried masculinity, while Walters and Mills both sport saucy variations on the ubiquitous Jane Fonda/Susannah York/Carol Brady layered shag.

The plot of Play Misty for Me is as simple as it is familiar: David Garver (Eastwood) is the honey-voiced (and by the size of his bachelor pad, financially successful) deejay of a light-jazz radio program in picturesque Carmel, California. Although “hung up” on local artist Tobie Williams (Mills)—aka “One of the foxiest chicks on the peninsula”—freewheeling David is also known to play the field a bit. It's David's propensity for quickie, love-the-one-you’re-with hook-ups that lands the smooth-talker in the bed of dark-eyed Evelyn Draper (Walters), a one-night-stand bar pickup who also just happens to be the provocative “Play ‘Misty’ for me” serial caller to his radio show.

While it would be two more years before Erica Jong’s “zipless fuck” entered into the sexual revolution lexicon; almost immediately David’s no-strings fling with the pleasant-appearing easy-listening groupie begins showing signs of growing increasingly less zipless and markedly more fucked. Faster than you can say “boiled bunnies” (see: Fatal Attraction, Play Misty for Me’s unofficial 1987 remake), Evelyn goes from fan to fanatic as she launches on an ever-escalating campaign of stalking and harassment, desperate to have David for herself alone, or pledged to ruining his life in retaliation for the perceived rejection.

Always a fan of thrillers, I was keen on seeing Play Misty for Me the moment I saw its Psycho-esque poster in the “Coming Soon to This Theater!” display case in a local movie theater lobby. And best of all, not a single gun, horse, or poncho in sight!  But wouldn’t you know it...by 1971 my sister was old enough to move into a place of her own, and so subsequently, the opening of the latest Clint Eastwood film no longer engendered the same degree of mandatory household allegiance it once had. In fact, everybody in the family was so relieved to be freed of my sister’s despotic, Eastwood-sway,  I was unsuccessful in persuading a single soul to go with me to see Play Misty for Me. (Which was probably for the best, as nobody wants to see a 13-year-old boy watching a movie through the fingers thrust over his eyes.)

"...an invitation to terror!" (Early advertising tagline)

In his first outing as director, Clint Eastwood definitely shows his inexperience (the trite romantic montage and interminable Monterey Jazz Festival footage play havoc with the film’s already shaky pacing), but he also shows a great deal of talent. Play Misty for Me is a thrill-ride suspense thriller that actually works, which is something not every entry in the genre can lay claim to. The original screenplay by Jo Heims and Dean Riesner has an irresistibly relatable premise that Eastwood does justice to by filming in a professional, straightforward manner refreshingly devoid of the usual self-consciously arty affectations that tend to mar so many debut directorial efforts of actors (that same year Jack Nicholson directed his first film: the plodding and oh-so-dated campus drama, Drive, He Said).

Don Siegel as Murphy 
As a favor to Eastwood, director Don Siegel (Invasion of the Body Snatchers) consented to appear in a cameo role as the bartender assisting David in his gambit to meet Evelyn. Siegel directed a total of five films with Eastwood and is said to have been instrumental in guiding Eastwood's hand in Play Misty for Me

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT THIS FILM

I get a huge kick out of movies where the leading men (especially if they are known for their macho and sex appeal) consciously take on roles that attempt to poke holes in the Male Mystique. Action fans tend to look on this as emasculating the hero, but if you’re longing to see men portrayed on the screen as something more authentic than wish-fulfillment templates of idealized masculinity, these self-aware implosions of archaic gender roles make for arresting character drama. 

Warren Beatty did it beautifully in Shampoo, and in the provocative and underrated Civil War drama, The Beguiled (released eight months apart, both The Beguiled and Play Misty for Me were co-written by women) Eastwood and director Don Siegel messed with a lot of men’s heads by depicting America’s #1 action hero as a hapless male at the mercy of a houseful of women.

Much in the way that glacially beautiful female sex symbols of the '60s discovered displaying a sense of humor to be the quickest route toward becoming humanized in the public's eye—Candice Bergen in Starting Over, Raquel Welch in The Three Musketeers—I find that macho action stars are only palatable to me when accompanied by a healthy dose of vulnerability.

One way Play Misty For Me conveys this vulnerability is through the composition of shots which emphasize the shift in gender power dynamics. As seen in these screencaps, Evelyn is often photographed in positions of superiority over David. She is forever pinning him down, looming over him, and basically reinforcing her dominance. David's diminished importance in the shots reflect his loss of control and power over his life. 

The vast majority of the characters Clint Eastwood built his career and reputation upon have struck me as being fairly insufferable. No matter how well-chiseled, a monosyllabic hunk of granite is still a rock. That's why I've always preferred him in average-Joe parts like Play Misty for Me's laid-back deejay, David Garver. Playing a man used to having things go his way suddenly forced to deal with the consequences of his actions, Eastwood's squinty impenetrability takes on human dimensions. He becomes a person I can relate to, if not necessarily care about. The humanizing effect is one big reason why, after all these years, Play Misty for Me has remained my favorite of all of his films. The other reason is the memorably unhinged performance of Jessica Walter.

Jessica Walter was nominated for a Best Actress Golden Globe for Play Misty for Me but lost out to Jane Fonda in Klute. Clearly a case of dueling shag haircuts.

One of the more terrifying things I learned while researching Play Misty for Me is that in 1970, The Hollywood Reporter noted that Ross Hunter - "old fashioned glamour!" devotee and producer dedicated to keeping older actresses employed (Portrait in Black) - had purchased the rights to the property. He planned on developing it as a vehicle for good but unlikely actress Dana Wynter. Still, anyone who's seen her witch-on-wheels performance in Hunter’s Airport couldn't deny she's precisely the kind of woman you wouldn't want to have mad at you.

Clarice Taylor as Birdie
Fans of The Cosby Show will recognize Taylor as Anna Huxtable, Bill Cosby's mother

PERFORMANCES

"The only hit that comes out of a Helen Lawson show is Helen Lawson, and that's ME, baby, remember?"  - Valley of the Dolls

Say what you will about Clint Eastwood as an actor, but he’s not one to surround himself with mediocrity in order to make himself look better. Many of his best films have been the result of his collaborating with talents which (in my opinion) far outclass his own: Meryl Streep, Geneviève Bujold, Geraldine Page, Gene Hackman—and the results have been all the better for it.
Maybe when you’re a megawatt personality like Barbra Streisand, it’s tough to find a male co-star with enough onscreen charisma to keep up (although I can’t say it has ever looked as though she wore herself out searching). 

But Eastwood, a good actor of limited range, is smart to cast co-stars who help him look better and bump up his game a notch. And it's to Eastwood's credit that he so graciously hands over the entirety of Play Misty for Me to Jessica Walter, whose portrayal seriously puts this film over. She's not simply good in this, she's GOOD in this. She makes Eastwood appear more engaged and present than usual, while giving her underwritten role just the right amount of sane and just the right amount of batshit crazy to make for a compelling, chilling, and oh-so-convincing screen heavy.

Armed with precious little in the way of backstory for Evelyn (we don't even know what she lives on), The sole bit of information she discloses about herself is that she lived in Albany when she was 19, but then, she's not exactly what you'd call a reliable narrator. In spite of this, Walter creates a character whose mounting instability always feels as though it's coming from a place very real. Even if it's a reality that only takes place in her head. I first became aware of Jessica Walter in Sidney Lumet's ensemble drama The Group (1966), in which her bitchy, motormouth character made a strong impression (as it also did, I understand, with Eastwood, who cast Walter after seeing her in that film in spite of the studio pressing for Lee Remick). Of course, I'm a huge fan of her priceless comedic work in TV's Arrested Development, but the knife-wielding Evelyn Draper is a nerve-rattling performance that I'll always think of as one of my top favorite Jessica Walter performances.

Donna Mills of Knots Landing fame is saddled with the largely thankless, ornamental role of Dave's true blue girlfriend, Tobie. Serving chiefly as a plot construct, Tobie is designed to make Eastwood's character more sympathetic and provide gender role contrast (she's sweet, soft-spoken, and passive to Evelyn's in-your-face confrontational). She also makes a good potential victim to add to the film's body count.
Play Misty for Me also boasts two by-now-tiresome cliche stereotypes that were a tad fresher back in 1971. Every movie that sought to brand itself with a superficial coating of "hipness" featured a gay character (Tobie has a swishy, gay best friend) and a Black character (Dave has the obligatory jive-talkin' soul brother buddy in addition to a standard-issue sassy Black housekeeper). I found myself praying for Evelyn and her knife would show up each time these characters appeared. Half of my prayers were answered. 

Design Technology for Tighty-Whities Had Not Yet Been Perfected
In later years my sister would tell me that this scene was the catalyst for her eventual disenchantment with Clint Eastwood (citing the uniform, Gumby-like taper of his physique, plus the droopy drawers). But I suspect it was really when he started making those redneck "Every Which Way..." comedies. 

THE STUFF OF FANTASY

My aforementioned affinity for films that tweak the hypermasculine ideal finds its complement in films depicting women turning the tables on men and acting out in assertive ways atypical to the conventions of the horror/suspense-thriller genres. 

I’m crazy about movies like Leave Her to Heaven (1945), Pretty Poison (1968 ), That Cold Day in the Park (1969), Kitten With a Whip (1964), Andy Warhol's BAD (1977), Eye of the Cat (1969), Remember My Name (1978), and of course, Fatal Attraction. Not just because I've grown weary of violence against women depicted as entertainment in 90% of what comes out of Hollywood, but because it intrigues me how the mere refocusing of aggression from female to male within a narrative can result in such a huge paradigm shift that even the old feels new.

My Not So Funny Valentine

Apropos of nothing perhaps, save for what passes for courting in motion pictures, but in watching Play Misty for Me recently, it struck me as odd that the trope of the ardent lover who won't take no for an answer has been a staple of both thrillers and romantic comedies. It's weird to think that you could take the basic "psycho-chick" plotline of Play Misty for Me, recast Clint Eastwood's pursued "victim" with a rom-com darling like Sarah Jessica Parker or Drew Barrymore; substitute Jessica Walter's obsessive lover with Adam Sandler or Seth Rogen, and, taking away the knives and death threats...you have the same "chase her until you wear down her defenses" premise that's at the center of I don't know how many excruciating romantic comedies.

Evelyn and David "meet cute" in a way that's kind of creepy

Perhaps that's what makes a thriller like Play Misty for Me click with audiences; we can all relate on some level. At one time or another we've all known what it's like to pursue or be pursued, yet unsure as to whether we're coming on too strong, misreading the signals, or inadvertently leading a person on. In songs, literature, and movies, the concept of men relentlessly pursuing a love interest is reinforced as romantic. Gender double standards instantly brand a woman doing the same as threatening (tragically ironic since in real life, women are statistically the ones more likely to be assaulted or killed). Rom-coms tell men they should never stop trying to win the person they love. When it comes to women doing the same, the word from men in thrillers like Play Misty for Me is, "Enough already!" 

After an argument, Evelyn shows up at David's door wearing nothing under her overcoat. In 1989 John Cusack would pull a similar stunt (with a blasting boombox substituting for standing there starkers) in Say Anything. Although depicted as a romantic gesture, it always seemed kind of creepy stalker-ish to me. 

THE STUFF OF DREAMS

Coming as it does at the tail end of the '60s “free love” movement and the start of the promiscuous, swinging singles bar era that would dovetail into the joyless, Looking for Mr. Goodbar end of the sexual revolution; it’s difficult not to project onto Play Misty for Me’s rather straightforward thriller plot, a whole heap of sexual cautionary-tale subtext. 

Considerable footage (perhaps a tad too much) is devoted to capturing the beauty of the Carmel, California locations

When I look at the film today, I’m reminded of how very much Play Misty for Me is a product of its time in terms of clothing (oh, brother!), hairstyles (see above), slang (“Everythang is gonna be everythanng!”), and music (Misty, Erroll Garner’s 1954 classic is a hauntingly ideal piece to build a movie around). I'm still able to appreciate the film as a very effective thriller (if a tad on the TV movie side in its visual blandness) but I don't shy from enjoying some of the film's dated, by-now-familiar elements that have taken on an air of cap or comedy for me. And by this I mean, the way Evelyn's rages tend to make me think I'm looking at the young Lucille Bluth from Arrested Development. Or how, in these post-Mommie Dearest years, it's difficult (especially if you see this with an audience) not to find Evelyn's hair-trigger mood swings to be reminiscent of Faye Dunaway's iconic performance (scissors!).  

In early drafts of the screenplay, David did not have a steady girlfriend. It was decided that Evelyn would appear more dangerous (and David more sympathetic) if she represented a threat to the couple's "domestic" happiness

What does seem to traverse all generations is the film’s reinforcement of the old-fashioned belief that behind all the desire for sexual freedom, emancipation, and lack of commitment, true happiness can only be achieved through monogamy, domesticity, and adherence to traditional gender roles.

One of the reasons I think Play Misty for Me was so popular with the public is because long before Evelyn begins exhibiting signs of serious mental illness, she is depicted as a threat and disruption to the natural order of things. David is a skirt-chaser, but a reformed one, dedicated to changing his ways and starting anew with torch-carrying Tobie. But From the start, Evelyn fails to adhere to normative standards of male/female interaction. She’s the sexual instigator when David would prefer she sit by the phone and wait until HE calls her. She has a temper (women in the movies were seldom allowed to swear. Every time Evelyn blurts out an obscenity in this film, the camera cuts to people reacting like that audience watching "Springtime for Hitler" in The Producers. 

Possibly most damning for Evelyn as a character the film wants to stack the deck against, is her assuming she has some say in where the relationship is going. In wanting to move faster than David (way faster) she is depicted as dominating and grasping.

Thrillers and horror movies are rooted in the introduction of chaos into order. In the '70s, what could be more chaotic to the status quo of male/female relations than the introduction of Women's Lib? Men have been sexually terrified of women since the days of the film noir femme fatale. With the dawning of the sexual revolution, the onscreen fireworks really began. 
Play Misty for Me may not have been the first psycho-sexual thriller, but it's stood the test of time by remaining one of the most enduringly enjoyable.

BONUS MATERIAL

What's in a name? An early mock-up ad reveals that, at least for a time, Universal was going to jettison the graceful ambiguity of Play Misty for Me and go for the hard sell.

Clint Eastwood's prior film, the clever, female-centric The Beguiled, suffered at the boxoffice due to it representing a true departure for Eastwood fans (he's a baddie). The slasher film rose to horror film popularity in the late '70s, with Play Misty for Me Eastwood can be credited with delivering one of the first (if not the first) genre entries of the decade, spearheading a genuine trend.

Starsky & Hutch "Fatal Charm" -1977: Pert and perky Karen Valentine (a personal fave) is cast against type and playing the unstable love interest of Hutch in an episode that is a near-direct rip-off of Play Misty for Me.

"Annabel Lee"  - Edgar Allan Poe 1849

Copyright © Ken Anderson  2009- 2014