Movie Madness

I am a classic movie fan from way back. I used to stay up late with my grandparents on occasional sleepovers at their home and watch their old favorites while they offered commentary that included recalling the particular theaters where they originally saw the films and who they were with. Young pictures of my grandfather reminded me of Ronald Coleman in Lost Horizon. His singing mimicked Bing Crosby, only with a New Orleans accent. My grandmother favored Vivien Leigh, in serious dramatic roles like That Hamilton Woman and Waterloo Bridge while my grandfather preferred Claudette Colbert and lighter fare like It Happened One Night and The Bride Came Home.

My mother took my younger siblings and me to screenings of old movies at the Saenger Theater in New Orleans during summer film festivals in the off-season of Broadway runs. We loved the upscale lobby and plush, albeit empty seating in the theater. The lights dimmed to reveal a lit night sky painted on the ceiling above us as the old organ rose from the floor near the stage. The organist played music from the film before the curtain rose on elaborate musicals like My Fair Lady, biblical epics like The Ten Commandments and painful politically incorrect films such as Song of the South.

I periodically review the movie guide for the classic movie channels and DVR interesting ones that I later introduce at family movie nights when nothing current looks appealing or appropriate. The index of classic films that revolves around in my head seemed innocent and refreshing. Perhaps I lumped them all into the same category as The Wizard of Oz and the Sound of Music because now, thanks to my children, I am viewing these old movies in a new light (and not all of it is good).

“My friend loves Audrey Hepburn,” MIren told me recently on a rainy week-end evening. “Did she do anything other than My Fair Lady, where I know she didn’t really sing?” (They do know their musicals).

“Do anything else? Audrey Hepburn? Are you kidding?” I check the DVR. Love in the Afternoon and Roman Holiday sit in quiet anticipation among a host of black and white movies.

“Let’s pop some popcorn.”

“Are these people in black and white?” Lise asks entering the living room with pillows and a blanket. “The movie is black and white, yes,” I answer. Lise rolls her eyes. “It just makes the movie so boring,” she complains. Happy that she is participating I overlook the dramatic eyes and negative comment.

Moments later, Lise is watching Audrey Hepburn, a young cellist in Paris, with rapt attention. The actress is young, beautiful and full of expression. I smile at Lise’s enjoyment and wait for Maurice Chevalier to break into song (of course he doesn’t, this isn’t Gigi, it’s Love in the Afternoon but he’s always the same character to me). Suddenly an aging Gary Cooper fills up the screen. He’s ruggedly handsome as the wealthy American playboy. His unapologetic and systematic approach to women in the early stages of the film is palatable only because he is Gary Cooper. That is, until Audrey Hepburn becomes the target of his affections.

Lise laughs at the escapades of the two characters as first, Audrey Hepburn rescues Gary Cooper from being shot by a jealous husband. I then find myself hoping that Lise misses the innuendoes, the smoking jacket Gary Cooper suddenly wears as Audrey searches for discarded shoes and clothes about his hotel room. He’s got to be almost sixty and she looks, at most, twenty. Lise remains un-phased, fully enjoying the game that Audrey Hepburn plays on the single, womanizing old guy as they literally make love every afternoon. I can’t believe Maurice Chevalier’s wide, approving, smile as his young daughter, not even out of pigtails (she sports some in the movie), heads off into the sunset with this guy who’s older than he is. And who has been the subject of most of his private detective cases involving jealous husbands. Why isn’t this the movie I remember?

“Great choice,” Lise compliments seriously at the end.

Within days I try my hand at another Audrey Hepburn film. Roman Holiday unfolds just as I expect and I sigh with relief. Audrey makes a lovely princess, poised and sheltered but eager to experience life on her own. The city of Rome serves as the backdrop for the brief interlude that she spends with the secretive journalist who recognizes her without letting on. Miren sits up, and incredulously interrupts the film.

“So this guy, he’s just going to keep lying to her?”

“Well, that’s the premise. You see, he knows who she is but he’s acting like he doesn’t. ”

“So that he can expose her! And she’s falling in love with him.”

“Right.”

“But she doesn’t know he’s lying to her.”

“No, that’s the point. He falls in love, too.”

“But when does he tell her the truth?”

“Keep watching.”

And then later. “He’s such a horrible man! I can’t believe he lied and they took all of those
pictures. And then he kissed her. I’m glad they can’t be together.”

“But Gregory Peck is so much more appropriate than Gary Cooper was,” I say defensively.
Lise pulls herself away from the movie and into our conversation. “They can’t be together?” she asks in disbelief.

“Well, no,” I explain. “She goes back to her life and he goes to his.”

“You said it was a romantic comedy.” Lise responds accusingly.

“It is. Didn’t you laugh?”

“But they’re not together? How can that be? If they were in love they’d be together. The whole
movie was just a waste of time!” I pause, unsure if Lise refers to the characters or to the time we just spent watching the movie.

“I’m glad they’re not together,” Miren interjects. “He’s just a big liar. And his friend was nicer, anyway.”

“But he’s Atticus Finch!” I’m still promoting Gregory Peck. The girls give me a deserved confused look and, shrugging their shoulders, leave the room.

It takes some time before I am willing to try another film. Casablanca isn’t easy to pass up and once again we find ourselves settling in for the evening. This time Craig joins us. But he falls asleep before Ingrid Bergman even appears on screen. Claude Rains is magnificent and Humphrey Bogart is typical Bogart.

The girls stop asking questions and begin to follow the story line. Bogart, distraught and disheveled, fills up the screen, the dark shadows swimming around him as he sits with a bottle and shot glass in front of him. He has just seen Ingrid Bergman for the first time since she left him waiting at the train station in Paris. His face is full of emotion as a cigarette burns between his fingers and he throws his head down onto his arms.

“Did he just die of lung cancer?” Lise asks in the silence. “Because he’s been smoking since the movie started. Is he dead?”

“No, he is NOT dead,” I tell her. I think about it for a moment. Bogart hadn’t been the only one smoking. All of the characters have smoked at least ten cigarettes a piece and we are only fifteen minutes in. I count cigarettes through the rest of the film.

I will try again. And I’ll find that either the kids or I have distorted in some way each movie that we see. But I have to admit that I never laughed so hard (or at all) during any previous viewing of Casablanca and I look forward to the unexpected in the next classic movie I introduce to my gang.