Recently, when my mother was having a tough time, she creaked open her cupboard, and pulled out a well-loved DVD.
"Let's watch The Philadelphia Story. It'll be nice to disappear into the delightful struggles of the rich and beautiful for a while."
And, though it's an indisputably lovely watch for audiences old and new alike, whether watching for the first or thirty-first time, it's more than rote comforting, Classical Hollywood escapism that makes The Philadelphia Story truly special. It's seldom that we find a film with such modestly entertaining aspirations assembled with such consummate care, as director George Cukor's feather-light direction and perfect pacing allow the film to bubble like champagne, but sink in like a sumptuous feast - indisputably one of the most impeccably loveable and utterly unmissable films of its era.
Naturally, it helps to boast one of the most airtight, razor-sharp romantic comedy scripts of all time. Writer Philip Barry (adapting Donald Ogden Stewart's stage show) has as much fun peppering the film with the deliciously salty repartee as he does having his characters playfully massage every syllable out of the most riotously intricate names - from the mouth of Jimmy Stewart, the seven syllables of 'C.K. Dexter Haven' somehow emerge as a contemptuous political haiku. Cukor and his players have a ball poking fun at the ludicrous posturing of old money snobs, but the film's class divide is treated far more tongue-in-cheek and with tender sympathy than the savage, cartoonish satire of the average circa 1940 screwball.
The film's plot might suggest the gossamer silliness of a Society Magazine take on Much Ado About Nothing, but underneath the Russian Doll subplots of mischievous double-bluffs of masquerade and library and poolside meet-cutes (all delectably zany in their own right) lies a surprisingly rich, compelling, and fundamentally human story, bursting with emotion and heart. Underneath the marquee of comedy of manners zingers lurks an underbelly of genuine family drama, as affecting as it is entertaining, postulating that a yearning for genuine connection - to be really known, beyond social status, trappings, presumptions, projections, and posturing - is, perhaps, the most universal of desires, and the message hits home with the effervescent pop of a bottle of champagne downed a little too fast.
But, let's be honest: we're here for the legendary triple-act of Classical Hollywood heavyweights Hepburn, Stewart, and Grant. They do not disappoint, playing off each other with dazzling ease, and showcasing some of the most effortless banter and deep-set chemistry in cinema history. Hepburn has never been better than she is here - she imperiously commands the screen with a hailstorm of scathing punchlines, before embodying the self-esteem imbalance of a woman inundated with superficial praise, but seldom genuinely appreciated, to an unnervingly human degree. She's funny, sad, and almost unspeakably loveable, in an astoundingly heartfelt rollercoaster of a performance. Still, this is unquestionably the Jimmy Stewart show, as his sour, curmudgeonly indictments of the superfluity of wealth are as utterly hysterical, even moreso when giving way for a softer, poetic, recitations betray an aspiring artist beaten down by self-doubt and the financial impediments to wholeheartedly pursue his dream. A decidedly unconventionally subdued Grant rounds up the trio with the least showy performance, but his performance betrays staggering subtleties of inner emotion and past demons. Sneakily puppeteering his peers while firing off innocently acrid witticisms with his never-drier deadpan makes him an exquisitely sarcastic Greek chorus of sorts, and the mischievous twinkle in his eye is as entertaining as all the banter in the world. The rest of the ensemble are all magnificent in their own right, particularly Ruth Hussey as Stewart's perennially spurned, icily deadpan photographer companion, and twelve-year old Virginia Weidler, uproariously funny as the Lord family's gutsy daughter, belligerently unwilling to accept the stubbornness of her older family members causing mishap after mishap.
There's the occasional bump in the road where the film shows its age - the calamitous, climactic partner-swapping follies flirt with being too silly to sit comfortably, and it's nicer to just pretend the eyebrow-raising prologue, which treats spousal abuse as a rollicking punchline, just never happens (thank goodness for DVD track-skipping). But, on the whole, this is the highest, most delightful caliber of movie magic imaginable. Whether you need to laugh or cry (usually both), find an airy diversion from life's tribulations, or discover genuine insight in the interplay of immaculately constructed characters, you'd be hard pressed to find a more deeply satisfying watch than The Philadelphia Story. To quote our dear C.K. Dexter Haven: "My, she was yar."
-10/10
"Let's watch The Philadelphia Story. It'll be nice to disappear into the delightful struggles of the rich and beautiful for a while."
And, though it's an indisputably lovely watch for audiences old and new alike, whether watching for the first or thirty-first time, it's more than rote comforting, Classical Hollywood escapism that makes The Philadelphia Story truly special. It's seldom that we find a film with such modestly entertaining aspirations assembled with such consummate care, as director George Cukor's feather-light direction and perfect pacing allow the film to bubble like champagne, but sink in like a sumptuous feast - indisputably one of the most impeccably loveable and utterly unmissable films of its era.
Naturally, it helps to boast one of the most airtight, razor-sharp romantic comedy scripts of all time. Writer Philip Barry (adapting Donald Ogden Stewart's stage show) has as much fun peppering the film with the deliciously salty repartee as he does having his characters playfully massage every syllable out of the most riotously intricate names - from the mouth of Jimmy Stewart, the seven syllables of 'C.K. Dexter Haven' somehow emerge as a contemptuous political haiku. Cukor and his players have a ball poking fun at the ludicrous posturing of old money snobs, but the film's class divide is treated far more tongue-in-cheek and with tender sympathy than the savage, cartoonish satire of the average circa 1940 screwball.
The film's plot might suggest the gossamer silliness of a Society Magazine take on Much Ado About Nothing, but underneath the Russian Doll subplots of mischievous double-bluffs of masquerade and library and poolside meet-cutes (all delectably zany in their own right) lies a surprisingly rich, compelling, and fundamentally human story, bursting with emotion and heart. Underneath the marquee of comedy of manners zingers lurks an underbelly of genuine family drama, as affecting as it is entertaining, postulating that a yearning for genuine connection - to be really known, beyond social status, trappings, presumptions, projections, and posturing - is, perhaps, the most universal of desires, and the message hits home with the effervescent pop of a bottle of champagne downed a little too fast.
But, let's be honest: we're here for the legendary triple-act of Classical Hollywood heavyweights Hepburn, Stewart, and Grant. They do not disappoint, playing off each other with dazzling ease, and showcasing some of the most effortless banter and deep-set chemistry in cinema history. Hepburn has never been better than she is here - she imperiously commands the screen with a hailstorm of scathing punchlines, before embodying the self-esteem imbalance of a woman inundated with superficial praise, but seldom genuinely appreciated, to an unnervingly human degree. She's funny, sad, and almost unspeakably loveable, in an astoundingly heartfelt rollercoaster of a performance. Still, this is unquestionably the Jimmy Stewart show, as his sour, curmudgeonly indictments of the superfluity of wealth are as utterly hysterical, even moreso when giving way for a softer, poetic, recitations betray an aspiring artist beaten down by self-doubt and the financial impediments to wholeheartedly pursue his dream. A decidedly unconventionally subdued Grant rounds up the trio with the least showy performance, but his performance betrays staggering subtleties of inner emotion and past demons. Sneakily puppeteering his peers while firing off innocently acrid witticisms with his never-drier deadpan makes him an exquisitely sarcastic Greek chorus of sorts, and the mischievous twinkle in his eye is as entertaining as all the banter in the world. The rest of the ensemble are all magnificent in their own right, particularly Ruth Hussey as Stewart's perennially spurned, icily deadpan photographer companion, and twelve-year old Virginia Weidler, uproariously funny as the Lord family's gutsy daughter, belligerently unwilling to accept the stubbornness of her older family members causing mishap after mishap.
There's the occasional bump in the road where the film shows its age - the calamitous, climactic partner-swapping follies flirt with being too silly to sit comfortably, and it's nicer to just pretend the eyebrow-raising prologue, which treats spousal abuse as a rollicking punchline, just never happens (thank goodness for DVD track-skipping). But, on the whole, this is the highest, most delightful caliber of movie magic imaginable. Whether you need to laugh or cry (usually both), find an airy diversion from life's tribulations, or discover genuine insight in the interplay of immaculately constructed characters, you'd be hard pressed to find a more deeply satisfying watch than The Philadelphia Story. To quote our dear C.K. Dexter Haven: "My, she was yar."
-10/10