As a general rule, I'm not a fan of Woody Allen. I find his neurotic self-absorption and flippant yet pretentious sense of humor all but unbearable and rarely find him as witty, clever, or innovative as many critics seem to, so I went into The Purple Rose of Cairo with no little skepticism.
The premise of the movie - a movie character walks off the screen and into the arms of a sweet girl in the audience - essentially reverses the plot of Buster Keaton's Sherlock, Jr., in which a projectionist dreams himself and the girl he loves into the movie he's showing. Mia Farrow plays a waitress, Cecilia, on the outs with her boss, married to a lout who spends all his time on dice, and who, more than anything else, loves the movies. The Great Depression is in full swing and the movies that bring a smile to her face are musicals and pictures about high society people in exotic locales. Then one day, the character of Tom Baxter (Jeff Daniels), "honest, dependable, courageous, romantic, and a great kisser," walks off the screen because he's fallen in love with Cecilia and wants to be real.
Allen plays down the fantastic element of this premise, with copious dialogue from the vast majority of characters commenting on the impossibility of a fictional character walking around in the real world and expressing outrage and astonishment. The porousness of the screen is never explained, but once the Hollywood actor who plays Tom (also Jeff Bridges) arrives to try to corral his double back into the movie, Cecilia has to decide between the real and the imaginary. Her choice is predictable, but Allen denies us the expected Hollywood happily-ever-after. Those sorts of endings are only for the movies.
In essence, The Purple Rose of Cairo is an extended riff on one joke. Sometimes it works brilliantly, particularly with the scenes of the movie-within-the-movie's characters alternately panicking and whining because they can't continue the picture. Van Johnson, star of studio pictures like In the Good Old Summertime and The Last Time I Saw Paris, has a delicious, and easy-to-miss cameo as one of the disgruntled characters. However, Allen, though he may be known for his 'witty' dialogue, doesn't have a perfect ear for the the snappy, slang-ridden writing of '30s cinema. A clunky self-consciousness steals into a lot of the lines in the movie-within-a-movie, which is too obviously a pastiche and never convinces as a real hit picture. The best lines are less willfully cartoonish and quite quotable: "I just met a wonderful new man. He's fictional but you can't have everything;" "I'm sorry. It's written into my character to do it, so I do it;" or "I don't get hurt or bleed, hair doesn't muss; it's one of the advantages of being imaginary." The movie is most convincing, not to mention most fun, when Allen uses a softer, lighter touch, in a totally different register than, say, the zany slapstick of Sleeper or the arch flippancy of Annie Hall and Manhattan. But even in this more bittersweet mode, The Purple Rose of Cairo feels wafer-thin, like a short film extended to feature-length.
In part, this is because the movie drags in an element of intellectual theory - implicit references to Pirandello, Deleuze, and Kracauer - that it can't quite bear. The movie's structure depends on a strict demarcation between the real and the fictional that a body can pass over as though going through a door, but the two worlds never actually fuse or collide: the boundary is stable. While ostensibly examining the blurring of reality and a fictive world, The Purple Rose of Cairo actually enforces the stark difference between the two. Many of the wittier lines rely on this; for instance, someone points out that, in the movie-within-the-movie, the champagne is really ginger ale. (Some of the clunkier plot elements, such as Tom Baxter's fake money, do as well.) Yet, even the earliest film theories and philosophies have subtler things to say on the issue of the 'real' vs. the cinematic. All Allen really does is point out the commonsensical difference and the fact that a real person can't inhabit a fictive world for long. Heck, Keaton's film is vastly more intellectually complex.
Allen also shoehorns a critique of religion, attempting to make it dovetail with a confused notion of the screenwriters as gods, which is both philosophically muddled and badly integrated into the film as a whole (though in one moment, rather funny - when the movie-within-the-movie's priest insists that nowhere in the Bible does it say a priest can't be imaginary). Cecilia brings Tom to a church as part of his education in the real world and where he ends up getting beaten up by Cecilia's irate husband. This scene occurs in a church in order to set up Tom's later naive line about "thinking about very deep things." Tom is a wee bit of an airhead, but what he's saying about the screenwriters as gods is actually supported by and large by the movie, rather than criticized, or even complicated. There's something grating to me about a critique of religion that is so flat-footed and intellectually vacuous, a potshot that veers off into nothing.
Even so, there are more things to like in The Purple Rose of Cairo than to dislike: the jazzy score by Nick Hyman, Diane Wiest in a small, though glam role as a red-lipsticked prostitute, the evocatively sparkling sets and costumes for the movie-within-the-movie. It's a relief to have Allen kept off-camera and it's a pleasure to look at such a meticulous recreation of a small New Jersey town in the '30s. While I wouldn't go anywhere near calling The Purple Rose of Cairo a masterpiece, I would call it the high point of Allen's career.
Wednesday, August 30, 2017
Monday, August 28, 2017
Is Bridget Jones a Feminist Character (And Does It Matter)?
Helen Fielding's hit novel, Bridget Jones's Diary, and its subsequent film adaptation directed by Sharon Maguire and starring Renée Zellweger are unquestionably popular, with sequels both literary and cinematic extending Bridget almost into a franchise unto herself. Online feminist response to characters like Bridget Jones tends to be divided between fans of romantic comedies and chick lit and detractors who condemn such genres as a priori anti-feminist. The first group points to Bridget's relatability and the flaws and imperfections that nevertheless don't exclude her from the possibility of exciting, sexually satisfying relationships. The second group points to Bridget's preoccupations with her romantic status, weight, and food intake and sees her as self-involved and in thrall to patriarchal social imperatives, while her narrative arc is defined by a modern iteration of the marriage plot.
Both critiques are fair and both are, in a way, correct, but each rests on an assumption that feminism dictates a particular way of being for women, and especially female characters, assumed as role models and mirrors. The contradiction lies in diverging understandings of what feminism means and what it should accomplish, but despite their opposite conclusions, the two viewpoints both suffer from an ideological fallacy.
Champions of Bridget Jones subscribe to a feminist imperative to represent women as 'real people,' that is as flawed people, without punishing them for their imperfections. This means, in practice, that these characters exist in narrative universes that are highly traditional in structure, but in which they do not abide by the traditional standards of femininity. These deviations, however, tend to be superficial and slight, for instance, clumsiness or a habit of saying the wrong thing at the worst moment. The character must be imperfect, but also likable. From this angle, Bridget is feminist because her success, in this case romantic in nature, is not circumscribed by the character traits that mark her as flawed. Her ultimate happiness is a reward for being herself, proof that one needn't be a Barbie doll to get a modern-day incarnation of Mr. Darcy. She is, at base, a nice person, her worst quality arguably flightiness, and this is enough to make her worthy.
Detractors instead subscribe to a feminist imperative to represent women as they should be and the world as it should be. As a result, a feminist character must consciously reject societal expectations of how women ought to behave, feel, and think. A feminist story cannot revolve around men, especially men as romantic partners. From this perspective, Bridget Jones's Diary as a whole is anti-feminist because the narrative traces Bridget's romantic involvement with men and Bridget herself isn't feminist because her ultimate goals - a sexy boyfriend, a thin body, a demeanor that reflects 'inner poise' - are subservient to the larger social expectations that women confront. Instead of declaring and actually believing that she doesn't need a man to be happy, Bridget really does want a relationship and only occasionally expresses feminist beliefs, rarely acted upon.
Both camps share two fundamental problems, though each approaches them from the opposite direction. The first issue is judgment. In both cases, a female character is judged by an imposed standard derived from feminist ideology. But, whether the preference is for representations of (superficially) flawed women who get the guy or liberated women who have no need for men and can take them or leave them, a judgment is made. As soon as that happens, an impulse towards freedom and liberation for all women is confined to a small, special class of women - those who attain success and happiness, whether it involves a man or not. This doctrine is disastrous politically, but not especially insightful as far as literary or film criticism is concerned. If Bridget Jones is going to be held to such high standards, whether getting the guy of her dreams or rejecting the romance she actually wants to prove a political point, then feminism is transformed into yet one more form of oppression for women. Freedom of choice is withheld; feminist credentials are issued or denied according to how well or not a woman has met ideological standards. Judgment is both a dubious critical device and a nasty political one. Since we tend to view characters, rightly or wrongly, as proxies, models, or mirrors, condemning a character for failing to be a feminist is another way of punishing women who don't fall into line.
The second issue is whether or not romantic relationships with men can legitimately be the primary focus of female characters', and by extension women's, lives. This is a very old debate, that can be traced directly back to the earliest feminist discourses, including some materials from the French Revolution. The issue turns on the function of stories and whether one believes they ought to show reality or a projected and hoped-for possible reality. It might be nice to allow for both types of stories and to consider, on an individual basis, whether a given story is depicting one or the other. The truth is that for many women romantic relationships with men are a primary focus for at least a period of their lives. If we punish women for that, we're no better than the billions of men now and throughout history who consider themselves entitled to punish women who don't make those relationships a primary focus. If feminism opens up new doors for women, it's debatable whether it should also close other doors in the process.
In the end, whether one believes Bridget is a feminist character because she's relatable, likable, and romantically triumphant or that Bridget is not a feminist character because her needs and desires are directed principally towards appearing attractive to and attaining a relationship with a man, this sort of evaluation risks creating a parallel set of rigidly enforced standards for women, as suffocating and unyielding as the insidiously evolving standards of patriarchy. Rather than simply checking a box, 'yes' for feminist, 'no' for everything else, feminist criticism ought to be a subtler examination of how and why feminism operates, or fails to operate, in the cultural sphere. If it's merely a matter of sorting the goodies from the baddies, then feminist criticism, far from revolutionary, is following exactly in patriarchy's footsteps.
Both critiques are fair and both are, in a way, correct, but each rests on an assumption that feminism dictates a particular way of being for women, and especially female characters, assumed as role models and mirrors. The contradiction lies in diverging understandings of what feminism means and what it should accomplish, but despite their opposite conclusions, the two viewpoints both suffer from an ideological fallacy.
Champions of Bridget Jones subscribe to a feminist imperative to represent women as 'real people,' that is as flawed people, without punishing them for their imperfections. This means, in practice, that these characters exist in narrative universes that are highly traditional in structure, but in which they do not abide by the traditional standards of femininity. These deviations, however, tend to be superficial and slight, for instance, clumsiness or a habit of saying the wrong thing at the worst moment. The character must be imperfect, but also likable. From this angle, Bridget is feminist because her success, in this case romantic in nature, is not circumscribed by the character traits that mark her as flawed. Her ultimate happiness is a reward for being herself, proof that one needn't be a Barbie doll to get a modern-day incarnation of Mr. Darcy. She is, at base, a nice person, her worst quality arguably flightiness, and this is enough to make her worthy.
Detractors instead subscribe to a feminist imperative to represent women as they should be and the world as it should be. As a result, a feminist character must consciously reject societal expectations of how women ought to behave, feel, and think. A feminist story cannot revolve around men, especially men as romantic partners. From this perspective, Bridget Jones's Diary as a whole is anti-feminist because the narrative traces Bridget's romantic involvement with men and Bridget herself isn't feminist because her ultimate goals - a sexy boyfriend, a thin body, a demeanor that reflects 'inner poise' - are subservient to the larger social expectations that women confront. Instead of declaring and actually believing that she doesn't need a man to be happy, Bridget really does want a relationship and only occasionally expresses feminist beliefs, rarely acted upon.
Both camps share two fundamental problems, though each approaches them from the opposite direction. The first issue is judgment. In both cases, a female character is judged by an imposed standard derived from feminist ideology. But, whether the preference is for representations of (superficially) flawed women who get the guy or liberated women who have no need for men and can take them or leave them, a judgment is made. As soon as that happens, an impulse towards freedom and liberation for all women is confined to a small, special class of women - those who attain success and happiness, whether it involves a man or not. This doctrine is disastrous politically, but not especially insightful as far as literary or film criticism is concerned. If Bridget Jones is going to be held to such high standards, whether getting the guy of her dreams or rejecting the romance she actually wants to prove a political point, then feminism is transformed into yet one more form of oppression for women. Freedom of choice is withheld; feminist credentials are issued or denied according to how well or not a woman has met ideological standards. Judgment is both a dubious critical device and a nasty political one. Since we tend to view characters, rightly or wrongly, as proxies, models, or mirrors, condemning a character for failing to be a feminist is another way of punishing women who don't fall into line.
The second issue is whether or not romantic relationships with men can legitimately be the primary focus of female characters', and by extension women's, lives. This is a very old debate, that can be traced directly back to the earliest feminist discourses, including some materials from the French Revolution. The issue turns on the function of stories and whether one believes they ought to show reality or a projected and hoped-for possible reality. It might be nice to allow for both types of stories and to consider, on an individual basis, whether a given story is depicting one or the other. The truth is that for many women romantic relationships with men are a primary focus for at least a period of their lives. If we punish women for that, we're no better than the billions of men now and throughout history who consider themselves entitled to punish women who don't make those relationships a primary focus. If feminism opens up new doors for women, it's debatable whether it should also close other doors in the process.
In the end, whether one believes Bridget is a feminist character because she's relatable, likable, and romantically triumphant or that Bridget is not a feminist character because her needs and desires are directed principally towards appearing attractive to and attaining a relationship with a man, this sort of evaluation risks creating a parallel set of rigidly enforced standards for women, as suffocating and unyielding as the insidiously evolving standards of patriarchy. Rather than simply checking a box, 'yes' for feminist, 'no' for everything else, feminist criticism ought to be a subtler examination of how and why feminism operates, or fails to operate, in the cultural sphere. If it's merely a matter of sorting the goodies from the baddies, then feminist criticism, far from revolutionary, is following exactly in patriarchy's footsteps.
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
Genre Fiction Shouldn't Be Considered 'Serious' Literature
It's become trendy to lament the critical drubbing reserved for certain popular genres among, ironically enough, the American literary establishment. In the pages of the New York Times Book Review and similar literary gate-keepers, one will find such comments applied to the graphic novel, true crime, horror, chick lit, bodice rippers, and science fiction. Though nearly every critic who stages such a defense depicts himself as a lone voice, it's a hugely popular and pretentious way to signal a lack of pretension. This attitude extends the logic of diversity to genre and it's embraced as a form of progressive politics.
This is silly, which is not to say that there aren't genuine political prejudices at work in the contempt displayed for certain genres, most obviously romance. While there's nothing wrong - and a heck of a lot right - with analyzing the politics and artistry of such books, there is something wrong with pretending that genre labels are somehow discriminatory and a means of oppression. Genre labels are functional; they help readers find the sort of book they want to read. The truth is that genre fiction is less 'serious' than literary fiction, for the simple reason that genre fiction subscribes to certain structural, aesthetic, and narrative formulas, while literary fiction rejects, or at least attempts to reject, formulas. There might be a significant grey area here, but it is possible to make the differentiation.
The formulaic nature of genre fiction is part of its appeal. Horror fans want to find thrills and scares in their novels, mystery fans want to solve crimes, romance fans want amorous fantasy and titillation. The subversion of the formula is more often than not what allows a work of genre fiction to make the leap over into literary fiction. (Established literary names will also usually have their genre efforts shunted over to the realm of more 'serious' literature - whether it's fair or not, an author's reputation matters a lot when it comes to a book's reception.) Ultimately, the genre formula is the draw, and not a defect, a feature, rather than a bug.
The current American literary scene discourages negative reviews and encourages puff pieces, while the world of literary social media is dominated by political crusades against books and writers perceived as intolerant or politically out of line. This atmosphere of hair-trigger outrage, gushing support for the literary enterprise, and corporate-flavor marketing puts critics in a less than comfortable position. The American literary establishment has always prized the middle-brow and lifted a mocking eyebrow at the high; now, critics prove that they're not evil by not merely embracing the low-brow, but defending it as though it were in mortal danger, though of course the very genres that are being treated as damsels in distress are the least imperiled. Those are the books that hit the best-seller list.
None of this means that genre fiction is without value; rather it means that its value lies precisely in its difference from literary fiction. Readers turn to genre fiction for the same reason that they might go to see a superhero movie or stream a song by Taylor Swift. The formula is dependable, even the big twist is dependable, since that twist is part of the formula, just as the modulation and bridge are in a pop song.
Being a fan of Helen Fielding and Marian Keyes, queens of chick lit, doesn't prevent me from recognizing that their work, charming and chummy and toothsome as it is, is not serious literature. They absolutely deserve their success, but they, and their fellow genre writers, are not experimenting with form or convention, or tackling the more difficult and contentious aspects of either individual or collective life. Their heroines are likable and relatable. Their endings are upbeat. The darkness is always sweetened with light. And that's great! Because those things are what I want from chick lit. Something similar could be said of almost any genre, depending on the particular reader. I happen to enjoy books about young single women whose lives are messy but fun and someone else might go for books about people with superpowers saving the world or detectives with a past solving a gruesome murder or teenagers doing all the screwed-up, slapdash things that teenagers do. Those preferences are not stupid or demeaning, but neither are they worthy of praise. They're merely an expression of mood and taste.
The idea that refusing to call genre fiction serious is somehow an insult presumes that seriousness is good, but seriousness is only good when it's in the right context. That's why we laugh at people who act deadly serious while, for instance, getting interviewed on the news in their skivvies. It's also why we feel scandalized when someone tells inappropriate jokes after someone's dog died. By wringing our hands over the critical reception of genre fiction, critics don't rescue it from an unjustly ignominious failure. Rather, they pander to a public that has fatally misunderstood identity politics.
Increasingly, readers identify themselves with their tastes. It is not unusual to hear someone say that he identifies as a Star Wars/Batman/Harry Potter/John Green, etc. etc. fan. Unsurprisingly, the people most keen to revile critics of their favorite stories and characters are straight white men, so it strikes me as possible that this blurring of the line between who we are and what we like is rooted in a desire, especially on the part of those who are decidedly not marginalized, to claim injury in the face of diversity. If we really are what we like, then every time a critic pans, or even just gives a lukewarm reception to, something we like, then the review becomes an insult, but here's the rub: we're not what we like.
Criticism is worthless if it's merely a concession to dominant tastes or strident fandoms. Genre fiction isn't junk, but it deserves a critical evaluation that considers it in its proper context. Liking Gillian Flynn or Dan Brown better than Kazuo Ishiguro or Marilynne Robinson doesn't mean Flynn and Brown should be judged by the same standards as their more critically acclaimed colleagues, nor does it mean that you're somehow a lesser person. It just means you prefer Flynn and Brown. No one can demand that the whole world subscribe to his or her individual taste. Even the attempt is obnoxious and puerile. The best thing both for readers and for the literary world at large is to have the widest possible range of literature to choose from, stretching from the fluffiest, most escapist genre fiction to the most complex, erudite, and gymnastically written literary fiction, with an equally wide range of applied critical standards. Rather than argue about which books are the most important and relevant and necessary, maybe we could stop ranking and start reading.
This is silly, which is not to say that there aren't genuine political prejudices at work in the contempt displayed for certain genres, most obviously romance. While there's nothing wrong - and a heck of a lot right - with analyzing the politics and artistry of such books, there is something wrong with pretending that genre labels are somehow discriminatory and a means of oppression. Genre labels are functional; they help readers find the sort of book they want to read. The truth is that genre fiction is less 'serious' than literary fiction, for the simple reason that genre fiction subscribes to certain structural, aesthetic, and narrative formulas, while literary fiction rejects, or at least attempts to reject, formulas. There might be a significant grey area here, but it is possible to make the differentiation.
The formulaic nature of genre fiction is part of its appeal. Horror fans want to find thrills and scares in their novels, mystery fans want to solve crimes, romance fans want amorous fantasy and titillation. The subversion of the formula is more often than not what allows a work of genre fiction to make the leap over into literary fiction. (Established literary names will also usually have their genre efforts shunted over to the realm of more 'serious' literature - whether it's fair or not, an author's reputation matters a lot when it comes to a book's reception.) Ultimately, the genre formula is the draw, and not a defect, a feature, rather than a bug.
The current American literary scene discourages negative reviews and encourages puff pieces, while the world of literary social media is dominated by political crusades against books and writers perceived as intolerant or politically out of line. This atmosphere of hair-trigger outrage, gushing support for the literary enterprise, and corporate-flavor marketing puts critics in a less than comfortable position. The American literary establishment has always prized the middle-brow and lifted a mocking eyebrow at the high; now, critics prove that they're not evil by not merely embracing the low-brow, but defending it as though it were in mortal danger, though of course the very genres that are being treated as damsels in distress are the least imperiled. Those are the books that hit the best-seller list.
None of this means that genre fiction is without value; rather it means that its value lies precisely in its difference from literary fiction. Readers turn to genre fiction for the same reason that they might go to see a superhero movie or stream a song by Taylor Swift. The formula is dependable, even the big twist is dependable, since that twist is part of the formula, just as the modulation and bridge are in a pop song.
Being a fan of Helen Fielding and Marian Keyes, queens of chick lit, doesn't prevent me from recognizing that their work, charming and chummy and toothsome as it is, is not serious literature. They absolutely deserve their success, but they, and their fellow genre writers, are not experimenting with form or convention, or tackling the more difficult and contentious aspects of either individual or collective life. Their heroines are likable and relatable. Their endings are upbeat. The darkness is always sweetened with light. And that's great! Because those things are what I want from chick lit. Something similar could be said of almost any genre, depending on the particular reader. I happen to enjoy books about young single women whose lives are messy but fun and someone else might go for books about people with superpowers saving the world or detectives with a past solving a gruesome murder or teenagers doing all the screwed-up, slapdash things that teenagers do. Those preferences are not stupid or demeaning, but neither are they worthy of praise. They're merely an expression of mood and taste.
The idea that refusing to call genre fiction serious is somehow an insult presumes that seriousness is good, but seriousness is only good when it's in the right context. That's why we laugh at people who act deadly serious while, for instance, getting interviewed on the news in their skivvies. It's also why we feel scandalized when someone tells inappropriate jokes after someone's dog died. By wringing our hands over the critical reception of genre fiction, critics don't rescue it from an unjustly ignominious failure. Rather, they pander to a public that has fatally misunderstood identity politics.
Increasingly, readers identify themselves with their tastes. It is not unusual to hear someone say that he identifies as a Star Wars/Batman/Harry Potter/John Green, etc. etc. fan. Unsurprisingly, the people most keen to revile critics of their favorite stories and characters are straight white men, so it strikes me as possible that this blurring of the line between who we are and what we like is rooted in a desire, especially on the part of those who are decidedly not marginalized, to claim injury in the face of diversity. If we really are what we like, then every time a critic pans, or even just gives a lukewarm reception to, something we like, then the review becomes an insult, but here's the rub: we're not what we like.
Criticism is worthless if it's merely a concession to dominant tastes or strident fandoms. Genre fiction isn't junk, but it deserves a critical evaluation that considers it in its proper context. Liking Gillian Flynn or Dan Brown better than Kazuo Ishiguro or Marilynne Robinson doesn't mean Flynn and Brown should be judged by the same standards as their more critically acclaimed colleagues, nor does it mean that you're somehow a lesser person. It just means you prefer Flynn and Brown. No one can demand that the whole world subscribe to his or her individual taste. Even the attempt is obnoxious and puerile. The best thing both for readers and for the literary world at large is to have the widest possible range of literature to choose from, stretching from the fluffiest, most escapist genre fiction to the most complex, erudite, and gymnastically written literary fiction, with an equally wide range of applied critical standards. Rather than argue about which books are the most important and relevant and necessary, maybe we could stop ranking and start reading.
Wednesday, August 9, 2017
The Problem with a Modern "Auntie Mame"
Last year, Annie Mumolo, co-writer of Bridesmaids and Joy, broke the news that she had begun collaborating with Stan Chervin, co-writer of Moneyball, on a modern-day adaptation of Auntie Mame, to star Tilda Swinton as the madcappiest of madcap aunts. The project, not even written yet, already smells (or stinks, depending on your tolerance for the Academy) of Oscar nominations.
The 1958 adaptation of Patrick Dennis's bestselling novel starred Rosalind Russell in one of her most iconic and brilliant roles. The movie hewed much closer to the stage play than the novel, which is essentially a series of linked short stories about Mame's various escapades, a choice that was all to the good. The fabulously witty team of Betty Comden and Adolph Green, who wrote both Broadway and Hollywood hits, including Singin' in the Rain, gave Mame her most quotable line ("Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death!") and imbued the film with a rapid-fire pacing that suited Russell's screwball comedy chops to a T.
A second adaptation, simply called Mame, came out in 1974. Based on the musical version of the play, the movie starred Lucille Ball and it is hopelessly bad, a treacly, ponderous marzipan elephant of a film that has all the awful hallmarks of '70s musicals and none of their kitschy charms. Ball, in particular, is a great disappointment, coming off as sad, old, and bored.
The films shrink the time-frame slightly, and leave out a number of chapters, most notably the one set during World War II in which Auntie Mame adopts six British refugee children, whose more charming qualities include shoplifting and playing at pimps and prostitutes. I think it's fair to assume that the new adaptation will also streamline the narrative and leave out a fair number of escapades.
Now, I'm not going to start boo-hooing about the remake-itis epidemic running rampant in Hollywood. There's nothing wrong with remaking an old project as long as you do it well. The fact that very few people in Hollywood seem capable of doing it well is a different issue. But, still, I find it hard to believe that this new Auntie Mame is going to work, even with the majestically chameleonic Swinton.
That's because this new adaptation is going to be reset in the modern day. Herein lies the problem. Some books adapt well to other time periods, especially if the writers don't stick too closely to the source material. Think of Clueless, adapted from Jane Austen's Emma, Bridget Jones's Diary, adapted from Pride and Prejudice, Carmen Jones adapted from Mérimée's novella and Bizet's opera, or Cruel Intentions, from Laclos's Les liaisons dangereuses. But I don't think it will work for Auntie Mame. Part of the issue is style and part of it is content. Just as Mame is constantly inhabiting different roles (and buying extravagant wardrobes to match), Dennis uses carefully delineated aesthetics to indicate the politics, status, wealth, and worthiness of the characters. Style, whether in terms of fashion or comedy, will be a massive problem. Certain audiences are not going to deal with Mame's dabbling in various cultures, swanning about in saris with swamis, tramping in tweeds and brogues with Irish poets, or drawling her 'r's with yankee-hating plantation-owners. This play-acting is at the very crux of Mame's personality. She is remarkably unprejudiced for a woman of her time, welcoming Jews, homosexuals, and many other marginalized people into her home, but that doesn't make her behavior politically correct by today's standards. It's possible that Mumolo and Chervin will come up with some clever way of letting Mame play without stepping on anyone's toes, but the subversiveness of the character will be hopelessly neutered if they take it too far.
Much of the comedy of the various stories rests on the specific historical moment in which the novel and films are set. It will be difficult, for instance, to figure out why Mame would need to take in her pregnant, abandoned secretary Agnes Gooch in a world in which many women choose to become single mothers without a whiff of scandal. While much of the politically incorrect stuff will undoubtedly be cut, especially the giggling Japanese houseboy, Ito, none of the stories will have much substance left in the modern world.
It seems likelier that Mumolo and Chervin will try to milk comedy from the collision of Auntie Mame with modern life: social media, online dating, texting, avocado toast, and the like. But unless Auntie Mame is a time-traveler, there won't be a collision. Mame adores the new and modern, she is as mutable as fashion, and would have no trouble changing tastes as fast as twitter storms gather, break, and pass. Whole new scenarios will have to be dreamed up for Mame.
However, the reason I most doubt this new adaptation is this: Mame is enormously wealthy. Her many obsessions are fueled by a large disposable income. Mame without money isn't Mame. But in the wake of the Great Recession, the expensive eccentricities of the mega-wealthy are difficult to laugh about. While the tech moguls, Wall Street brokers, and CEOs buy Caribbean islands, recreate Hobbiton for their weddings, keep a plane or two on call, and think themselves magnanimous if their companies offer ten cents per coffee for charity, millions of people worldwide go hungry. In the prosperous '50s, when Patrick Dennis introduced the world to Auntie Mame, desperation wasn't a dominant cultural flavor. Now, a reborn modern Auntie Mame will have to endear herself to us in a world where the difference between the haves and the have-nots is becoming ever more gargantuan. I won't say it can't work, but I'm not feeling confident. Can we like a madcap millionairess anymore?
The 1958 adaptation of Patrick Dennis's bestselling novel starred Rosalind Russell in one of her most iconic and brilliant roles. The movie hewed much closer to the stage play than the novel, which is essentially a series of linked short stories about Mame's various escapades, a choice that was all to the good. The fabulously witty team of Betty Comden and Adolph Green, who wrote both Broadway and Hollywood hits, including Singin' in the Rain, gave Mame her most quotable line ("Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death!") and imbued the film with a rapid-fire pacing that suited Russell's screwball comedy chops to a T.
A second adaptation, simply called Mame, came out in 1974. Based on the musical version of the play, the movie starred Lucille Ball and it is hopelessly bad, a treacly, ponderous marzipan elephant of a film that has all the awful hallmarks of '70s musicals and none of their kitschy charms. Ball, in particular, is a great disappointment, coming off as sad, old, and bored.
The films shrink the time-frame slightly, and leave out a number of chapters, most notably the one set during World War II in which Auntie Mame adopts six British refugee children, whose more charming qualities include shoplifting and playing at pimps and prostitutes. I think it's fair to assume that the new adaptation will also streamline the narrative and leave out a fair number of escapades.
Now, I'm not going to start boo-hooing about the remake-itis epidemic running rampant in Hollywood. There's nothing wrong with remaking an old project as long as you do it well. The fact that very few people in Hollywood seem capable of doing it well is a different issue. But, still, I find it hard to believe that this new Auntie Mame is going to work, even with the majestically chameleonic Swinton.
That's because this new adaptation is going to be reset in the modern day. Herein lies the problem. Some books adapt well to other time periods, especially if the writers don't stick too closely to the source material. Think of Clueless, adapted from Jane Austen's Emma, Bridget Jones's Diary, adapted from Pride and Prejudice, Carmen Jones adapted from Mérimée's novella and Bizet's opera, or Cruel Intentions, from Laclos's Les liaisons dangereuses. But I don't think it will work for Auntie Mame. Part of the issue is style and part of it is content. Just as Mame is constantly inhabiting different roles (and buying extravagant wardrobes to match), Dennis uses carefully delineated aesthetics to indicate the politics, status, wealth, and worthiness of the characters. Style, whether in terms of fashion or comedy, will be a massive problem. Certain audiences are not going to deal with Mame's dabbling in various cultures, swanning about in saris with swamis, tramping in tweeds and brogues with Irish poets, or drawling her 'r's with yankee-hating plantation-owners. This play-acting is at the very crux of Mame's personality. She is remarkably unprejudiced for a woman of her time, welcoming Jews, homosexuals, and many other marginalized people into her home, but that doesn't make her behavior politically correct by today's standards. It's possible that Mumolo and Chervin will come up with some clever way of letting Mame play without stepping on anyone's toes, but the subversiveness of the character will be hopelessly neutered if they take it too far.
Much of the comedy of the various stories rests on the specific historical moment in which the novel and films are set. It will be difficult, for instance, to figure out why Mame would need to take in her pregnant, abandoned secretary Agnes Gooch in a world in which many women choose to become single mothers without a whiff of scandal. While much of the politically incorrect stuff will undoubtedly be cut, especially the giggling Japanese houseboy, Ito, none of the stories will have much substance left in the modern world.
It seems likelier that Mumolo and Chervin will try to milk comedy from the collision of Auntie Mame with modern life: social media, online dating, texting, avocado toast, and the like. But unless Auntie Mame is a time-traveler, there won't be a collision. Mame adores the new and modern, she is as mutable as fashion, and would have no trouble changing tastes as fast as twitter storms gather, break, and pass. Whole new scenarios will have to be dreamed up for Mame.
However, the reason I most doubt this new adaptation is this: Mame is enormously wealthy. Her many obsessions are fueled by a large disposable income. Mame without money isn't Mame. But in the wake of the Great Recession, the expensive eccentricities of the mega-wealthy are difficult to laugh about. While the tech moguls, Wall Street brokers, and CEOs buy Caribbean islands, recreate Hobbiton for their weddings, keep a plane or two on call, and think themselves magnanimous if their companies offer ten cents per coffee for charity, millions of people worldwide go hungry. In the prosperous '50s, when Patrick Dennis introduced the world to Auntie Mame, desperation wasn't a dominant cultural flavor. Now, a reborn modern Auntie Mame will have to endear herself to us in a world where the difference between the haves and the have-nots is becoming ever more gargantuan. I won't say it can't work, but I'm not feeling confident. Can we like a madcap millionairess anymore?
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