Monthly Archives: January 2022

  • Room at the Top

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Jack Clayton (1959)

    Room at the Top was released in Britain in January 1959, a few months ahead of Tony Richardson’s Look Back in Anger.  Jack Clayton’s film was thereby the first of the kitchen-sink dramas of the British ‘New Wave’, and it may also be the best of them.  This adaptation, by Neil Paterson, of John Braine’s 1957 novel would probably have been even better with a different Joe Lampton.  Laurence Harvey is good in the love-making scenes with Simone Signoret’s Alice Aisgill, the married woman who is ten years Joe’s senior, and in the closing stages, after Alice’s death.  He never quite convinces, though, as the socially and professionally ambitious, chippy protagonist – determined to get on in the post-war world (the story is set in 1947), with years as a soldier and POW behind him, and the prospect of white-collar security and stasis ahead.  Harvey’s problems are a shaky Yorkshire accent and, quite simply, his height:  it’s hard for him to be looked down on.  A year or so later, Albert Finney broke through in Karel Reisz’s Saturday Night and Sunday Morning.  With slightly different timings, Joe Lampton, rather than Arthur Seaton, might have been Finney’s first great screen role.

    Otherwise, it’s hard to fault the casting, especially Simone Signoret’s.  Alice isn’t French in the novel but changing her nationality was an inspired idea, not only enabling Signoret to play the role but also sharpening Alice’s sense of isolation in her unhappy marriage to the abusive cold fish businessman George Aisgill (Allan Cuthbertson), and, more largely, in the provincial North of England.  Signoret’s blend of sensuous power and emotional rawness is a wonder – so, too, her ability suddenly to change the temperature of a scene (the first big falling out between Joe and Alice is a good example).  How she does this is imperceptible; that she does it, unarguable.  It’s heartening that Signoret’s acting, which still feels modern, was fully recognised in the major film awards of the time.  Heather Sears is Susan Brown, daughter of a local-lad-made-good industrial magnate (Donald Wolfit) and the girl whom Joe sets his sights on before Alice complicates the issue.  Sears is best remembered for playing young women whose romance with the hero is doomed to failure:  the following year, she was Miriam Leivers to Dean Stockwell’s Paul Morel in Jack Cardiff’s first-rate film of Sons and Lovers.  Heather Sears is thoroughly persuasive as Susan, as she would also be as Miriam.

    Despite his reputation as a stage ham, Donald Wolfit gives a nicely judged performance.  He’s well partnered by Ambrosine Phillpotts as the snooty Mrs Brown, although John Westbrook overplays nasty Jack Wales, Susan’s socially more suitable suitor, who repeatedly goads Joe by mocking his humble origins.  Jack Clayton and Neil Paterson do well to show entrenched class prejudices as a two-way street:  Beatrice Varley is on screen for only a couple of minutes but she’s piercingly true as Joe’s salt-of-the-earth aunt, who urges her much-loved nephew not to get ideas above his station. Hermione Baddeley is Alice’s friend, Elspeth, whose flat the lovers use for their assignations.  Donald Houston and Richard Pasco are Joe’s work colleagues at the municipal offices.   Smaller parts feature plenty of faces familiar from films and television – Avril Elgar, Ian Hendry, Raymond Huntley, Mary Peach.  Brief appearances by the likes of (among others) Wendy Craig, Basil Dignam, Everley Gregg, Miriam Karlin, Wilfrid Lawson and Prunella Scales didn’t even get a credit.  In a cameo as a drunk who buttonholes Joe to tell him a crap joke, Paul Whitsun-Jones is vividly disgusting.

    After Alice dies in a car crash, Joe, mired in self-reproach, gets drunk, too, on a pub crawl around the factory-town backwater he hails from.  He chats up a barmaid (April Olrich) whose boyfriend (Derren Nesbitt), with some of his pals, beats Joe up.  Physically and emotionally floored, and with next to nothing to say, Laurence Harvey comes into his own.  His face is even more expressive in the final sequences, at Joe’s wedding to Susan.  At the close of the novel, this seems still to be going ahead – it’s mentioned on the last page that Susan has gone to London to buy a wedding dress – but Braine stops short of the altar.  The screenplay shrewdly takes things further, to subvert the screen convention of a matrimonial happy ending.  As he sits, trapped, beside Susan in their wedding car, Joe Lampton finally sheds a tear, and not out of sentimental joy.  The film retains John Braine’s name for Joe’s native heath:  Dufton, which is spot on for a Yorkshire limbo.  Neil Paterson adjusts by one letter Braine’s main setting of Warley, presumably inspired by his home city of Bradford.  It becomes Warnley, to nicely admonitory effect.

    Braine’s sequel novel, Life at the Top (first published in 1962), was also adapted for the screen, in a 1965 film directed by Ted Kotcheff.  Laurence Harvey again played Joe, who now has everything he wanted – money, family, status – but is still dissatisfied.  No surprises there – or that the follow-up book and film failed to have the impact of forerunners which clearly predicted Joe’s future.  He was more successfully reincarnated, by Kenneth Haigh, as the title character of an ITV drama series, Man at the Top, which ran for a couple of seasons between 1970 and 1972.  The best proof of the enduring strength of the characters Braine created in the original novel came, however, decades later, in a two-part BBC version of Room at the Top shown in 2012.  Written by Amanda Coe and directed by Aisling Walsh, this version didn’t offer a performance in the Simone Signoret class but was nevertheless very well acted all round – with Matthew McNulty (Joe), Maxine Peake (Alice – much the best thing I’ve seen her do) and Jenna Coleman (Susan) in the main parts.  Julia Ford was also, needless to say, splendid, as Joe’s landlady – a part cut from the film.

    Over the course of more than thirty years, Jack Clayton directed only seven features (and, before those, one short, the Oscar-winning The Bespoke Overcoat (1956)).  His slim oeuvre also includes The Innocents (1961), The Pumpkin Eater (1964) and The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne (1987).  It’s a remarkable body of work, even if The Great Gatsby (1974), which looked set to be Clayton’s bonanza, proved anything but.  (I’ve not seen the two other films, Our Mother’s House (1967) and Something Wicked This Way Comes (1983).)  In Room at the Top, his first feature, Clayton, with the help of Freddie Francis’s black-and-white cinematography, brings time and place impressively to life – especially the interiors:  pub snugs; the rehearsal and performance venue used by the am-dram group, where Joe first gets to know Susan and Alice; the workplace geography of reception, desks, corridors.  (The location filming was done in Halifax, including its town hall.)  The closing shots of Joe and Susan’s bridal Rolls Royce receding into the future make the heart sink.  The sustained quality of Jack Clayton’s Room at the Top lifts the spirits.

    22 December 2021

  • Being the Ricardos

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Aaron Sorkin (2021)

    Aaron Sorkin is hard to beat writing characters that compete in delivering fast, smart, abundant dialogue – witness Mike Nichols’s Charlie Wilson’s War (2007) and, especially, David Fincher’s The Social Network (2010).  Sorkin is less persuasive when he imposes this (his preferred) verbal style on all concerned, as in Danny Boyle’s Steve Jobs (2015) or his own debut as writer-director, Molly’s Game (2017).  Being the Ricardos is peopled mostly by the movers and shakers on a classic American television comedy show – the cast, writers’ room, director and show-runner of I Love Lucy.  This is comfortable territory for Sorkin. The result is very entertaining and by some way the best of the three features he has so far directed.  But while plenty of the lines are good, the story’s structure is clumsy:  much of the time (131 minutes all told), Being the Ricardos seems to lack a centre.  It amounts to further confirmation, after last year’s The Trial of the Chicago 7, that Sorkin’s writing flair exceeds his talent for directing a picture.

    The main action is concentrated on a single working week in 1953.  At the time, I Love Lucy­ was recorded on a Friday in Hollywood and aired on CBS the following Monday evening, when it was watched by around sixty million Americans.  The sitcom’s main characters were the married couple Lucy and Ricky Ricardo, played by Lucille (Lucy) Ball and her real-life husband, Desi Arnaz.  The week on which Sorkin focuses sees Lucy (Nicole Kidman) wrestling with a triple whammy.  She’s more than ever suspicious that ladies’ man Desi (Javier Bardem) has been cheating on her.  The couple is preparing to break the news to CBS and Philip Morris (the tobacco company sponsor of I Love Lucy) that Lucy is pregnant with their second child.  And Walter Winchell, the showbiz radio personality and gossip columnist, has just announced over the airwaves that a leading redhead TV comedienne has recently been confronted with her past membership of the Communist Party.  He hasn’t named her and Imogene Coca (Sid Caesar’s partner on Your Show of Shows) also has red hair but Lucy and Desi are well aware who Winchell has in mind.

    Sorkin alters some historical facts in order to fit them into his ‘one hell of a week’ and clear the decks for the themes he means to explore.  By the time of the Winchell broadcast in September 1953, the Arnazs’ second child, Desi Jr, was already a few months old.  In the climax to Being the Ricardos, Lucy exposes Desi’s womanising, as if conclusively, although, as the closing text on screen acknowledges, the marriage actually kept going until 1960.  These adjustments are reasonable dramatic licence – they don’t amount to fundamental distortions of the truth.  More problematic is the narrative’s unwieldy shape.  As well as numerous flashbacks charting the development of Lucy and Desi’s relationship and of Lucille Ball’s screen career, Sorkin includes the recollections of a trio of key contributors to I Love Lucy – older versions of the show-runner, Jess Oppenheimer (John Rubinstein), and the two main scriptwriters, Madelyn Pugh (Linda Lavin) and Bob Carroll (Ronny Cox).  These senior citizens appear to be giving interviews, though it’s never explained exactly when or to whom.  For a while, you assume Sorkin will use them as a framing device but it then becomes clear that they frame only the 1953 part of the story, not the other scenes featuring Lucy and Desi, or her perennial frustrations in Hollywood, as a supporting player in often duff movies.  No connection is made between the older Oppenheimer, Pugh and Carroll and their working relationships of yesteryear, even though spats between Madelyn (Alia Shawkat) and Bob (Jake Lacy) are a recurring feature of the 1953 scenes.  (Tony Hale is the younger Jess Oppenheimer.)

    The spats are a recurring feature because Sorkin wants to illustrate the frustrations of a woman writer in 1950s television who believes she’s streets ahead of a male counterpart.  He also wants to show Desi with the decision-making whip hand within the Arnazs’ company, Desilu Productions; to register that an actually pregnant actress on television screens was taboo at the time; to evoke a Hollywood hag-ridden by the House Un-American Activities Committee; to show RKO’s shabby treatment of Ball a decade earlier as typical of blinkered injustice within the studio system.  Sorkin does get all these points across but superficially:  you can almost hear him ticking them off his list.  The matter of Lucy’s communist past, which looks set to be central, comes and goes according to whether Sorkin has room for it.  Being the Ricardos begins with the Walter Winchell broadcast, on a Sunday evening.  There’s an anxious atmosphere as the I Love Lucy team assembles next morning to start rehearsals for the week’s show but people keep reassuring themselves that the story has no legs.  There’s a big chunk of the film during which it goes unmentioned and you wonder if it really has gone away.  It’s back for the climax, when the story is splashed all over the front page of the (Hearst-syndicated) Los Angeles Herald-Express shortly before recording of the I Love Lucy episode begins.  The colour of the capital letters in the headline – ‘LUCILLE BALL WAS RED IN 1936’ – is striking confirmation of the newspaper’s ‘red top’ cachet.

    Being the Ricardos summarises well enough the interesting basis of the story.  After Lucille Ball’s father died, when she was three, she moved with her mother and baby brother into the New York home of her maternal grandparents.  The grandfather who helped raise her was a card-carrying communist.  In 1936, when he had a friend running on the Communist Party ticket in local elections, he insisted that Lucy, now aged twenty-one, along with her mother and brother, register as party members in order to be able to vote for the friend.  All three duly registered but Lucy claimed not to have voted and her membership lapsed two years later.  (She supported FDR, during the war years at least, but voted for Eisenhower in the presidential election of 1952.)  By the time of the Winchell broadcast, she had been interviewed privately by the FBI and appeared before HUAC in a closed-door hearing, and was cleared by both.   The film departs flagrantly, however, from what happened on the night of the show.   It’s true that Desi used his usual warm-up slot with the audience to assert his wife’s innocence of the press claims and that the audience in Desilu studios responded with loud and long applause; but Sorkin invents a telephone conversation, relayed live to the studio audience, between Desi and J Edgar Hoover, who verifies Lucy’s lily-whiteness.  Probably just as well this is an invention:  the sequence is so ineptly done you wouldn’t believe the conversation had happened even if it had (as if Hoover would keep hanging on the line until Desi Arnaz was ready for him …)  In fact, by the time the I Love Lucy cameras were ready to roll, the HUAC chairman had confirmed at a quickly arranged press conference that Lucy was in the clear.

    What saves Being the Ricardos, and makes it consistently entertaining, are the main players, especially Nicole Kidman, in one of her most likeable, as well as most accomplished, performances.  She’s particularly good at showing Lucy’s keen acting brain, intuitive understanding of what will and won’t work comedically, and perfectionist insistence.  Kidman also has an appealing, unexpected vulnerability that counters both the received image of tough, wisecracking Lucille Ball and her own usual screen presence.  There is one disappointment, though.  Kidman differentiates convincingly between the two Lucys, Ball and Ricardo, and shows comic flair in the bits of the latter that we see, but they are bits.  You can’t help wondering if Sorkin is protecting his star from the physical comedy that would challenge her more.  He makes matters worse by including, supposedly as a flashback, just a few seconds from Lucy’s deservedly famous grape-stomping routine – which actually featured in the show’s fifth series, in 1955-56.

    Kidman is well partnered and complemented by Javier Bardem whose easy charm and authority as Desi is always edged with a meaner, egotistical streak.  The main support in I Love Lucy came from William Frawley and Vivian Vance, as another married couple, the Ricardos’ landlords and friends.  Frawley was more than two decades Vance’s senior; the age gap between J K Simmons and Nina Arianda, who play them here, is nearer thirty years.  Arianda still isn’t getting the film roles her talents deserve.  She has (or at least has been made up to have) a facial resemblance to Vivian Vance but she’s otherwise physically wrong, particularly since Sorkin makes a big deal of Viv’s attempts to lose weight, and Lucy’s self-interested anxiety that they’re succeeding too well.  When she tries, through Madelyn, to get Viv to eat a hearty breakfast, Lucy manages only to raise the suspicions of Viv, who forces an admission that Lucy doesn’t want her to look good (Lucy argues that most American women are Viv-shaped and like seeing themselves on screen).  Nina Arianda’s body is trim – she doesn’t at all suggest an overweight woman struggling not to be.  In his early scenes, J K Simmons seems to overstress Bill Frawley’s cussed candour, mostly directed at Viv, but he settles down to do still vigorous but more nuanced work:  he’s very good in Bill’s bar-room heart to heart with Lucy.

    Immediately before the big finale, the various tensions involving Lucy, Viv, Bill and Madelyn are resolved in a sudden backstage outburst of corps d’esprit, accompanied by Daniel Pemberton’s supposedly heartwarming music.  This feels like Sorkin wanting something put to bed and, as he tends to do, getting what he wants unsubtly.  The J Edgar Hoover botch apart, the last scenes of Being the Ricardos work well, though.  In the green room, Lucy expresses grateful thanks to Desi for his Hoover showstopper.  She then promptly shows her husband, in a nice twist on the lipstick-stained handkerchief number, why she’s sure he’s been up to no good.  Just when he has proved to be her saviour, she proves that he’s a cheat.  Then she has to be Lucy Ricardo because the show must go on.  Shortly after arriving on the set, Lucille Ball is momentarily lost for her words (this was unprecedented and never happened again).  Is it the emotion caused by knowing her audience still loves her or that Desi has been playing away?   For once – at last – Aaron Sorkin fuses elements of his story in a dramatically satisfying way.

    16 December 2021

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