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GO ON, KILL
YOURSELF! Lillian Hellman’s The Children’s Hour, thought by lover Dash Hammett to be one of the finest dramas ever written in America, is rigged so no one wins in the game of ruinous gossip, even though Shirley MacLaine’s Martha comes to realize in the end the “lie” spread by the bedeviled little bitch has some truth in it. If filmed today, MacLaine’s character would be appreciative to the tantrummy brat for providing a delayed self-discovery, thus eliminating the self-punishment. This is why the time capsule, which isn’t great but has a structure of melodrama built like a brick shithouse, is immoral; it says, no matter the sympathy and retribution offered to compensate for the “lie” and the ruinous consequences, it’s still best to go ahead and kill yourself even if you only have suspicions about your own tendencies. Hellman can’t disguise the arbitrary judgment, no matter what her defense. Remember when Mary McCarthy said everything Hellman wrote was a lie? We feel the heaviness of the sweeping allegation here. For years it was generally believed, without factual support yet with broad literati acquiescence, Hellman was writing about the rumors of her friendship with a woman she’d later call Julia, but it’s likely she based the sensational story on an incident occurring in Edinborough, Scotland in 1810. (Those school teachers won their court case against the lying pupil; Hellman’s lucky misfortune was to expire before her highly publicized law suit against McCarthy’s charge went to the jury, as evidence was mounting through the press she couldn’t document her strident claims of fact, later to be confirmed by her lawyer who admitted she confessed to him much of her biographical writings were false.) Wyler directs with a pitched seriousness demolishing MacLaine: slumpy, a ringer for a bloated Stella Stevens, so pitifully unattractive with flattened hair and nervousy on-edge we’re sensing something creepy about her right from the start; there’s barely an ounce of likability registered. (Shirley told Robert Osborne on TCM there were extended scenes of her combing out Audrey’s hair, etc, cut by Wyler out of his growing fear of audience reaction; given the repellency of both her character and performance, belated thanks for sparing us.) If strong in defending against the charges of active lesbianism, she’s unable to redeem the self-outing moment because it’s deep in Hellman’s irreconcilable aims, the confusion of self-awareness clashing with oppressive social guilt, and Wyler’s anxieties. The grace of Audrey Hepburn’s dignity is the movie’s major asset. James Garner does reasonably well, and Miriam Hopkins seems to envision the future Dody Goodman. Fay Bainter in her last movie is equally prescient—doing Barbara Bush. The worst performance, and amongst the worst in any Wyler picture, is Karen Balkin as the super liar; a fearless film editor might have spared us some of those ridiculous bulging eyes and facial expressions suggesting a miniature Audrey Christie. With all the weighted dramatics, it’s a relief when we start laughing at her and cheer when Garner smacks her on the ass. Vito Russo covers the actions and reactions of Wyler’s reticence in The Celluloid Closet.
Text COPYRIGHT © 2005 RALPH BENNER All Rights Reserved. |
