FRANKLY, MY DEAR - "Gone With The Wind" Revisited & NYT 1939 CRITICISM

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From New Line Cinema,
via Associated Press

In pursuit of the perfect waist:
Vivien Leigh and Hattie McDaniel as Scarlett and Mammy, in
“Gone With the Wind.”

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                                                     What the Wind Blew In
 




             
ARMOND WHITE
Published: February 26, 2009
The New York Times

“Gone With the Wind,” the quintessential Hollywood movie, has long deserved to be rescued from critical disdain and given its correct place among American pop masterpieces, like “The Godfather” and “On the Waterfront” and “E.T.,” that enlighten as much as they entertain. Molly Haskell provides that defense in “Frankly, My Dear: ‘Gone With the Wind’ Revisited,” an earnest work of moviegoer remembrance that’s also affectionate scholarship. Haskell’s argument is mounted on feminist principles that at first glance seem antithetical to a film widely regarded as prefeminist fluff. She contends that “themes centering on women” are “always an inferior subject matter to socially conscious critics of literature and film.” After 70 years of “GWTW” bashing, a creditable critic finally says, “Not so fast!”



FRANKLY, MY DEAR

“Gone With the Wind” Revisited

By Molly Haskell

Illustrated. 244 pp. Yale University Press. $24




Related
The Times's Original Review of the Movie 'Gone With the Wind' (December 20, 1939)

Since Haskell introduced one of the earliest versions of feminist-conscious film criticism in “From Reverence to ****: The Treatment of Women in the Movies” (1974), feminist criticism hasn’t been very evident in the mainstream media. Haskell gave up regular reviewing in the early ’90s, leaving criticism that seriously examined the big-screen image of women and the popular representation of female social roles to go underground — into academic studies where abstruse, tenure-seeking jargon is used to rebuff popular taste. That makes “Frankly, My Dear” all the more remarkable. It’s Haskell’s feminist perspective that provides insight into a movie most academics won’t touch and current critics dismiss. She disentangles the film’s qualities from the confounding issues of misogy­ny, racism and intellectual snobbery.

Confronting the legendary headstrong heroine Scarlett O’Hara, Haskell explores the power she exerts on the romantic and political imagination — first as a creation in Margaret Mitchell’s best-selling 1936 novel, then as a screen personification by the British actress Vivien Leigh in a Hollywood adaptation produced by the independent mogul David O. Selznick. From these multiple sources Haskell anato­mizes the iconographic Scarlett as a product of proto-feminist literature, a performer’s neuroses and the outsize ambitions of Holly­wood’s first golden age.

Almost like an apology beforehand, Haskell’s biographical sketches and psychological speculations set up an unlikely framework for critical interpretation. Admitting obstacles to her appreciation, she goes back to the battle lines that the initial wave of feminist pop criticism drew between political correctness and Hollywood art: “The feminist angle, and the movie’s profoundly mixed message, came home to me in 1972, when I took part in a panel — one of the first — on the roles of women in film. Gloria Steinem, editor of the newly launched Ms. magazine, brought up ‘Gone With the Wind,’ deploring the spectacle of Scarlett being squeezed into her corset to a 17-inch waist, that perfect illustration of female bondage, Southern style. I sprang to defend her as a fierce, courageous heroine, going her own way, a survivor and so on.” Giving candid testimony to the friction between doctrinaire feminism and emotionally complex movie watching defines Haskell’s critical perception. Several ­lapses — facile connections to Madonna, Barack Obama, Sarah Palin, even Judd Apa­tow — are just mild hazards of criticism as engaged, topical journalism. Mostly, her confessions and investigations revive the new journalism’s practice of personal revelation and private response.

Rejecting accusations of frivolous escapism, Haskell sees the intricate ways that “Gone With the Wind” (the book-and-film phenomenon) derived from the legacy of Southern aristocracy and changed it through the post-suffrage image of female independence. She says her own enthrallment began with teenage reading in Richmond, Va.: “Scarlett embodies the secret masculinization of the outwardly feminine, the uninhibited will to act of every tomboy adolescent, here justified by the rule-bending crisis of war.” Haskell inter­twines her own history with Mitchell’s Georgia background, Leigh’s British origins and Selznick’s Jewish American determination. This personalized approach moves from superficial appreciation of the book and movie’s romanticism to a richer scrutiny of the film as “the example par excellence of this studio-confected world . . . the portrait of a never-never land whose harmony and grace depended on the smoothing out of much that was ugly and uncomfortable.”

Haskell consults the standard reactions to the manner in which the film ignores the turpitude of slavery while sustaining the honor of the Confederacy. Briefly citing Leslie Fiedler — who, in “The Inadvertent Epic,” made a pioneering connection among “Gone With the Wind” and “The Birth of a Nation” and “Roots” — isn’t enough, and her empathic analysis of Hattie McDaniel’s self-conscious role-playing as Mammy could be argued in more detail. But Haskell, a Southerner come north, is well suited to explain the South’s complex racial ambivalence, at one point mentioning how Mitchell “studiously tried to capture black patterns of speech.” It doesn’t excuse the flaws of “Gone With the Wind,” but before Haskell came along, lofty distaste and anger sufficed instead of clarity.

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She is most comfortable examining the male-female sexual dynamics. Leigh’s Scarlett and Clark Gable’s Rhett Butler (who provides a climax to their tumultuous saga by uttering the memorable exit line “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn”) have become archetypes of American heterosexual romance — its allure and its collapse. Haskell dissects their images, provocatively hinting at the film’s true basis in screwball comedy. She also contemplates hidden notions of gender identity, Southern mores, Civil War history and early-20th-century sexual fantasy.

“Frankly, My Dear” praises “Gone With the Wind” for illuminating still-conflicting romantic ideas. This comes at a time when film culture has fragmented into fan-boy/chick-flick dichotomies and populist-­versus-elitist criticism. Haskell’s endeavor, different from high-art appreciation yet not far from it, brings together audience taste and intellectual specification. Since adolescence, her admiration for the film has developed into “a more grown-up affection informed by a film lover’s appreciation of the small miracle by which a mere ‘woman’s film’ with a heroine who never quite outgrows adolescence was transfigured into something much larger, something profoundly American, a canvas that contains, if not Walt Whitman’s multitudes, at least multiple perspectives.”

Haskell’s sense of the “small miracle” is important. It comes from her career-long commitment to movies as a popular art form. Strangely enough, that’s still a crucial fight. She notes that “Scarlett and Rhett may not be on the same level as such towering archetypes of American literature as Captain Ahab, Daisy Miller, Isabel Archer, Huck Finn and Hester Prynne or even such cinematic monuments as Charles Foster Kane and John Wayne’s Ethan Edwards in ‘The Searchers,’ but they occupy a more personal, familial place in the fantasies of their admirers.” Arguing for the status withheld by the critical establishment, she en­dorses “Gone With the Wind” as “a historical romance that transcended the genre with the immediacy of its mix of sex and feminism.” Yet that quotation refers to the book rather than the movie. Haskell’s literary defense sometimes neglects the film’s pop-art immediacy.

Observing that “emotional appeal and secret fantasy run roughshod over ideol­ogy,” Haskell offers her most effective vindication of the film when she describes how Leigh “invested Scarlett with something beyond beauty, something altogether uncanny — a demonic energy, a feverishness that would later tip over into illness and pathology.” But more important than this cynical hindsight is Haskell’s recognition of Leigh’s Scarlett as an exemplary, indefatigable American movie heroine. While placing the film among the biggest blockbusters of all time, along with “Star Wars,” “The Sound of Music,” “E.T.” and “Titanic,” Haskell curiously misses its link to the box-office champ “The Godfather,” which Paul Zimmerman of Newsweek shrewdly praised in 1972 as “the ‘Gone With the Wind’ of gangster movies.” Haskell could clinch her argument with a comparison between the two films’ protagonists.

Clearly Scarlett’s determination shares psychological roots with the Corleone demonstration of American ruthlessness. Haskell’s description of “a strange double standard whereby the ‘likable family’ — the Sopranos or the Corleones — is forgiven the most appalling behavior” begs that appropriate feminist sympathy be applied to Scarlett, who wheels and deals to defend her family and save Tara. Haskell writes that Scarlett “stands apart from herself, a masquerade of the feminine, as the mirror returns a gaze that is both her own and implicitly that of the man for whom the presentation is intended.” This assessment of the female identity that once was Hollywood’s specialty pinpoints the greatness of “Gone With the Wind” as convincingly as Ellen Willis’s memorable 1973 feminist defense of the film, “ ‘War!’ Said Scarlett. ‘Don’t You Men Think About Anything ­Important?’ ”

Haskell credits the film’s uniqueness not just to the phalanx of directors who worked on it but to Selznick’s supervision as the producer: “If not on the level of the great women’s directors and producers like Josef von Sternberg, Max Ophüls and Ingmar Bergman, he shared with them a richly ambidextrous mix of desire and identification.” And she admirably combines her own romanticism and critical principles in her appraisal of the controversial moment when Rhett forces himself on Scarlett: “Contexts change, perceptions shift, it’s one of the things that makes movies such a dynamic medium. . . . Women’s so-called **** fantasy, as I wrote in an article for Ms., did not have to be the expression of a masochistic desire for violence, some fearful encounter with an anonymous assailant in a back alley, but rather could be a carefully orchestrated drama of losing control under specific conditions and in well-chosen hands. In other words, it’s when Robert Redford (or Clark Gable) won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” Feminist criticism has never been more daring.

In Haskell’s thoughtful revisionism, Scarlett comes to embody personal and national contradictions. The chapter “E Pluribus Unum” shows how the “dualisms” of her creators were gathered into a credibly whole personality. Focusing on Scarlett’s turbulent, childlike ways, Haskell illustrates the traits of beauty, self-regard and “the uninhibited will to act” that have made “Gone With the Wind” one of the least dated classic Hollywood movies. These attributes will always be disputed, but Haskell’s critical sensitivity rescues Scarlett’s Americanism and femininity, indicating how her image redounds upon our eternal political struggles and deepest fantasies. Haskell clarifies the long shadow that Scarlett O’Hara casts over the American movie imagination.

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                                                               Gone With the Wind


                                                                        (1939)






NYT Critics' Pick


This movie has been designated a Critic's Pick by the film reviewers of The Times.
December 20, 1939

THE SCREEN IN REVIEW;
David Selznick's 'Gone With the Wind' Has Its Long-Awaited Premiere at Astor and Capitol, Recalling Civil War and Plantation Days of South--Seen as Treating Book With Great Fidelity



By FRANK S. NUGENT
Published:
December 20, 1939

Understatement has its uses too, so this morning's report on the event of last night will begin with the casual notation that it was a great show. It ran, and will continue to run, for about 3 hours and 45 minutes, which still is a few days and hours less than its reading time and is a period the spine may protest sooner than the eye or ear. It is pure narrative, as the novel was, rather than great drama, as the novel was not. By that we would imply you will leave it, not with the feeling you have undergone a profound emotional experience, but with the warm and grateful remembrance of an interesting story beautifully told. Is it the greatest motion picture ever made? Probably not, although it is the greatest motion mural we have seen and the most ambitious film-making venture in Hollywood's spectacular history.

It—as you must be aware—is "Gone With the Wind," the gargantuan Selznick edition of the Margaret Mitchell novel which swept the country like Charlie McCarthy, the "Music Goes 'Round" and similar inexplicable phenomena; which created the national emergency over the selection of a Scarlett O'Hara and which, ultimately, led to the $4,000,000 production that faced the New York public on two Times Square fronts last night, the Astor and the Capitol. It is the picture for which Mr. Gallup's American Institute of Public Opinion has reported a palpitantly waiting audience of 56,500,000 persons, a few of whom may find encouragement in our opinion that they won't be disappointed in Vivien Leigh's Scarlett, Clark Gable's Rhett Butler or, for that matter, in Mr. Selznick's Miss Mitchell.

For, by any and all standards, Mr. Selznick's film is a handsome, scrupulous and unstinting version of the 1,037-page novel, matching it almost scene for scene with a literalness that not even Shakespeare or Dickens were accorded in Hollywood, casting it so brilliantly one would have to know the history of the production not to suspect that Miss Mitchell had written her story just to provide a vehicle for the stars already assembled under Mr. Selznick's hospitable roof. To have treated so long a book with such astonishing fidelity required courage—the courage of a producer's convictions and of his pocketbook, and yet, so great a hold has Miss Mitchell on her public, it might have taken more courage still to have changed a line or scene of it.

But if Selznick has made a virtue of necessity, it does not follow, of necessity, that his transcription be expertly made as well. And yet, on the whole, it has been. Through stunning design, costume and peopling, his film has skillfully and absorbingly recreated Miss Mitchell's mural of the South in that bitter decade when secession, civil war and reconstruction ripped wide the graceful fabric of the plantation age and confronted the men and women who had adorned it with the stern alternative of meeting the new era or dying with the old. It was a large panel she painted, with sections devoted to plantation life, to the siege and the burning of Atlanta, to carpetbaggers and the Ku Klux Klan and, of course, to the Scarlett O'Hara about whom all this changing world was spinning and to whom nothing was important except as it affected her.

Some parts of this extended account have suffered a little in their screen telling, just as others have profited by it. Mr. Selznick's picture-postcard Tara and Twelve Oaks, with a few-score actors posturing on the premises, is scarcely our notion of doing complete justice to an age that had "a glamour to it, a perfection, a symmetry like Grecian art." The siege of Atlanta was splendid and the fire that followed magnificently pyrotechnic, but we do not endorse the super-imposed melodramatics of the crates of explosives scorching in the fugitives' path; and we felt cheated, so ungrateful are we, when the battles outside Atlanta were dismissed in a subtitle and Sherman's march to the sea was summed up in a montage shot. We grin understandingly over Mr. Selznick's romantic omission of Scarlett's first two "birthings," and we regret more comic capital was not made of Rhett's scampish trick on the Old Guard of Atlanta when the army men were rounding up the Klansmen.

But if there are faults, they do not extend to the cast. Miss Leigh's Scarlett has vindicated the absurd talent quest that indirectly turned her up. She is so perfectly designed for the part by art and nature that any other actress in the role would be inconceivable. Technicolor finds her beautiful, but Sidney Howard, who wrote the script, and Victor Fleming, who directed it, have found in her something more: the very embodiment of the selfish, hoydenish, slant-eyed miss who tackled life with both claws and a creamy complexion, asked no odds of any one or anything—least of all her conscience—and faced at last a defeat which, by her very unconquer-ability, neither she nor we can recognize as final.

Miss Leigh's Scarlett is the pivot of the picture, as she was of the novel, and it is a column of strength in a film that is part history, part spectacle and all biography. Yet there are performances around her fully as valid, for all their lesser prominence. Olivia de Havilland's Melanie is a gracious, dignified, tender gem of characterization. Mr. Gable's Rhett Butler (although there is the fine flavor of the smokehouse in a scene or two) is almost as perfect as the grandstand quarterbacks thought he would be. Leslie Howard's Ashley Wilkes is anything but a pallid characterization of a pallid character. Best of all, perhaps, next to Miss Leigh, is Hattie McDaniel's Mammy, who must be personally absolved of responsibility for that most "unfittin'" scene in which she scolds Scarlett from an upstairs window. She played even that one right, however wrong it was.





We haven't time or space for the others, beyond to wave an approving hand at



Butterfly McQueen as Prissy,

Thomas Mitchell as Gerald,

Ona Munson as Belle Watling,

Alicia Rhett as India Wilkes,

Rand Brooks as Charles Hamilton,

Harry Davenport as Doctor Meade,

Carroll Nye as Frank Kennedy.




And not so approvingly at

Laura Hope Crews's Aunt Pitty,

Oscar Polk's Pork (bad casting) and Eddie Anderson's Uncle Peter (oversight).



Had we space we'd talk about the tragic scene at the Atlanta terminal, where the wounded are lying, about the dramatic use to which Mr. Fleming has placed his Technicolor—although we still feel that color is hard on the eyes for so long a picture—and about pictures of this length in general. Anyway, "it" has arrived at last, and we cannot get over the shock of not being disappointed; we had almost been looking forward to that.

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GONE WITH THE WIND, as adapted by the late Sidney Howard from Margaret Mitchell's novel; directed by Victor Fleming, musical score by Max Steiner; production designer, William Cameron Menzies; special effects by Jack Cosgrove; fire scenes staged by Lee Zavitz; costumes designed by Walter Plunkett; photography by Ernest Haller, supervised for Technicolor Company by Natalie Kalmus; technical advisers, Susan Myrick and Will Price; historian, Wilbur G. Kurtz; produced by David O. Selznick and released by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. At the Capitol and Astor Theatres.



Scarlett O'Hara . . . . . Vivien Leigh
Rhett Butler . . . . . Clark Gable
Ashley Wilkes . . . . . Leslie Howard
Melanie Hamilton . . . . . Olivia de Havilland
Mammy . . . . . Hattie McDaniel
Gerald O'Hara . . . . . Thomas Mitchell
Ellen O'Hara . . . . . Barbara O'Neil
Frank Kennedy . . . . . Caroll Nye
Aunt Pittypat Hamilton . . . . . Laura Hope Crews
Doctor Meade . . . . . Harry Davenport
Charles Hamilton . . . . . Rand Brooks
Belle Watling . . . . . Ona Munson
Carreen O'Hara . . . . . Ann Rutherford
Brent Tarleton . . . . . George Reeves
Stuart Tarleton . . . . . Fred Crane
Pork . . . . . Oscar Polk
Prissy . . . . . Butterfly McQueen
Suellen O'Hara . . . . . Evelyn Keyes
Mrs. Merriwether . . . . . Jane Darwell
Mrs. Meade . . . . . Leona Roberts
Big Sam . . . . . Everett Brown
Uncle Peter . . . . . Eddie Anderson
Tom a Yankee Captain . . . . . Ward Bond
Bonnie Blue Butler . . . . . Cammie King
Johnny Gallegher . . . . . J. M. Kerrigan
Emmy Slattery . . . . . Isabel Jewell
India Wilkes . . . . . Alicia Rhett
Jonas Wilkerson . . . . . Victor Jory
John Wilkes . . . . . Howard Hickman
Maybelle Merriwether . . . . . Mary Anderson
A Yankee Looter . . . . . Paul Hurst
Cathleen Calvert . . . . . Marcella Martin
Beau Wilkes . . . . . Mickey Kuhn
Bonnie's Nurse . . . . . Lillian Kemble Cooper
Reminiscent Soldier . . . . . Cliff Edwards
Elijah . . . . . Zack Williams



http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/01/books/review/White-t.html?_r=1