Katherine Hepburn in Venice

Summertime, an early Hitchcock, and a beloved revisionist western

With baseball quickly approaching (for who knows how long), time for a pandemic installment of Classic Movies Everyone’s Seen But Me!

Summertime (1955)

David Lean works small (for him) in terms of both running time and vistas. He does a wonderful job with Venice, making the city practically a character in its own right – and as someone who knows Venice well and loves it, I only caught Lean cheating on the geography a couple of times.

The real star isn’t the setting but Katherine Hepburn. Hepburn plays Jane Hudson, a middle-aged secretary from Akron, Ohio, who claims to have given up on romance. She hasn’t, of course, but it appears as if romance has given up on her – Jane is a third wheel for the movie’s other couples and feels left out of even men on the make’s appraisals, spending the early part of the movie bonding with a street kid and the widow who runs her pensione. I’d write that it’s the kind of part that wasn’t written for actresses in the 1950s, but it’s the kind of part that isn’t written for actresses today. Hepburn inhabits the character beautifully, letting you see Jane’s hesitation and heartbreak in piercing scenes that sometimes rely entirely on body language, and Lean gives her the space to work, even when it’s an uncomfortable experience. A near-flawless performance.

The love story feels a little slight at first, but the ambiguity about what you should feel is intriguing. (Apparently this was even more the case in The Time of the Cuckoo, the play upon which Summertime was based.) Extra points for the Code-evading shot that tells us two characters have consummated their relationship. It’s only slightly subtler than the famous conclusion of North by Northwest.

Here Comes Mr. Jordan (1941)

Claude Rains has a marvelous time as the title character, an unruffled bureaucrat in charge of the afterlife who has to fix the case of a boxer taken up to Heaven a bit too soon. (The film was remade in the 70s with Warren Beatty and called Heaven Can Wait, the name used in its first incarnation as a play.) Rains is terrific, but the rest of the movie is pretty forgettable: Robert Montgomery is genial but not particularly memorable as prizefighter Joe Pendleton, and the plot logic breaks down completely in the endgame.

The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938)

Another Rains vehicle, in he stars as the evil Prince John, scheming brother of Richard the Lionhearted and foe of Robin Hood, played (of course) by Errol Flynn. Rains somehow retains his dignity despite a horrific wig and some astonishing costumes – there’s one black and silver getup whose shoes have to be seen to be believed.

But all the characters are wearing ridiculous things all the time, shown off via the movie’s thoroughly saturated palette. There are men-at-arms in purple and pink motley, the merry men’s green tights, Flynn’s honest-to-goodness bedazzled emerald top, a lady-in-waiting’s Fancy Shriner fez, and we haven’t even discussed the get-ups Olivia de Havilland sports. The costume designer whizzes past All Too Much before the first reel’s over and just keeps going. And the dialogue keeps up with the costumes. Robin Hood may be the campiest movie I’ve ever seen – it makes The Birdcage look like Shoah.

Flynn is capable with a sword and performs his stunts with swashes properly buckling, but man oh man could he not act. He has two basic expressions: fighting and making merry, and looks a little lost when the story requires him to investigate whether a situation requires choosing between the two.

Fortunately that doesn’t happen too often, and you’ll have fun anyway. This is the template for about a billion adventure stories made since then, and it’s entertaining even when you’re not elbowing the other person on the couch to point out what was waiting in Claude Rains’s dressing room this time. Think of it as a live-action cartoon and enjoy the ride.

Love in the Afternoon (1957)

Audrey Hepburn is the innocent, cello-playing daughter of a Paris private investigator (Maurice Chevalier) who interferes with her father’s work by preventing an American playboy (Gary Cooper) from getting shot by a jealous husband, then pretends to outdo the playboy at his own no-consequences game.

The story is light and amusing, with Chevalier ably serving as the fulcrum who helps it turn into something poignant and more interesting at the end. (The voiceover as coda, by the way, was added for Code reasons.) And Billy Wilder (co-writing and directing) guides the ship with a light, skilled hand – the scenes between Cooper’s Frank Flanagan and his hired band are particularly fun.

There’s a fatal flaw, though: While Hepburn has never been more luminous, Cooper is too old to be the leading man. Wilder knew this, using soft focus and dim lighting in an effort to be kind that just calls attention to the movie’s fatal flaw. Moreover, Flanagan’s neither particularly interesting nor pleasant, so you never believe Hepburn’s Ariane would actually be interested in him. (He’s rich, granted, but she doesn’t seem to care about that.)

Directors kept doing this to Audrey Hepburn in the 1950s: Three years earlier, Wilder stuck her with a half-rotted Humphrey Bogart in Sabrina; in 1957 she also had to put up with a mummified Fred Astaire in Funny Face. Beyond the fact that it’s creepy, it doesn’t work for those stories.

I’m going to look on the bright side: Hepburn deserves even more adulation than she gets, since she rises above her AARP romantic leads to carry all three pictures.

The 39 Steps (1935)

A clever early Hitchcock I found intriguing because you can see the visible language of film evolving before your eyes. Some scenes look utterly modern, with intriguing camera angles and blocking, but they’re right next to oddly static compositions, or scenes filled with cuts that cross the line for no apparent reason. But there’s also a justifiably famous transition shot from a cleaning woman’s horrified discovery to a train whistle, a tricky perspective change from inside a car, and some other nice surprises.

The movie is a prototype Hitchcock thriller, with a plot that carries you along provided you don’t ask too many questions. (Or any questions, really.) But the movie hits its stride surprisingly late, coming into focus once Robert Donat’s Richard Hannay winds up manacled to Madeleine Carroll’s Pamela. Hang around that long and you’ll be well entertained.

McCabe & Mrs. Miller (1971)

This one made my list because it was an inspiration for Solo, a Star Wars spinoff movie I think deserved a better reception and suspect will be viewed more fondly in time. Yep, that’s Warren Beatty’s fur coat that Alden Ehrenreich wears, and the bar Beatty visits in the town of Presbyterian Church is a dead ringer for the one where Han and Lando Calrissian meet over cards.

So that was fun. As for the rest, after my usual post-movie reading, I get what Robert Altman was going for. This is an anti-Western that relentlessly inverts the genre’s tropes, with the climactic gunfight happening not in the center of town before all eyes, but scarcely noticed as the townspeople rush to put out a fire.

But I found that more interesting to read about than to watch. I was never invested in Beatty’s McCabe or Julie Christie’s Mrs. Miller, finding them less memorable than a young visitor who runs afoul of trouble (Keith Carradine) or the lead bounty hunter sent after McCabe (Hugh Millais, exuding genial menace).

Still, the movie has a powerful sense of place, I keep finding myself thinking about it, and lots of people whose opinions I respect consider it a classic. So perhaps I’ll revisit this one someday. But for now, my conclusion is that I’m missing whatever gene you need to appreciate chilly, airless Hollywood art-house movies of the 1970s – a movement, ironically, that screeched to a halt when Jaws and Star Wars introduced the era of the summer blockbuster.