Another weekend, another brilliant entry in TIFF’s ongoing Dorothy Arzner retrospective. The director went freelance after leaving Paramount during the early 1930s, picking up work at RKO and Goldwyn before entering into a short-term association with MGM. If you’re guessing that Arzner would work well with the leonine studio’s #1 working girl star, you’ve been paying attention! This one makes extraordinary use of Joan Crawford’s 1930s persona, developed in films like Possessed (1931), Grand Hotel, and Sadie McKee.
It’s based on an unproduced Molnar play (The Bride From Trieste) with strong plot similarities to The Good Fairy, adapted a couple of years earlier by William Wyler (with a proto-auteurist script by Preston Sturges). We even have Reginald Owen’s goofy Admiral in the cast as a link. In Arzner’s hands, the playwright’s jolly topsy-turvy class-skeptical fable-making offers the perfect pretext for her protagonist’s existential will-to-efflorescence. From the start, we have a crucial difference in the set-up. Margaret Sullivan and Joan Crawford’s respective characters might come from the same downtrodden class, but while The Good Fairy’s orphaned innocent can stumble virtuously along the plucky path to love and fortune, Bride’s Triestine dive diva has another massively gendered strike against her. She’s damaged goods, in the patriarchal parlance of the times.
George Zucco’s high-handed Count Armalia, who seems so thoughtful and “democratic” at first, sees that right off – and conceives his scheme accordingly. The film makes it quite clear that this is all a ploy by one blue-blooded bro to get another aristo’s goat (Robert Young). Zucco’s final telegram is so thoughtlessly cruel that one can’t help reading it as evidence of Arzner’s scathing contempt for this entire genre. If you’re going to make lighthearted pronouncements about the unfairness and fundamental arbitrariness of the class system and then do absolutely nothing about the problem, you’re even more contemptible than those (like Young and his hotel-dwelling set) who cling to the fantasia of caste and “breeding”.
Franchot Tone’s Alpine Emersonian adds another interesting wrinkle. Although aligned with the Tyrolian “peasantry”, he has a pleasant, necessary, and minimally-taxing government job, leading the life of a deep-thinking Jeffersonian yeoman by other (Ruritanian) means. Neither exploiter, nor exploited, he is self-reliance on a hilltop.
Confronted with all of this, Crawford’s aspirational drives bifurcate and metastasize. Does she wish to crash society? Or hitch her donkey-cart to the stars? Does she even have to choose? As with our previous Arzners, these indeterminate desires take on lives of their own. And, fortunately, the director finds a way to bring a crucial female interlocutor into the mix. Stage star Mary Philips, as Maria, brings real brilliance to her class-straddling suite-cleaning scenes. She functions as Crawford’s cheerleader, conscience, and co-conspirator all in one. The one thing she isn’t a confidante, in the traditional sense. Her interest is purely in Crawford herself (and the quick-change permutations of her soul), not in her feelings qua feelings for Young and/or Tone.
And what of the eponymous red dress? One year before Bette Davis learned that “you can’t wear red to the ‘Lympus Ball”, Crawford learned quite the reverse lesson. You can wear anything you want, anywhere. So long as you’re committed to the outfit. And if you’re not, you can’t even bear looking at it in the mirror.
(There’s a lot more interesting material about gender, melodrama, and suicide in this film, but I’ll try to bring that into my reflection on Christopher Strong in a couple of weeks).