Dodsworth (1936) – Overdue Notice!!!

 

Always, always, always listen to your friends when they keep on about a film. It doesn’t mean you have to love it as much as they will, nor does it mean that you will, even. But it generally means that there’s something worthwhile somewhere in there. This is particularly so when your friend is as big a movie buff (or bigger) than you.

My pal Tim Kozlowski has been, over years I might add, gently suggesting “Dodsworth”, William Wyler’s adaptation of Sinclair Lewis’s novel about an older couple growing apart and the various forces that strain and pull at them. That encapsulation does a disservice to a remarkable film. As I hope to make clear, I owe Tim a garland of thanks for keeping at me over this gap in my filmic education. “Dodsworth” is on Amazon Prime, so go watch it. Now. This post isn’t going anywhere. It’ll be here when you get back.

Done? Good.

Regrettably, I’m not familiar with the source material, though I’m well aware of Lewis’s fine eye for socioeconomic factors and their influence on individual lives and how these informed his fiction and his satire. My guess is that the novel may veer more toward the satirical side of the spectrum, but Wyler sets his sites on the very real issues of what happens to the leisure class after years of living apart together.

Samuel Dodsworth is an automotive industrialist who sells his company that he built over the course of twenty years at the urging of his wife Fran. Dodsworth is played by the great Walter Huston (who, with all due respect to Paul Muni, was robbed; Huston turned in an Oscar-worthy – at the very least – performance) and Fran by Ruth Chatterton, some years younger. She was a child when they got married as she tells him later in the film and it isn’t too hard to see how the broad arc of the narrative is going to play out.

Fran yearns to travel and see Europe and Sam is game to reconnect with his wife, but we get a foreshadowing of things to come when David Niven’s Lockert flirts with Fran from the get-go on their passage to London. Chatterton’s Fran is a study in a lack of self-awareness. After she all but calls Lockert a cad for his moves on her, we realize that she’s out of her element (1). She can’t seem to finish what most schoolgirls start on a regular basis, as Niven’s character points out to her. When she complains to Sam about Lockert’s behavior, her husband mentions that she did more than her share of flirting and leading him on.

I want to unpack that before going on. Honestly, as much as Fran comes across as shallow and vain, she’s mostly scared, frightened of aging and being alone. Chatterton’s turn catches both the vulnerability and the arrogance of a woman who wants to carve her own path, but really doesn’t have the tools to do so. But she’s not naïve (2) and she is on the prowl and honestly, the film doesn’t judge her for that. It’s simply who she is; even Sam is willing to let her have her fling as he returns to the states a third of the way in.

Also on that voyage, Sam meets Edith (a luminous Mary Astor), an American ex-pat living in Italy, who pretty much travels when and where she pleases and is the grounded antithesis to the hyperbolic Fran. To the film’s credit, no sparks fly between Sam and Edith at this stage, but they become good buddies from the outset. Fran doesn’t think much of Edith initially, perhaps ever, but she cultivates people who are close by (the smart set) once Fran and Sam arrive in Paris. Among these are Arnold Iselin (a remarkable Paul Lukas), a debonair rake if there ever were one about whom Edith warns Fran with a simple “don’t”; Edith sees the road Fran is embarking on and things are bound to get bumpy.

In Paris, Fran tells Sam that she’s going to spend some more time, months, in Europe. She pleads with Sam that they need to take a break from each other. This is how fast the “second honeymoon” conceit turned to waste. Sam returns to Zenith, the small industrial town they’d lived in and raised a family, and Sam finds things changed a wee bit. His daughter and her husband live in the rather huge house he and Fran lived in and Sam throws a tantrum when his correspondence is delivered to him, the key to the booze isn’t on hand, and his humidor has been drafted for use as a planter.

He’s coy with his daughter about her mother staying in Europe but later in the scene in the house as everyone is heading out to leave, Sam’s son-in-law hands him a cable delivered at the son-in-law’s office from Fran. Sam wanders into an adjoining room to sit as his old friend Matey (Spring Byington, turning in another of those small roles with just the right presence…lordy, that woman was good) realizes something’s up. Sam hands Matey an earlier letter from Fran that she reads and asks what Sam thinks about Iselin and her other new friends. She does some reading between lines, pecks Sam on the cheek and heads out with her husband Tubby (the only undefined character, aside from being a kind of comic relief that the film doesn’t need, I wonder if his inclusion was more of a thirties convention than anything else; also, was Tubby portrayed the same in the novel? One assumes he was in the play written by screenwriter Sidney Howard).

Sam returns to Europe to confront Fran and Iselin but in one of the most “grown-up” triangles on screen. There’s no huge blow-up nor are ultimatums laid out. Iselin recuses himself as he finds the situation “distasteful” and Fran makes overtures toward Sam that she made a mistake and she’s willing to try again. They stay in Europe a little longer and another swain enters Fran’s orbit in the form of Kurt Von Obersdorf, a former aristocrat whose family fell on hard times after the first World War. I need to add that as he’s played by Gregory Gaye, I kept thinking of Chris Kattan’s sweeter characters on Saturday Night Live. Kurt is obviously in love with Fran, but respects and genuinely likes and admires Sam, but things aren’t going to stay that way.

We find Sam and Fran becoming grandparents while in Paris and after sending their daughter and her husband a telegram, Sam really wants to call her and share in the happiness. At the word “grandparent” you can palpably feel Fran’s blood turning to ice. Chatterton’s facial expression stops the film in its tracks better than any freeze frame could. Kurt is on his way up to their suite and Fran begs Sam not to mention the news to him. Upon Kurt’s arrival, Sam realizes that his wife isn’t ready for a reconciliation, perhaps will never be. The impressive element in Sam’s character and certainly in Huston’s performance is his ability to accept the situation. He may not like it, but he saves histrionics for small things like humidors and messy desks. When it comes to these emotional schisms, he’s – not stoic, necessarily, but certainly pragmatic.

I know that Lewis was certainly influenced by Veblen’s “Theory of the Leisure Class” and I’m pretty sure  was not unfamiliar with William James, if not John Dewey’s philosophy of Pragmatism, but there’s a genuine philosophical acceptance in Sam’s carriage and demeanor that comes to the fore. It would be easy to say that this is Lewis by way of Sidney and Wyler’s personification of a uniquely American philosophy as a character in a film, but if that were the case, this would be one leaden, lifeless flick. And it ain’t that.

Sam sizes up the situation and tells both Fran and Kurt to go on and enjoy themselves. He’s pretty good-natured about it, but forceful. Kurt, for his part, is upset; he’s really concerned about Sam and takes off with Fran somewhat reluctantly.

There’s a cut to Kurt and Fran as the sole couple dancing at a nightclub; as with a several set-ups, we’re given a good visual metaphor of where Fran’s motivations lie and how, yes, they really are the only two lovers in the world. They leave the club, return to Fran and Sam’s suite, where Kurt professes his love, and they vow to wed, after Fran divorces Sam.

After Kurt leaves, Sam and Fran tersely decide to end the marriage and the next day, Sam’s last words to Fran’s is that “Did I remember to tell you today that I adore you?” The framing of Fran growing smaller as the train pulls out is a fine touch. The film is full of ace dialog, by the way. Way too much to recount here without just turning this over to the IMDB page for quotes.

Sam toodles off on a journey around Europe on his own. The bottom of his life has fallen out, and he knows enough that travel may be the best way for him to shake off the ennui (although it seems he wasn’t quite that successful, as he tells Edith later.)

Oh, did someone mention Edith? Sure enough, Sam comes to Naples and they bump into one another in the American Express office. It’s at this point – and I didn’t think about it too much – that you kind of realize that Sam is leading the life Fran so desperately wants. He’s traveling, seeing the sights, meets a younger woman (Astor’s Edith is supposed to be older than Fran; Astor was fourteen years younger than Chatterton!), and they fall in love.

In the meantime, in Vienna, Kurt and Fran’s engagement has hit a snag. Kurt’s mother (Maria Ouspenskaya in her first screen role – and Oscar nominated) pulls the plug on it. Their Church won’t allow it and Fran can’t guarantee that she could bear Kurt a child to carry on the family legacy. However, the most wounding words were saved for last: “I am so much older than you are, my dear. You will forgive if I observe that you are older than Kurt.” Whoof. That did it.

We cut back to Edith and Sam planning a future together; he’s already thinking about building a transcontinental airline with the Soviets (!) (3) and wants her to travel with him. In the meantime, the phone has been ringing at her villa and when she discovers the call is from Vienna, she redirects Sam to go fishing and she’ll go with him, until the maid picks up one more time and calls for Dodsworth. It’s Vienna.

The transformation Huston goes through in the space of a few beats is remarkable. He goes from vital and physically buoyant to shuffling under the weight of a not-too-pleasant recent past. He tells Edith that he’ll have to go back to the states with Fran because she needs him to take care of her. Edith, rightly, asks “what about me”, and we cut to Fran prattling excessively about the petty inconveniences of the ship as they just let all “these people” on, there’s a draft, can’t they close the door, why couldn’t Sam have ordered her a drink if he’s got one and on and on. Sam sits across the table and doesn’t say much. Then he rises, hands a chit to a porter and asks that luggage from his stateroom be brought down.

Once the suitcase has arrived, he tells Fran he’s not returning with her. He’s going back to Edith and that’s where his future lies.

Fran: Are you going back to that washed-out expatriate in Naples?

Sam: Yes, and when I marry her, I'm going back to doing things.

Fran: Do you think you'll ever get me out of your blood?

Sam: Maybe not, but love has got to stop someplace short of suicide.

That’s a choice line, but it’s also the tight close-up on Fran’s face as she scream’s “He’s gone ashore! He’s gone ashore!” at a porter who mentions that the gentleman will miss the boat.

The last scene is the mid-shot of Mary Astor’s Edith smiling delightedly when she realizes that Sam in on a skiff pulling up to the villa. It’s a humdinger of an ending.

Why? You might ask. Well, in addition to the whole film skirting the sensitivity of cinematic mores ushered in by the Hayes Code, particularly regarding depictions of infidelity and challenging the sanctity of marriage and discussing divorce as a positive option, we see a woman who’s involved with a married man and that man himself both heading toward a happy ending and where neither is punished for carrying out an extramarital affair (for all intents and purposes).

There’s so much more to go on about. I wish I could drone on about the performances. Even Harlan Briggs was on point as Tubby. I may not have cared much for the character, but he did a good bit with it. The quality of much of the acting was mostly just pushing up against the conventions of the time. Granted, there were some of those odd bits of emoting unique to the thirties, but for the most part, these were close-to-the-bone performances.

Wyler’s direction came into full flower with this one (another reason why I really don’t understand why I haven’t seen it and why – again – my pal Tim deserves and award for patience and not giving full expression to exasperation) and we see the beginnings of the immense humanity in his films. “The Best Years of Our Lives”, “Roman Holiday”, even “Ben-Hur” all hold a wealth of fallible humans in their lenses. There are no “bad guys” in Wyler’s movies (no, not even in “Ben-Hur”, really); just the frailties of human error and misjudgment. You see it writ large here with a wit both wry and gentle.

Rudolph Mate’s cinematography was so perfect. Of course, he’d filmed Dreyer’s “The Passion of Joan of Arc” and “Vampyr” and worked with Hitchcock (“Foreign Correspondent”), King Vidor (“That Hamilton Woman”) and Charles Vidor (“Gilda”; some of the richest black and white this side of Gregg Toland), so it would have been hard for that to be a flub.

At the end of it, “Dodsworth” ticks off all the boxes for one of those perfect films. As a commentary on a certain class of American, on the travails of marriages that cease to be when both partners are strangers to one another, of the fear of growing old, and finally, of just living life, it’s one of those movies that will stick with you and hopefully, continue to provoke some reflection about the big questions, all told with a range of storytelling that veers from light comedy to earnest soap (and that’s not a slam!).

Notes

1.       When I wrote that, all I could hear was John Goodman as Walter from “The Big Lebowski”: “You’re out your element, Fran!”…doesn’t has the same ring. Lockert’s words to Fran on her flirtation is far more eloquent than I could deliver: “If I might offer you one small word of advice, give up starting things you're not prepared to finish. It's quite evident they only lead you out of your depth.”

 

2.       I want to be clearer about this. She’s not, but she’s not as worldly as she thinks she is. Yes, she’s lacking in honest self-assessment, and she’s not particularly reflective or deep by any stretch, but as Chatterton plays Fran, she really does want to live on the one hand and on the other, is very genuinely afraid of growing old and alone. This dialog between Sam and Matey sums that up:

 

Sam: I cabled her to come and she doesn't say one word about me going over.

Matey: She's thoughtless.

Sam: No she's not, Matey. She's scared.

Matey: Fran's scared? What of?

Sam: Of growing old.

Matey: That's very smart of you, Sam. (I heard a note of sarcasm in Spring Byington’s delivery there.)

 

3.       Well, it was the 30s. The U.S. and the U.S.S.R. would be allies, after all.