“Explosive sexuality” in Golden Age cinema, apropos of My Favorite Wife and Irene Dunne |
I agree with what Mango said once — what did he say exactly? (I’ve forgotten, because we deleted it) — about Cary Grant, in a class with (his choices) Audrey Hepburn and Marlon Brando, being one of the most “explosively sexual” icons of the __________ (yes, I forget). In any case, I think it is often those one leasts expects who deserve such a designation: Grant is an actor who seems so staid yet surprises with his wild comic ability; in the same way, he seems singularly asexual (though is undeniably gorgeous) yet surprises with his raw, often unexpected, sensuality.
Add Irene Dunne to that short list of unexpectedly sensual — if not fully “explosively sexual” — Old Hollywood stars. She’s one I’ve loved casually for years, having been exposed to her work through her collaborations with Grant, as I expect is true of most people. It’s almost legendary, and certainly tragic, that most of her films are unknown and lost due to a series of random misfortunes (they have been remade more popularly; she was contracted with a production company not licensed now to TCM &c). I don’t think Irene Dunne is a foreign name to film types but she is certainly not given the credit she is due. She is an enormously charming actor with great range: she has a facility for melodrama, screwball, and she’s an accomplished soprano. Add to that — and I hope it’s not only that I’m on the verge of a new “fixation” with her — I would classify her as unusually, franky, undeniably sexy.
Irene Dunne has something perhaps no other leading lady of her day had. Her modern equivalent might be Holly Hunter, crossed with someone rather more gentrified. Her best roles, thoroughly though she could disappear into them, were saturated with the most musical qualities of her Kentuckian drawl: yehs and mahs are her pronouns of choice; her sighs and laughter have a drawn-out, throaty quality to them. Equally Kentuckian is her now languid, now spry and agile energy. She bats her eyelashes. She withdraws coyly. She extends every part of her body expressively. In short, she is an actor so in possession of her self, her gifts and her sensuality that, like Grant and Hepburn (no one forgets Brando is sexy), she makes it so natural, so organic, that one could easily overlook her appeal in the same moment one begins to fall under its spell.
So imagine (as they are my favorites apart) what joy it is to behold Grant and Dunne together. As much as I idolize Kate Hepburn, and always place in my top 30 three of her collaborations with Grant, I have always maintained that Dunne may have been his perfect partner. They have an easy, flirtatious, sassy chemistry; they so fully play off each other’s assets and find room for both to shine in every moment. There are times when Kate overshadows Cary: she always had top billing, yes, and he always played the straight man. But Irene and Cary: ah, they were equals, magnificent equals.
This was intended to be a very short entry, a mere description of a 30-second scene in My Favorite Wife! How I do get carried away. Well, there is this scene in MFW (such a lazy retread of The Awful Truth, but its stars make it special in its own right) when Cary and Irene, separated by wacky circumstance, pause for an intimate moment at the foot of a staircase, separated only by a banister useful for swaying and leaning on flirtatiously. I cannot effectively describe to you how erotically charged this moment is, the first moment in a long while the two characters have had alone together, and the last one they will have for a while yet: it is the classic stolen moment. In that moment, they stop playing roles for the benefit of onlookers and become for the first time in the film truly the people they each fell in love with. Witty barbs are traded, but there is real tenderness between them. They are interrupted, but their eyes are only for each other. That eroticism here is colored by a maternal/paternal side in each they have only just discovered (due to wacky circumstance), an unusual and compelling thing. Their passion is of a sort real people feel. It is playful, comfortable, and yet hurt, unresolved; it promises, in a way only Old Hollywood can and can never make good on (which really satisfies more than the now-obligatory sex-act consummation scene), real desire. But wacky circumstances again intervene. They are divided. Cary begins to climb the stairs; Irene’s martyred pain is evident; he swoops back into the frame to steal a kiss. “Ahhhhhhhh…” the slight satisfaction, the momentary relief. It’s partly the standard romantic melodrama premise I know by heart and buy into so easily (willingly); it’s partly the sheer talent of Grant and Dunne to carry this somewhat lame film effortlessly; and it is, undeniably, the sheer explosive sexuality of both that charge the moment, fulfill the viewer’s complicit longing, and leave all begging for more.
No Comments »
No comments yet. RSS feed for comments on this post. TrackBack URILeave a comment
Line and paragraph breaks automatic, e-mail address never displayed, HTML allowed:<a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>
