Charles Laughton and more...
(George Cukor, 1957)
Vivacious as the haughty, statuesque “Sybil” in Cukor’s European folly, Kendall displayed a formidable emotional range in Les Girls. All long legs and red heels in the “Les Girls” opening musical sequence, she’s footloose and fancy free one second, steely and commanding the next. Kendall is brilliantly adept at bridging these types of polar opposites with her uncanny sense of comedic timing and an awareness of what her body can convey on screen. Because Kendall came from a stock of show folk—her grandmother was a star of musicals and comedies and her father was a vaudevillian—her hilarious line deliveries and natural knack for physical comedy should come as no great surprise. Yet with every precisely tossed bon mot or sway of her hips she manages to surprise. Her interpretation of voi de ville came filtered through an upper crust, refined London lens, each movement measured out with economy, with poise.
In this sense, Kendall’s singular brand of performance, which bridges an array of styles and eras in this courtroom farce, makes her a thoroughly modern, even ground-breaking actress in retrospect (best evidenced in the flirty, cotton candy sweet “Ladies in Waiting” number). Kendall updates this traditional style of performance subtly, adding tightly-controlled movement and character details with riveting effortlessness, essentially playing three versions of the same character, the viewer gets a chance to see Kendall really strut her stuff as “Angele”‘s (Taina Elg) testimony presents “Sybil” in an entirely different light as a drunken good time gal, with a penchant for tipsy pratfalls and hiding liquor in the perfume bottles with mischievous zest. In these scenes, Kendall pulls out all the stops, singing off-key opera, raucous crying jags, and stalking about like a jungle cat.
“Angele”‘s testimony, intended to discredit, actually makes “Sybil” an even more fascinating and multifaceted character. This gives Kendall the opportunity to sing, dance, play a lush, and to really use her body as an acting tool to tell the story properly. Les Girls is a showcase for Kendall’s strengths as a true comedienne with perfect timing, her eyes dart about like the rhythm section of a Bebop jazz band, in perfect, frenzied time. She was such a sensation in Les Girls, that Kendall was recognized in Hollywood with a Golden Globe as Best Actress in a Musical or Comedy for her work. Matt Mazur
Eva La Galienne
(Daniel Petrie, 1980)
The member of Resurrection‘s incredible troupe of actors who most personifies the concept of “pure love” that runs through the film is legendary stage actress, playwright, director, and novelist Eva La Galienne. As Grandma Pearl, a salt of the earth type of woman who is sturdy, big-hearted, “Le G” (as she was know to her friends) keeps it simple, but wise. As her name might signify, she is famous for doling out sensible words of advice to her treasured family. Edna has always been her favorite, they have a bond that transcends this life, that goes back centuries, and that will endure forever after they leave this earth. It is Grandma Pearl that puts Edna at ease, gives her a shelter, a calm, following the devastating storm of her losses, after which she was returned to a place full of painful memories. A devout, plain-spoken, good Christian woman, it is fitting that it is Grandma Pearl who not only first recognizes Edna’s gifts, but also instructs her that they are simultaneously a great responsibility and a gift from God himself.
“Of course, she was a great actress, and a great woman, and that was her only film. I’m very glad to have been helpful in bringing her to the screen; otherwise, we wouldn’t have known who Eva La Galienne was, other than what we read about her. The scene where I say goodbye to her and she says it is the last time she’ll ever see me, and I say ‘will you save me a place on the other side?’ She says, ‘I’ll save it for you…’ Just before that I say something about love and she says ‘if we could just love each other, the way we say we love Him, I expect there wouldn’t all the bother in the world.’ Every time she said it, I burst into tears. She did something magical when she said the word love; I don’t know how she did it. It was like she dropped her voice into her heart. The word love came straight out of her heart. If the director [Daniel Petrie] would have said ‘you absolutely can’t cry in this scene,’ I wouldn’t have known how to do it because I couldn’t help myself. She was so great, she was a magnificent woman!” Matt Mazur
This Land Is Mine
(Jean Renoir, 1943)
This Land Is Mine
From grotesque to refined, sinister to befuddled, the filmography of Charles Laughton covers a gamut of performances with an dexterity enviable to any character actor. His enduringly pasty and delicate, prepubescent face registers equal parts the innocent and the mischievous, allowing him to slip between virtuous and villainous roles. The allegiance to a moral or immoral certitude that characterizes many Laughton performances, however, is less defined in Jean Renoir’s 1943 contribution to wartime propaganda, This Land is Mine.
In the unnamed European country of the film, provincial townsfolk decide to collaborate, endure or subvert the occupying German forces. Though the term Nazi is not used and few swastikas are shown, and nothing appears in French language or with even a trace of that familiar accent, it is clear that France is the occupied nation (how could it not be with Jean Renoir at the helm?). The geographic ambiguity of This Land is Mine nicely transfers its message from overseas to stateside and the casting of an untraditional leading man (albeit one without an American accent) conveys the transformation of the central, unremarkable character with grounded, perceptible emphasis.
The cowardice of meek schoolteacher and mother’s boy Albert Loy (Laughton) slowly evaporates as his unrequited love, fellow teacher Louise Martin (Maureen O’Hara), is pulled into the underground Resistance. He is not only weak but wishy-washy and bland, prone to hesitancy and driven to hysterics during air raids. When Laughton allows the Loy to recede into the background, however, he interprets the character’s timidity as anxiety rather than fear. Albert Loy is gutless, of course, but the depiction is humanistic in form. Though it is Renoir who balances the amplified, flag-waving melodrama with the right amount of detachment, it is Laughton who ultimately fills the screen with compassion. In its final third, when the drama gives way to courtroom oratory, he beautifully adapts the noncommittal temperament of Loy at the beginning of the film into a restrained call for the protection of freedoms. As Laughton delivers a nationalistic recitation, his brilliance in This Land is Mine is clear: he can sell heroism even as he exudes almost fragile imperfection. Doug Johnson
// Moving Pixels
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