|
FOR MOCKSTERS ONLY Auntie Mame is everyone's favorite aunt as theatre, and by every measure that's what the movie is. While there's been some minor effort to expand out from the confines of Beekman Place, director Morton DaCosta stays close to its roots. Probably too close—the movie fades after each act, an obvious blessing for TV stations clocking in the commercials. Rosalind Russell, recreating her Broadway success, has never seem more rehearsed, mechanical; every line, every inflection, intonation, wave of an arm, adjustment of the hair or scribble on a pad are fixed for posterity. Yet the role, with its zany lines and libertarian import, still entertains. So it was inevitable that the star vehicle would be turned into a musical, with people like Mary Martin, Ann Southern and Lucille Ball very interested. (Roz cancelled herself out after her braying Gypsy.) But the plum called Mame went to Angela Lansbury, in a personal triumph. But Lansbury didn't get to a chance to repeat her acclaimed version because Hollywood reportedly didn't think she had the box office power, despite the persistent long lines waiting for months to see her on stage. In fact, she wasn't even asked, and, to Larry King, she was “ticked.” The movie rights were purchased by Warner Bros. for $3,000,000, yet somehow the property ended up being controlled by Lucille Ball, who was looking for a career-capping vanity splash. Gossip has it that she quietly bought the rights from Warners—the sum of $5,000,000 is often bandied about—because she was pissed off over not getting the stage version (she deceived herself into thinking she was a hot ticket on the big white way after the flop Wildcat!), and to prevent Lansbury from filming it. Just how Ball, whose television ratings never translated into boxoffice lure except for The Long, Long Trailer and that was in 1954, convinced Warner Bros. to give her $12,000,000 to fuck up Mame remains a mystery unless, as suggested on the internet and elsewhere, Ball actually financed it herself in order to get big studio distribution. (And to force Warner Bros. to pull Auntie Mame from public view to prevent embarrassing comparisons.) Her former husband Desi Arnaz, who still advised her on projects, cautioned against doing the part, but, perhaps because George Cukor had been originally tabbed as director, she was determined. During early filming, Ball took a brief ski holiday, during which she broke her right leg in several places and the movie closed down for roughly sixteen months. Upon resumption, production became ever-increasingly arduous and her behavior, always emphatic on any set, became dictatorial. She certainly ruled the roost, having had Madeline Khan fired, lashing out at her makeup artist (who used a form of glue on her face to reduce the wrinkles), refusing to allow lyrics that were recorded to be included in the actual film, and frequently usurped director Gene Saks on set. As bad as Mame is, it's a great party flick, enormous fun to mock: you and your guests will be whooping it up watching what you can't really believe you're seeing. Our Lucy—she can't sing, can't dance, won't do closeups. (In The Hollywood Musical, author Ethan Mordden quipped that she's “not clearly seen through the mass of Ponce de Leon filters.”) And Theadora van Runkle's costumes for Lucy and Beatrice Arthur are hands down some of the most god-awful to be seen on screen during the 70s. They're like Adrian gone screamingly drag queen bonkers on shoulder pads, elephantine hats, turbans, dinosaur fins and furs galore. Ball's dismally unable to comfortably luxuriate in most of them—especially that pink-lavender ensemble (with blonde hair!) worn down at Robert Preston's little farm. Arthur is luckier: she's a grotesque to begin with, so she's every bit the match for the outfits. She's also got the movie's one real laugh: when asked by Ball if she'd like to imbibe, she says, “Well, maybe just a tiny triple.” It takes a long time in coming but who's looking a gift pigout in the mouth? Lucille Ball was rarely a bad actress; what was bad for her was her obsessive control of self-image. Always aware the World Loved Lucy, she seemed to outwardly fear losing that public if she challenged herself with material it might object to. In The Facts of Life and Critic's Choice with Bob Hope, Ball had the opportunity to do some grown up themes, but silly plot devices like a leaky roof derailing an adulterous rendezvous and amateurish writing contests blocked the chance to see her (and Hope) unzip a bit. She couldn't consummate a marriage of adult language and sex situation; her Halo got in the way. Watching her turn Mame into an aging lush Lucy Ricardo, we see how and regret that she trapped herself in her own puerile web. Some time back, Bette Midler was reported to be interested in doing a remake of Mame, for TV, but after her Gypsy, no one called back. Barbra Streisand has been said to have considered doing it, if you suppose she hadn't already done a variation/audition in Funny Lady. Had she made an update earlier, with Jerry Herman writing her some new belters, she could have made up for Hollywood's grievous slight by asking Lansbury to play Vera. (Wasn't Salome Otterbourne in Death on the Nile Angela's audtion?) Imagine the missed possibilities from those two. Text COPYRIGHT © 2007 RALPH BENNER All Rights Reserved.
|