I Put My Whole Self Into Everything I Do: A Face In The Crowd (1957)

The work of Elia Kazan will forever be clouded by his unfortunate relationship with the naming of names what marred American entertainment and politics during and after Joseph McCarthy.  As such, when Kazan received an lifetime achievement award from The Academy, it was met with a degree of hostility and certainly seen as a betrayal to the idea of liberty and freedom.  In doing so, one is led to question what it means to separate an artist from their work, or in turn, attach their name to any action. Indeed, it is not quite as troubling as what occurs regarding the virulent political attacks that Lee has become known for in the past few years and is certainly a far cry from the troubling attachments to the work of Polanski or Allen.  I could never hope to speak to the layer of ethical issues at play in such divisions, but what I can assert is that distancing or rejection should be related to the degree of problematic action.  For Kazan his betrayal of other entertainers was troubling in so much as it was tied to fears of blacklisting and political threats, to act in accordance with these was deemed a moment of backstabbing, but frankly it is situational and while few did take a stand the anxieties of communist invasions were so manifest that any disavowing was met with animosity.  In contrast an issue of direct violation of another human beings liberty is far more troubling and worthy of chastizing, again a discussion for another location and certainly not the intent of this blog at large.  I do provide this bit of a diatribe, because I find the continual exclusion of Kazan from the obtuse cannon for these political reasons f somewhat frustrating as in comparison to say D.W. Griffith and his rather blatant offenses, particularly since Kazan, I would argue is his film making equal.  Having already seen and adored On The Waterfront and begrudgingly accepted A Streetcar Named Desire as a masterpiece, I understand the controversial director's ability to capture the common man and place him in a space of cinematic distress rivaled only by Italian Neorealism to be exceptional.  What makes A Face in the Crowd all the more brilliant is that it takes this initial depiction of the man who is down and out on his luck and pushes it to the impossible by making the tale one of political aspiration, social expectation and cultural madness that is somehow deeply satirical, but also subtly disparaging.  It is in a work like A Face in the Crowd that one can see flickers of inspiration for Altman, while also finding a heavy does of Shakespearian hubris at play.  It is a film with a direct and realized intention and succeeds in its execution magnificently.

A Face in the Crowd begins rather inconspicuously in a jail cell where Marcia Jeffries (Patricia Neal) a journalist and entertainer has taken her show A Face in the Crowd into said jail to find one of the many voices of America.  While the persons present in the space of the jail are mostly dismissive, the warden promises one of the men in the space a chance at an early freedom if he provides Marcia with a song.  The man in question Larry Rhodes (Andy Griffith) agrees, albeit begrudgingly, and proceeds to belt out a fiery tune about what he believes to be an ill-fated promise on the art of the warden.  After doing so, Marcia immediately realizes his potential, dubbing him Lonesome Rhodes and allowing him to speak more about his opinions, ones that immediately call attention to acts of oppression.  Lonesome's particular swagger and sense of justice take off like wildfire and before he has even spent moments out of jail, he is offered a show on the local radio station, wherein he takes to task politicians and important figures alike, always and at once making advances towards Marcia, while also sleeping with women as he sees fit.  When even this surge of success proves small, Lonesome is offered a show in Memphis complete with sponsorships and while he is initially flippant about the methods of television, the rough and tumble singer takes to the airwaves with equal fervor and every man ideologues. Through sheer magnitude and occasional drunkenness, Lonesome is able to exploit the act of television advertising by not playing the game per se, but by calling attention to its fabrication, specifically the selling of useless goods.  Indeed, it is Lonesome's selling of a placebo pill called Vitajex that gets him the most acclaim, despite being fully aware that it is nothing more than sugar and caffeine coated in yellow coloring.  With this act, Lonesome is capable of swaying opinion in a grand way or advancing a cause that is flailing, all the while ignoring his relationship with Marcia in favor of younger women and drink.  This prideful approach to life pushes Lonesome to the heights of Madison Avenue, yet when one drunken, on air diatribe is unknowingly captured the bottom falls out for the provocateur and before losing out to his deals completely he attempts to envision his own future presidency, if only created as a result of the very entertainment-based fabrication that made his career in the first place.

The person on spectacle is frankly one of the major themes of my blog nowadays, I am fascinated by how the body is offered up cinematically and the way in which a particular performer can add or detract from the success of said spectacle.  I know it was discussed for its celebratory manner in the previous post on John Woo's Once A Thief, but here it is almost knowingly ironic.  Kazan, no stranger, to the way in which the male body can be constantly powerful in the cinematic presence, manages to still subvert the layers of desire, much as he does with the slightly feminized Brando in both Streetcar and Waterfront.  Frankly, there is nothing feminine about Lonesome and Andy Griffith provides no moment where such an interpretation could be gleaned.  Griffith pulls from a fire somewhere deep in his belly and bellows through his lines, even the ones of despair and angst.  To place a version of masculinity such as this on display required both Kazan and Griffith to understand that it is not only fake, but in a constantly expanding form of performance.  When one initially encounters the film, one might wonder how Griffith could ever hope to top that initial song of freedom as it is hardly contained within the confines of the jail, and by extension the frame of the shot.  As Lonesome's popularity expands so do his opportunities to perform, either by using radio waves to call attention to the absurdity of domestic unpaid labor, while also enjoying the products of said labor, or to allow a space for working class kids to play at the expense of a wealthy radio tycoon, it is constantly growing and always threatening to explode.  Take for example either Lonesome's initial television encounter or the absolutely thrilling Vitajex commercial, both have to move to multiple spaces to capture the exuberance of Lonesome, though multiple screens both diegetic and non to push his message, whereas the Vitajex commercial exists in a temporal and spatial impossibility that is matched only in the decadence of Busby Berkeley show numbers.  Griffith's performance pushes the limits of filmic representation and Kazan constantly opens new doors for the growth to swelter, making the call to attention at the end all the more noted, as it relies on fabrication to succeed in the illusion, or rather disillusion.  So what starts as a loving and endearing depiction of the down and out person growing to stardom shows that even this is met with pride-ridden downfall.  To be allowed a voice in the space of entertainment is notedly powerful, but it is also one that must be always aware of its performance elements, even at its most ironic.

Key Scene:  The Vitajex sequence really is quite amazing, I am quite earnest when I compare it to 30's era Busby Berkeley work.

A Face in the Crowd is one of the many gems that is laying in wait at the expansive Warner collection that is in a DVD-Bluray limbo.  I cannot express enough how necessary it is to view this film.  While, On The Waterfront will likely always be Kazan's most well-regarded work, A Face in the Crowd is quite possibly his true masterpiece.

I've Always Depended On The Kindess Of Strangers: A Streetcar Named Desire (1951)

Elia Kazan is perhaps one of a handful of well-established auteur oriented directors who fails to receive the credit and praise due his way, I mean the guy did make On The Waterfront, a film I plan to revisit when the Criterion bluray drops next week, although amidst all the work and other films I have on my docket it may be awhile before I actually get around to doing just that.  Regardless, A Streetcar Named Desire was one of the many "shame list" films I felt terrible for having never seen, partially because of my own admiration for Kazan, detached entirely from his problematic relationship with the House Un-American Activities Committee.  It certainly does not help that it is one of the most quoted films based off of one of America's most well-known plays.  This set of standards, undoubtedly, clouded my expectations for the film and I will admit that for a better part of the first act I was uncertain that I was really prepared to embrace its presence.  Yet, as the film unfolded and I became invested in the chiaroscuro world of Louisiana depicted within the, Kazan's masterful use of the subtle melodrama and yet another brilliant performance by Brando, I was in love with the film by its closing scene.  Of course,  somewhere in the back of my mind I was completely aware of the plot and nature of A Streetcar Named Desire, but that did not manage to make this cinema classic any less enigmatic.  This film, much like Kazan's Waterfront, or even his slightly problematic Pinky, manage to exist within a sphere that somewhat represents reality yet so continually betrays it as to be something of a metaphor, one that suggests entrapment, disillusion and everything that has become jaded as a result of the loss of the American Dream, which is rather surprising considering that the film, not to mention the play existed well before realizations of the true abyss that would be the fifties unfolded.  No character within A Streetcar Named Desire could be remotely described as possessing redeeming qualities, yet they are depicted in such a stark and honest manner that it is near impossible not to pity them to some degree.  Essentially in create a film that discredits everything a viewer assumes to be America, Kazan manages to somehow make one of the most American films ever imagined.  Also, I will admit my ignorance, in that I thought "desire" was a metaphor, and while it still may be the case, it is also very much the name of the streetcar as well...who knew.

A Streetcar Named Desire begins with the arrival of one of literatures most iconic women Blanche Dubois (Vivien Leigh) a mysterious and sultry woman who has travelled from Mississippi to meet up with her sister Stella (Kim Hunter) who she believes to be living the grand life in New Orleans, a illusion that is immediately shattered when she finds her living within a dilapidated house along with her husband Stanley Kowalski (Marlon Brando), never mind the fact that the couple is expecting a baby.  Nonetheless, Blanche clings to the illusion of her sister's traditional nature and assumes the best, even falsely believing Stanley to be a stand-up guy despite his constant drinking and generally negative behavior towards Stella.  In fact, it is not so much the crumbling relationship between two sisters that becomes central but instead the burgeoning resentment between Stanley who believes Blanche to be dishonest about her past, particularly regarding the means by which she obtains her various luxuries, particularly her strings of pearls and a dress that appears to be made of gold, as Stanley so eloquently puts it.  Blanche is no kinder to Stanley claiming that he is an ignorant brute and finds her notions affirmed when during one drunkenly impassioned argument Stanley actually lays hands on Stella.  Despite Blanche's concerns, Stella returns to Stanley and things pan out with a degree of discomforting normalcy, yet when Blanche begins spending large amounts of time with Mitch (Karl Madden) a friend of Stanley's, he begins to dig deeper into the dark past of Stella's sister.  It is revealed that Stella certainly has her own dark past she is running from, one that may entail a considerable amount of less than "ladylike" behavior, leading to the penultimate confrontation in the film where Stanley and Blanche argue about values and appearances leading to Stanley violently attacking Blanche and perhaps raping her in the process, although on the following day when Stanley has a disheveled and distraught Blanche committed to an insane asylum, he swears innocence.  Regardless, the actions of the night prior prove to be the last straw for Stella who finally leaves Stanley in the film's closing scenes.

The film is somewhat overshadowed by an implied rape which is not to be taken lightly, but it must be considered that if this were solely a film about an individual losing out to the aggressions of an angry, virulent male it would not have such a well established and seminal place in both American theater and film.  I would argue that the film manages to remain a cinematic standard, which is often placed high on the list of American cinema, as well as global cinema, results from its often direct, if not always indirect,  study of a woman learning to discover her own self-identity detached from patriarchal oppression and internalized notions of her own ugliness in regards to false and vain notions of beauty.  Stella is the real point of interest within at least the film, I have not read the play entirely through so cannot speak to it with any authority.  She is always and at once suffering from a variety of indefinable women's issues that have come to demarcate feminist politics and rhetoric since the films original debut.  Firstly, she suffers in a clearly abusive relationship, but cannot escape her situation due to the economic binds of lacking self-suficiency as well as a place with which to escape to, only causing her being relegated to a small space within an already cramped domestic space all the more tragic.  Similarly she suffers from the misdirected assumptions of an idealized femininity tied to Blanche who believes in the idea of a proper woman, one that is able to accrue status and respect through wealthy gifts and gentleman callers, although as the narrative makes quite clear even Blanche is incapable of navigating these waters in the ideal manner.  Finally, Stella finds herself oppressed by the societal expectations of motherhood, and despite being in an awful marriage and lacking economic grounding, norms suggest that she carries a baby to term, as in the early fifties the notion of an abortion were simply not acknowledged.  All of these oppressions combined make Stella's final departure that much more powerful, leaving the clearly staged setting of her home to enter the equally intersectional streets of New Orleans preferring the freedom of uncertainly to the assurance of discomfort.

Key Scene:  The tension that builds and then unleashes revolving around the card game was the point at which I understood the lasting effect of this film and is certainly a highlight in a film full of classic moments.

Buy this film, honestly, you have no rational reason not to.