In "Dodsworth," the title auto magnate embarks on a European tour with his wife, who takes up with a series of penniless but titled men. To modern ears, the plot sounds a tad soapy, but in 1936, social-climbing American divorcées were the destroyers of dynasties, not dowagers out of Danielle Steele, so this Sinclair Lewis novel gets a very tasteful, respectful film treatment with an A-list cast (Walter Huston, Ruth Chatterton, Mary Astor) and director (William Wyler, master of middlebrow, middle-class drama -- see "The Best Years of Our Lives"). The results are uneven, thanks to an awesome performance by Huston and an awful one by Chatterton, but generally entertaining, thanks to genuine suspense about the survival of the Dodsworth's marriage.
Craggy Hollywood legend Huston plays craggy American archetype Sam Dodsworth, a man of humble origins who claws his way to the top through brains and industriousness. After he sells his automobile company to a huge competitor(quite realistic for the time --young audience members will be shocked to learn that there were once more than three car companies in America), his American archetype wife, the vaguely ditzy and dissatisfied Fran (Chatterton), convinces him to enjoy his new leisure by sailing for Europe since she's never been happy in her home town of Zenith (had she read more Lewis novels, she'd realize no one is, not even George Babbitt). Innocents (or idiots) abroad is another shopworn American theme, and here, Europe doesn't get an especially sympathetic treatment since the whole continent is portrayed as swarming with well-dressed smoothies looking for any chance to sponge off of rich, gullible American women. Ruth throws herself at tux after tux, one of which encases a young David Niven (who bears a striking resemblance to a middle-aged David Niven and an old David Niven), until Walter finally has enough and succumbs to the charms of lovely Edith Cortright (Astor), a sad-eyed, charming American divorcée living in Naples. Astor is good, she's very good, as lovely Edith, and I wonder if more traditionalist audiences in the 1930s were rooting for the end of the Dodsworth marriage (as I was) or the reconciliation of Sam and Fran. Wyler and the screenwriters try to build some sympathy for dear Mrs. Dodsworth by subjecting her to a humiliating dressing-down by a slow-talking European countess (the wonderfully named Madame Maria Ouspenskaya) whose son Fran aspires to marry. But since the character of Fran is so shrill and annoying, thanks in part to the script and thanks in part to Ruth Chatterton's inability to convey any real feeling (the character makes about three transitions in every scene, none of which ol' Ruth bothers to register), you kind of wish that the good Madame will pull a pearl-handled revolver from the folds of her gown and put Ruth and the audience out of their collective misery.
Once you ignore Ruthie, though, "Dodsworth" is a pretty good time. Between the epic score and the epic scenery, it's a fantastically lush production, and there's some clever filmmaking going on between the economical dialogue (entire relationships are established in three lines) and smart cinematography (every time you see a character standing in a doorway, something major is about to happen). And Huston excels as the kind of homespun hero that Spencer Tracy or Jimmy Stewart were too young to play in 1936, and to his great credit, he doesn't shy from Sam D's darker side -- the scene in which he returns, cuckolded, to Zenith and starts yelling at everyone in his house is fantastically uncomfortable. Angelica inherited her talent from him and her looks, blessedly, from somewhere else.
Craggy Hollywood legend Huston plays craggy American archetype Sam Dodsworth, a man of humble origins who claws his way to the top through brains and industriousness. After he sells his automobile company to a huge competitor(quite realistic for the time --young audience members will be shocked to learn that there were once more than three car companies in America), his American archetype wife, the vaguely ditzy and dissatisfied Fran (Chatterton), convinces him to enjoy his new leisure by sailing for Europe since she's never been happy in her home town of Zenith (had she read more Lewis novels, she'd realize no one is, not even George Babbitt). Innocents (or idiots) abroad is another shopworn American theme, and here, Europe doesn't get an especially sympathetic treatment since the whole continent is portrayed as swarming with well-dressed smoothies looking for any chance to sponge off of rich, gullible American women. Ruth throws herself at tux after tux, one of which encases a young David Niven (who bears a striking resemblance to a middle-aged David Niven and an old David Niven), until Walter finally has enough and succumbs to the charms of lovely Edith Cortright (Astor), a sad-eyed, charming American divorcée living in Naples. Astor is good, she's very good, as lovely Edith, and I wonder if more traditionalist audiences in the 1930s were rooting for the end of the Dodsworth marriage (as I was) or the reconciliation of Sam and Fran. Wyler and the screenwriters try to build some sympathy for dear Mrs. Dodsworth by subjecting her to a humiliating dressing-down by a slow-talking European countess (the wonderfully named Madame Maria Ouspenskaya) whose son Fran aspires to marry. But since the character of Fran is so shrill and annoying, thanks in part to the script and thanks in part to Ruth Chatterton's inability to convey any real feeling (the character makes about three transitions in every scene, none of which ol' Ruth bothers to register), you kind of wish that the good Madame will pull a pearl-handled revolver from the folds of her gown and put Ruth and the audience out of their collective misery.
Once you ignore Ruthie, though, "Dodsworth" is a pretty good time. Between the epic score and the epic scenery, it's a fantastically lush production, and there's some clever filmmaking going on between the economical dialogue (entire relationships are established in three lines) and smart cinematography (every time you see a character standing in a doorway, something major is about to happen). And Huston excels as the kind of homespun hero that Spencer Tracy or Jimmy Stewart were too young to play in 1936, and to his great credit, he doesn't shy from Sam D's darker side -- the scene in which he returns, cuckolded, to Zenith and starts yelling at everyone in his house is fantastically uncomfortable. Angelica inherited her talent from him and her looks, blessedly, from somewhere else.