James Stewart

  • Born to Dance (1936)

    Born to Dance (1936)

    (On Cable TV, March 2020) Eleanor Powell is always worth watching, but James Stewart singing in a song-and-dance musical? Now that’s definitely worth a watch. No, as Born to Dance shows, he’s not good at it: there’s a reason why, in a long career, Stewart didn’t do many musical comedies. But to see him try to hold a note while Powell tap-dances up a storm around him is something well worth experiencing. The plot is an old staple of movie musicals: sailors on leave getting up to all sorts of romantic and comic hijinks. Still, it works well as a receptacle in which to place the musical numbers. Perhaps the most impressive of those is the finale, in which Powell tap-dances on a stage meant to look like a battleship: the kind of lavish, expansive musical numbers that defined the 1930s movie musical. Since Powell didn’t star in that many movies in a ten-year career, this performance (like many of her other ones) is a gem—and adding a young premier like Steward merely sweetens the pot. The rest of Born to Dance? Watchable, amusing, not necessarily memorable but quite entertaining in its own way. Powell, though: unforgettable.

  • The Glenn Miller Story (1954)

    The Glenn Miller Story (1954)

    (On TV, March 2020) The good news when a Classic Hollywood studio hires James Stewart to play a historical figure in a biography is that, hey, you’re getting James Stewart and his likable quirks. But the double-edge sword is that you’re also getting James Stewart, far more than the character he’s supposed to play. That problem certainly affects The Glenn Miller Story—we’re seeing Stewart’s tics and affable mannerism more than the band leader who had an outside influence on American pop music prior to WW2. (Miller would die in a plane crash during the war, as he was hopping from one place to another to entertain the troops.) Not that Stewart is most major deviation from reality here—true to form for biopics of the era (perhaps any era), The Glenn Miller Story makes substantial changes to the real events in order to make a movie. Plus, Stewart gets more credible after the first few minutes, once he puts on the glasses and we get used to the role. Considering this, you have to appreciate what’s on screen—numerous cameos by real musicians, a nice 1950s Technicolor glossy sheen (albeit with showy colour effects with an obvious colour gel wheel), and screenwriting that clearly understands the nature of the assignment: The film is easy to watch and enjoyable in how it uses a big budget to deliver the goods to the viewers. (Not that it’s always perfect—it features some of the worst snow I can recall in a movie.) It all ends abruptly, especially considering Miller’s fate. Sure, you can nitpick and poke fun at the thorough Hollywoodization of Glenn Miller’s life into a very typical 1950s biopic. But as far as those go? There’s much worse than The Glenn Miller Story.

  • Winchester ’73 (1950)

    Winchester ’73 (1950)

    (On TV, January 2020) There’s something interesting in that the film credited with jump-starting James Stewart’s run of 1950s Westerns is one that thematically delves into one of the central symbols of the western: the gun. Titled for the gun, revolving around the gun, propelled by the gun, almost entirely focused on the gun, Winchester ’73 both plays on the attraction of the gun and comments on how crazy it is that such an object could lead to murderous passion. This tension serves the film well, especially since it also applies to the redefinition of James Stewart into a rougher, more disillusioned persona—perhaps reflecting the lasting echoes of a war that left no one innocent, perhaps simply acknowledging one of the phase transitions that actors with long careers must face. This ended up being the first of eight collaborations between director Anthony Mann and James Stewart, many of them westerns that started asking questions about the mythology of the west. The film may star Stewart, but the plot favours the gun—the protagonist wins it in a shooting contest early on, then spends the rest of the film trying to get it back from a thief and everyone else who wants the gun for themselves. It’s rich thematic material even if the film doesn’t quite have the sophistication (or the guts) to fully explore what it means. Still, what Winchester ’73 does for its time is quite remarkable. There’s a near-mystical quality given to the titular gun and to all guns in general, even the Native American characters lusting after them as much as the white characters. All of this is accomplished with a big budget and good production values, meaning that the film remains interesting even if you’re not interested in digging into its meaning. Stewart is also remarkable, taking on a darker role with relish. Opinions are split as to whether this or later movies are the best of the Mann/Stewart era, but even as a first effort Winchester ’73 is worth a look.

  • Vivacious Lady (1938)

    Vivacious Lady (1938)

    (On Cable TV, January 2020) In retrospective, there was a different James Stewart for every decade. While he never abandoned the likability that made him one of Hollywood’s biggest stars, Stewart played to different strengths every decade. His best 1930s persona was that of the young romantic lead, a bit naïve, pursuing women more sophisticated than his character and over his head most of the time until came a conclusion that made good use of his good nature. In this light, Vivacious Lady is an almost prototypical Steward feature for the 1930s—not the best, but one of Stewart’s earliest starring roles and one that’s just as representative of what he was doing then as anything else. Here he plays a shy intellectual who falls in love with a Manhattan nightclub singer (Ginger Rogers) and marries her after a whirlwind romance. If that setup seems implausible, keep in mind that it’s a mere prelude for the real plot of the film—returning home to his parents, his job, and small-town prejudices. Forced in increasingly contrived situations (such as introducing her as his newest student), Vivacious Lady deftly plays with comic situations and character types, setting up situations to make us anticipate the result, then subverting them slightly for a surprise. Stewart is quite good in the leading role, but Ginger Rogers is just as good opposite him—she gets a few of the film’s biggest laughs, and she shares a slapping/counter-slapping sequence with Frances Mercer that quickly escalates into one of the film’s best scenes. The third act is a bit weaker than the rest, as it finally has to pull all of the subplots together. Still, Vivacious Lady is a pretty good screwball comedy, and it happens to star two of the best-remembered stars of the 1930s. Rumours have it that Rogers and Stewart had an affair while shooting the movie, and some of that energy is clearly perceptible on-screen.

  • The Flight of the Phoenix (1965)

    The Flight of the Phoenix (1965)

    (On TV, November 2019) I really like engineering fiction, and The Flight of the Phoenix is clearly a landmark of the genre. The setup is a classic, as a plane goes down in the desert and the survivors must rebuild a second plane out of the wreckage of the first to fly back to civilization. The sequences in which the crashed plane is taken apart and rebuilt in a different are delicious, and even having seen the 2004 remake doesn’t quite take away the fun of the original.   But if you take a closer look, little of the plot’s middle section has to do with engineering, though: humans are their own worst enemies, and the film’s second act eventually becomes a lot of bickering between those who think the plan will work and those who don’t. Happily, the last act tightens around the effort to rebuild the plane, and the results of those efforts. While a bit too early to be considered a disaster movie, The Flight of the Phoenix’s director Robert Aldrich does anticipate one thing: the use of an ensemble cast in portraying responses to a life-threatening event. Here, the cast is better than most in having James Stewart (as a pilot, naturally) but also notables such as Richard Attenborough, Ernest Borgnine, Dan Duryea and George Kennedy. The desert cinematography will make you thirsty, but the reconstruction of the second plane is credibly portrayed. The film wasn’t without difficulties, though: ace aviator (and legendary stuntman pioneer) Paul Mantz died while filming, ironically because he was replacing his flying partner in shooting the scene. The result, however, is a film that pays good tribute to those aviation pioneers and daredevils of flying—and a captivating thriller to boot.

  • Strategic Air Command (1955)

    Strategic Air Command (1955)

    (On TV, November 2019) While it features a serviceable story about a baseball player who finds meaning in aerial service, you can argue that the real job of Strategic Air Command was in acting as of Cold War Propaganda about one of the newest and most crucial wings of the American military in the decade following World War II—its fleet of bombers making up a substantial portion of the nuclear deterrent force. James Stewart stars, as no one else would: Stewart famously served in the US Air Force during and after WW2, eventually attaining the rank of brigadier general in the Air Force Reserves by the end of the 1950s—becoming not only the highest-ranking actor in Hollywood history, but also a pilot on the B-52 bomber. He was, as the film’s production history attests, a driving force in its production—clearly influencing its tone as a propaganda piece and starring as the affable, amiable protagonist who sees a service tour becomes a career. For military aviation buffs, Strategic Air Command is a great document about the transition of the US bomber wings from propeller to jet-powered planes: the colour cinematography captures many period details, and the script is meant to be reasonably exact about the procedures and units it follows. It’s not a difficult film to watch: several amusing or suspenseful incidents help populate the story in between footage of planes in action. There’s an ineluctable sexism at play in the story (what with the dependent wife supporting her husband in his new career and ever-changing assignments) which is to be taken as a further illustration of the values in play at the time. Still, it’s hard to resist Stewart and the opportunity to see vintage footage of shiny old planes. Director Anthony Mann was clearly slumming here—the film has none of the interest of the westerns he also did with Stewart. But you can file this one as a favour for his friend Stewart—at least he keeps the film interesting to watch throughout, even if the material can be thin at times. There is a straight and bold connecting line between Strategic Air Command and Top Gun.

  • Made for Each Other (1939)

    Made for Each Other (1939)

    (On TV, November 2019) I’ll watch James Stewart in just about everything he’s done, and the first few minutes of Made for Each Other certainly give us a good example of what was Stewart’s first memorable screen person—that of a romantic lead, eager and competent and sweet and likable at once. As he comes back from a trip to Boston with a new bride, his issues multiply at home and at work. His mom doesn’t like his new wife, his boss doesn’t like that he married someone other than his daughter and with a new baby and a Depression-era pay cut soon following, the romance, initially so charming, ends up turning sour. But if you thought there were two movies here, rest assured that there’s yet another one as the third act: a highly melodramatic conclusion which their baby can only be saved through a daredevil flight to deliver crucial medicine. Everything turns out to be OK, but the final result feels like three different movies crashing into each other: a quirky sweet romance that turns into domestic drama that turns into faintly ludicrous melodrama. Stewart remains good throughout—and having Carole Lombard as the female lead doesn’t hurt either. But Made for Each Other ends up feeling lesser than its parts, not quite managing the tonal shifts that the narrative’s swerves require. It’s still worth a look for the actors and the period atmosphere, but it’s not what it could have been. At least we have another movie showcasing Stewart as a dashing young man.

  • The Spirit of St. Louis (1957)

    The Spirit of St. Louis (1957)

    (On Cable TV, February 2019) Considering Hollywood’s enduring love affair for American heroes (even if we have to scrub a bit of their non-heroics along the way), it was inevitable that sooner or later, Charles Lindbergh would be brought to the forefront with The Spirit of St. Louis. And while James Stewart was far too old at 49 to play Lindbergh (who was 25 at the time of the film’s event), you have to take into account Stewart’s obvious enthusiasm and technical qualifications to play the role of an experienced flyer—as a draftee and then a reserve officer, he flew bombers from WW2 to the Vietnam War. The script focuses tightly on Lindbergh’s trip and not so much on the less heroic aspects of his later life, but as co-written by Billy Wilder The Spirit of St. Louis becomes a fascinating aeronautical procedural as Lindbergh works to develop the plane that will carry him from one side of the Atlantic to the other, and then wait patiently for a good weather opportunity even as others are also racing to make the trip. Director Howard Hawks is in his element here as he describes the relationship between Lindbergh and his plane during the gruelling transatlantic flight. Even the film’s length and overused voiceovers help us feel the isolation and experimental nature of the solo trip. The predictable shout-outs to divine power become annoying, but the film’s clever structure keeps things more interesting than a strictly chronological approach would have done. Perhaps the most fascinating aspect of the film is how it manages to create suspense out of a story that everyone knows, with a foreordained conclusion. The Spirit of St. Louis is certainly not a perfect film, but it does create something very entertaining out of three legendary creators (Wilder, Hawks, Stewart) and a landmark historical event.

  • The Philadelphia Story (1940)

    The Philadelphia Story (1940)

    (On DVD, June 2018) The great things about digging deeper and deeper in a hobby is that the digging eventually produces its own rewards. In my case, I’ve been watching older and older movies, and discovering new favourite actors. To have The Philadelphia Story pop up on my pile of films to watch at this point is a gift: A movie starring Katharine Hepburn and James Stewart and Cary Grant? What have I done to get such a treat? Even better: it’s a screwball comedy, fast establishing itself as one of my favourite bygone genres. I was primed for a good time and got exactly what I wanted: A fast, witty, fun romantic comedy featuring Hepburn at her most alluring, Stewart as his usual sympathetic self and Grant in a plum comic role. The script provides witty lines, great characters and a savvy understanding of the mechanics of the genre, while director George Cukor keeps things moving even as the film multiplies small subplots on the way to a satisfying conclusion. Among supporting players, Ruth Hussey is surprisingly fun as a no-nonsense photographer, while Virginia Weidler is a discovery as a sassy young sister. Still, this is a picture that belongs to Hepburn, perfectly cast as a woman struggling with goddess-hood. Both Stewart and Grant also play to their strengths, helping to make The Philadelphia Story a definitive statement about three screen legends. It still plays exceptionally well today.

  • Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939)

    Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939)

    (On Cable TV, February 2018) It’s practically impossible to be an American political junkie and not know about Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, given the film’s stature as a statement about the American political system and its iconic representation of James Stewart as a filibusterer. Curiously enough, though, I had never seen the film. Not so curiously enough, I had seen enough of James Stewart to be an unqualified fan of the actor even before watching Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. That may explain why I spent most of the film in a buoyant joy, watching one of my all-time favourite actor in a film that, perhaps now more than ever, still resonates as an eloquent paean to the ideals of American-style democracy despite the messiness of its practice. It wasn’t necessarily perceived as such, though—If I believe the contemporary snippets quoted on the film’s Wikipedia page, the film was initially condemned for its cynical take on the corruption of the system, and the idealistic nature of its protagonist’s struggles. But while such an approach may have shocked well-meaning commentators then, it may strike contemporary viewers as healthy informed idealism today. Corruption is a natural enemy of governance at all times (now more than ever, considering a current presidential administration that spins off a new scandal every three days) but a healthy government has ways to fight back, and it sometimes takes just one person with the right ideals to make things happen. I still think that the film ends without a satisfying coda, that Stewart’s character is initially presented as too much of a simpleton, and that we don’t see nearly enough of Jean Arthur. On the other hand, Frank Capra’s film remains just as sharp and compelling today as it was—even the climactic filibuster sequence, with its near-real-time popular manipulation and reaction, still plays exceptionally well in this age of constant news cycle. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington is an acknowledged classic for a reason, and you don’t have to be a political junkie nor a James Stewart devotee to understand why.

  • You Can’t Take it With You (1938)

    You Can’t Take it With You (1938)

    (On Cable TV, February 2018) Despite James Stewart’s considerable charm (and here he has the chance to play as pure a young romantic lead as he ever got), it took me a while to warm up to You Can’t Take it with You. Despite an eccentric cast of characters, it takes a long time for the comedy to truly take off. Fortunately, this happens midway through, as an explosive sequence is followed up by a rather amusing courtroom sequence. That’s when director Frank Capra feels freest to truly unleash the madness of his characters, and what it means for the plot. Less successful is the film’s last act, which focuses on more manners moral lessons (it’s right there in the title), lessening the film’s laugh quotient but ensuring that it would present an easy moral lesson fit for the film to win that year’s Best Picture Oscar. This being said, the film is not a chore to watch even today. James Stewart is always good, of course, while Lionel Barrymore is unusually sympathetic as the patriarch of an oddball family and 15-year-old Ann Miller makes an impression as the family’s dance-crazy daughter. The film’s mid-point highlight is good for a few laughs, and even easy moral lessons can work well in wrapping up a satisfying viewing experience. As a checkmark for best Picture completists, it’s an odd but not a bothersome entry.

  • How the West was Won (1962)

    How the West was Won (1962)

    (On Cable TV, February 2018) Even fifty-five years later, How the West was Won remains a singular viewing experience. One of the few narrative movies developed for the three-projector surround “Cinemax” process, it’s a western with an ambitious narrative scope (follow the development of the American west through four stories spanning generations of a family) and an impressive technical polish. From the first few moments spent flying over mountainous landscapes, the quality of the picture is breathtaking (especially given the 2012 digital restoration of the film)—on a modern HD display, the flattened widescreen film looks crisp and colourful like few others of the period. Moments later, as we get away from the landscapes and nearer to characters, we get to see the flip side of the film’s technical imitations when presented on a dingle screen: Almost all of the action is centred in the middle third and the camera never gets closer to the characters than waist-up middle shots. Any lateral movement makes the fisheye lensing of the film blatant, and the impact is jarring enough to remind us that we are, after all, watching a technical novelty. Fortunately, the film is suited well to mid-size fragmented viewing: Each of the four narratives runs between 30 and 45 minutes, allowing for breaks. Thematically, the film does have a few hurdles to overcome: The opening narration mentions “taking back the land from nature and primitive people,” setting up both the film’s very American manifest destiny narrative and a repellent treatment of native-American characters. Fortunately, the film avoids some of the worst excesses of the genre: while “the Indians” are treated as the enemy in one of the film’s signature action sequences, Native American are treated more kindly in other segments featuring white character willing to deal fairly with them (and the terrible consequences of breaking those promises). Each segment is generally enjoyable, all building up to a closing action sequences. The first, “The Rivers,” features an older James Stewart as a likable river runner encountering settlers and features a satisfying revenge arc. “The Plains” culminates in an attack on a settlers’ convoy. “The Civil War” is just about what you expect, while “The Railroad” builds to an astonishing stampede and “The Outlaws” features a wide-screen train robbery sequence. Not everything is likable, though. For a film that features a middle segment set on a Civil War battleground, nothing is said of slavery. Manifest Destiny is taken as holy writ, all the way to 1962’s highways. But for a piece of white-American propaganda, How the West Was Won is perhaps more nuanced that it could have been. The treatment of Native Americans isn’t as one-sided as it could have been, and the film seldom shies away from the harsh conditions that settlers endured, from bandit attacks to meaningless war conscription to children seeing their parents die in a buffalo stampede. Still, I suspect that most viewers won’t remember the details of the plot as much as the flattened Cinerama experience. I never thought I’d say it, but here goes: If you have one of those otherwise-useless curved TV screen, How the West Was Won seems like the one movie taking advantage of that format.

  • Harvey (1950)

    Harvey (1950)

    (On Cable TV, January 2018) It took a surprisingly long time for me to warm up to Harvey, especially considering that it stars James Stewart and remains a minor classic of film fantasy. I think that much of this initial reluctance has to do with not quite knowing which way the movie was leaning at first—is Stewart’s protagonist delusional or simple-minded? What are we watching here—gentle fantasy or sad realism? Mental illness is no joking matter, and yet Harvey does spend quite a bit of time in a Todorovian twilight zone where this may be the solution. Fortunately, Harvey never quits and soon become passable, then acceptable, then quite charming right in time for the end. The first big breakthrough happens when Stewart blandly states, “Well, I’ve wrestled with reality for 35 years, Doctor, and I’m happy to state I finally won out over it.”  Then there’s the romance between Charles Drake and the superb Peggy Dow, or again a bland statement “Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.”  Finally, there’s the confirmation that the film is whimsical fantasy. Harvey hinges on a few very delicate strings, and it’s almost an achievement to find them so finely balanced. Stewart being Stewart, it’s difficult not to like the film, but it does earn its likability along the way.

  • Anatomy of a Murder (1959)

    Anatomy of a Murder (1959)

    (On Cable TV, January 2018) There is a surprising maturity to Anatomy of a Murder that still resonates today, even as Hollywood has long grown out of the restrictions of the Hays Code and proved willing to depict crime in sordid details. To see this black-and-white late-fifties crime film frankly discuss murder, rape and the corruption of the legal process is a bit of a shock, and to see it headlined by James Stewart is even more interesting. Going through all the steps of a trial, this courtroom drama still works well because it’s brutally honest. The protagonist is a disillusioned cynic, the ending is unsettling and some of the frank language still feels daring considering the time at which Anatomy of a Murder was produced. There are plenty of other smaller reasons to like the film: Saul Bass’s title sequence; Duke Ellington’s music; Stewart’s darker performance; and the numerous references of interest to Northwestern Ontarians (just the other side of Michigan where the film takes place). As a legal thriller, it’s still absorbing like a good novel—despite the sometimes-unnecessary length of the film. Director Otto Preminger’s work is straightforward, but what’s often forgotten now is how ground-breaking his movie could be in simply portraying the truth of a complex murder inspired by real-life events. Anatomy of a Murder definitely holds up, especially for fans of legal fiction.

  • It’s a Wonderful Life (1946)

    It’s a Wonderful Life (1946)

    (On TV, December 2017) I’ve always liked James Stewart, but after the one-two combination of The Shop around the Corner and It’s a Wonderful Life, he has now ascended even higher in my own pantheon of actors. It’s hard to resist the charms of his performance in It’s a Wonderful Life, as central as he is to the film’s success. After all, on paper it sounds like a snore: A man being shown (by an angel, no less) the impact of his life? Not promising. And yet, after a rough start that goes all-in on divine intervention, the magic starts happening as we follow Stewart’s character as he ages and develops. Writer/director Frank Capra was a veteran at the time of the film’s production and his skill is evident throughout. It’s a Wonderful Life has that elusive scene-to-scene watchability, as we can’t resist wanting to know what will happen next, even though we can certainly guess the outline of the plot before it happens. Much has been said about the film’s inspirational quality, and despite my skepticism the film does deliver on these promises—so much so that, midway through the movie, I paused it and made a difficult (but important) phone call that I’d been putting off for a while. All part of trying to measure up to James Stewart’s character. While I have issues with many of the film’s more maudlin moments (and suspect that I’m opposed to a few of its major themes), I’m rather pleased to report that It’s a Wonderful Life worked as well on me as it worked on several generations so far. Far from aging, it has become quite an amazing time capsule. Plus, hey, James Stewart.