5:00pm PST – Dinner At Eight (1933) – A high-society dinner party masks a hotbed of scandal and intrigue. Cast: John Barrymore , Lionel Barrymore , Marie Dressler , Jean Harlow Dir: George Cukor BW-111 mins, TV-PG
In his post, ‘Hollywood on the Recession: Told You So,’ my colleague Tom Shillue reports that Hollywood’s gearing up to respond to our present-day economic woes with a series of blame-the-rich films. This was disappointing news, especially for those of us into the second draft of our blame-Fannie Mae-Freddie Mac screenplays. But does anyone want to spend ten bucks to be reminded of reality when getting out of bed offers the same experience for free. Which leads me to why the Almighty invented Turner Classic Movies.
For Americans suffering hard times during the Great Depression, movies were an oasis not a talking point. Certainly there were exceptions. Warner Brothers found a distinctive voice with grittier fare, especially the gangster picture which gave those feeling powerless the vicarious pleasure of watching people grab power, but this was an era predominantly made up of screwball comedies, DeMille’s lavish epics, musicals, monster movies and adventure films.
Back then Hollywood knew their only chance of survival was to offer something found nowhere else: Pure Escapism. So Fred twirled Ginger, Shirley Temple was orphaned, Andy Hardy aw-shucked, Paul Muni emoted, Cagney took no crap, Flynn rescued de Havilland, Garbo laughed, and Gable…? Well, all he had to do was grin. And what happened? People with no money found the money. The studios were pushers, the audience addicts, and the drug … looking back now we now know it was art.
Sure the industry struggled, but it survived, and today’s pick, Dinner At Eight is an excellent example as to why. The rich weren’t scapegoated. They were brought to earth and humanized with all their silly luxury problems. Audiences knew that for a mere two bits they too could be rich for a couple hours. In that darkened theatre they were transported. They lived in lavish penthouses, went to the best night spots, wore tuxedos, drank martinis and talked on white telephones.
If Big Hollywood’s decided to transport us to Revolutionary Road instead of Dreamstreet, the beauty of it is that it doesn’t matter. The past is there for the asking, white telephones and all.
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