TWO WEEKS IN ANOTHER TOWN: Blu-ray (MGM, 1962) Warner Archive

Wedged somewhere between the pessimistically wrought cinematic fantasias of Federico Fellini and panged analysis of decaying Hollywood glamour, epitomized in George Cukor’s A Star is Born (1954), is Vincente Minnelli’s Two Weeks in Another Town (1962); loosely, a ‘sequel’ of sorts to Minnelli’s own The Bad and the Beautiful that, exactly a decade earlier, and, in better, ostensibly ‘happier’ times for both its director and MGM, the studio footing the bills, had wielded considerable social commentary about the callow and ruthless, toiling alongside in the artful wheelin’/dealin’ of picture-making. “The trouble with movies as art is that they are a business”… and conversely, at least so the old adage goes. Minnelli’s rather superfluous tale of these sad and superficial at each other’s throats is more a creamsicle turned rancid in the modo-hip Roman sunshine than a jaundice-eyed exposé of ‘the truth’. Irwin Shaw’s salacious novel, hardly a classic, nevertheless presented certain challenges for Minnelli, thanks to the Puritanical restraints of Hollywood’s self-governing Code of Ethics – dying, but not dead – by the time Two Weeks went into pre-production. And actually, Minnelli was still smarting with creative withdrawal, desperate to cast off the battle fatigue incurred on MGM’s ill-advised remake of The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (made and released earlier that same year). Two Weeks in Another Town ought to have provided Minnelli with precisely the breathing space needed to revitalize his career and Metro’s dwindling coffers in tandem. Instead, Minnelli was officially ‘0’ for ‘2’ with its release; the critics eviscerating it, the public staying away in droves, and MGM, incurring a loss of $3,662,892; its world-wide box office of $1,913,399, barely enough to cover half its production costs.

The studio blamed Minnelli, as he had gone over time and budget in hand-crafting this disposable little nothing, seemingly from nothing more or better than his love affair with Italy. Minnelli spent nearly a week shooting largely forgettable inserts at night after self-indulgent moonlit night, romanticizing Rome’s famous landmarks with his cast aimlessly strolling about; gorgeous to look at, yet, lacking in narrative impetus and, in the final editing, distilled to mere seconds of usable, overlapping footage set to David Raksin’s score. One may argue the real problem with Two Weeks in Another Town is it was taken away from Minnelli at a critical juncture in its gestation, handed over to editor, Margaret Booth, whose ability to Ginsu a mutton into a peacock in the good ole days at MGM instead and herein, removed most of its sexually-charged – if still highly sanitized eroticism, leaving behind a bunch of angry wantons to sadistically throttle and thrash one another. Viewed today, Two Weeks in Another Town plays like a haughty cat fight, pitched under the most ambiguous of double entendre and innuendo; the most entertaining bits of its fiery brimstone, breathed by Rosanna Schiaffino’s hot-headed Italian Cinderella, Barzella – who flies off the handle as she flings torn script pages into the stale air of an overcrowded sound stage at Rome’s famed, Cinecitta, and later, endures a heartily deserved swift kick in her sequin-gowned backside, played strictly for comic relief.

If virtually all of the men in this picture are emasculated capons, frustratingly to crow with their testicles and sexual proclivities frozen in a Mason jar (aside: we are never entirely certain where George Hamilton’s self-pitying Davie Drew’s queerly monastic pining for co-star Daliah Lavi’s Veronica ally), the women who dominate – with one exception to be noted – are all of the uber-bitch in heels class, or, as director, Maurice Kruger (Edward G. Robinson) points out, “Monsters…every last one.” Kruger ought to know, having run through a string of diversions, including his present flagrante delicto with Barzella, to escape the wife, Clara (Claire Trevor) – a venomous, booze-soaked harpy. Clara is perhaps matched, sin for sin, only by the torturous sexpot, Carlotta (Cyd Charisse) whose slinky sex-ploits effectively caused promising actor, Jack Andrus (Kirk Douglas) to wrap his car around a tree, leaving him with a permanent facial scar and a host of other hidden psychological wounds to lick in his spare time.  The one exception to this wench parade is Daliah Lavi’s Veronica; a male chauvinist’s wet dream – placid, ever-loyal and doting. The sadder but wiser girl, Veronica ‘what’s the difference’ (as she calls herself) is not, having already given her heart – and presumably, her all – to Davie Drew, only to be spurned or, at the very least, shrugged off.

In hindsight, Two Weeks in Another Town is the recipient of a lot of backstage ill will, and decidedly, the victim of very bad timing; begun under Sol Siegel’s aegis at MGM, encouraging veteran producer, John Houseman to partake of the exercise, initially planned for the likes of Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy. The pair had not appeared together since 1940’s Boom Town. Gable’s premature death from a heart attack in 1960 put a period to this wunderbar of screen dream reunions. But then, Siegel was out and Joseph Vogel, in, and, changes were ordered to Minnelli’s final cut – disassembled, then repeatedly reassembled in the editing room out of despondency to uncover that elusive and intangible Minnellian magic, expected to translate into box office gold at the other end.  It never happened. Nor was Minnelli ever consulted once wholesale cuts and edits had been incorporated into his would-be masterpiece. For his part, Houseman was utterly appalled by this rough cut, respectfully submitting a memo to Vogel to voice his displeasure, in part reading, “In thirty years of my accumulated reputation I have taken full artistic responsibility for all the works which bore my name. Two Weeks in Another Town, in its present form, does not represent my work and I cannot permit my name to appear as its producer!”     

As the picture was lacerated without his approbation, Houseman was begrudgingly recalled by Vogel and given permission to tamper with the work print some more, much to Minnelli’s antipathy. In the end, the reproaches and cynicism bled through and into the finished film, on what ought to have been a dream project for both men, instead, leveling the studio’s zeal to release Two Weeks in Another Town without any fanfare usually afforded a major Metro release. Instead, it was dumped on the market with a lethal dose of poisoned pen reviews from the nation’s top critics, already smelling blood in the water. “Trashy as the worst stuff…banal…an inside joke” and worse; the critical response to the picture was overshadowed by the public’s concurrent apathy to see it. At least part of this ennui is warranted. Despite Minnelli’s obvious affaire du Coeur with Rome and jadedness about the picture-making biz, Two Weeks in Another Town is not one of his chefs-d'oeuvre, but a rather flat souffle, half-baked in its social commentary regarding the toxicity of fame he so obviously understood, though is quite incapable of transferring into anything more than 107 minutes of drama-less apoplexy. The picture’s climax is pure Minnellian hokum, capped off by a stunningly misguided orgy a la Leslie Uggams’s chanteuse, warbling the lethargic Jimmy McHugh/Dorothy Fields’ ballad, ‘Don’t Blame Me’ to a waxwork of pale-faced and zombie-fied social elite. The resultant and borderline suicidal drive at night Kirk Douglas’ glassy-eyed fool takes Carlotta on in his posh Maserati, terrorizing the usually put together vamp to wit’s end, plays more like a laughable outtake from Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. And Jack’s almost immediate and sobering reformation – done with making movies on somebody else’s terms – sets up an even more implausibly optimistic tone for the future moments before the final fade out, that is thoroughly out of touch with all the wicked and enterprising perfidy gone before it.

One can hardly blame Minnelli or his screenwriter, Charles Schnee for wanting to transform the character of Jack Andrus from the novel’s upstanding, antiseptic hero, implausibly working for NATO in his emeritus years after his former life as a promising actor was cut short by an auto accident. The Andrus of Shaw’s novel is a man with purpose and a loyal wife waiting for him at home. The one in Minnelli’s movie is desperate, shell-shocked and friendless, full of self-doubt and pity, making his momentary dalliances with the much younger, Veronica more memorable and faulty. In fact, this reincarnation of Andrus as human wreckage on the brink of either finding himself or suffering another complete meltdown is the picture’s most engrossing air of legitimacy. And Kirk Douglas’ performance is, if not his finest, then certainly, one of his most subdued and heartfelt; particularly in the last act, as he assumes the artistic reigns of Kruger’s belabored swan song, making adjustments to its staleness and emerging victorious, only to be trammeled by Clara’s last-minute vindictiveness. She accuses him of hijacking her husband’s masterpiece; the couple filing an injunction to end Jack’s brief renaissance in Hollywood’s imprimatur – Cinecitta.   

Two Weeks in Another Town opens with Jack’s stroll through the rather palatial grounds of the sanitarium he has called home for some time, depicted under the opening credits and set to David Raksin’s plush orchestral underscore. Indulging in a bit of needless psycho-babble with his doctor, Jack is told his recovery is complete – and has been for a while; despite periodic hand tremors. Accepting Maurice Kruger’s invitation to appear in cameo in his latest film, currently shooting in Rome, Jack encounters sponge/agent, Lew Jordan (George Macready) at the airport. Jordan has nothing but noxious scorn for his former client. The two nearly come to blows – a bad omen, portending of things to come. Indeed, upon his arrival on the set, Jack is escorted to the Excelsior Hotel, given a Maserati and informed by Kruger he has no part for him in the movie he is shooting. The real stars are Barzella – a hot-headed Italian diva – and Davie Drew, a narcissistic young upstart already on the verge of becoming an alcoholic has-been. Kruger has other plans for Jack – basically, to supervise the dubbing as he will be unable to do the work himself and still meet his budgetary deadline. Crestfallen his once illustrious tenure with Kruger as a leading man has been distilled into merely showing up as part of the ‘hired help,’ Jack nevertheless begrudgingly accepts this assignment.

Meanwhile, Kruger’s boozy bloodhound of a wife, Clara, bitterly accuses her man of straying yet again with his latest leading lady. News of Kruger’s affair with Barzella has gone viral in the Hollywood tabloids, sending Clara into an outrageous and barb-laden diatribe. Kruger is ruthless, as he admonishes his wife for being a worthless shrew and millstone about his neck. Clara locks herself in the bathroom of their hotel suite but is unable to sink low enough to swallow a whole bottle of sleeping pills. Later, as the couple wearily settles into bed, Kruger confides his greatest fear; not that Clara will leave him, but the critics just might put an end to his rapidly declining career. Jack casually meets Veronica while Kruger screens scenes from ‘their last picture’ – The Bad and The Beautiful. Veronica appears first to be disinterested in everything, including Jack, but quickly reveals her passion to and for him thereafter. Despite her youth and sexpot good looks, Veronica is very much the motherly type, used to plying her charms on wounded men. Indeed, Jack later discovers Veronica and Davie were an item. But then Davie became abusive. He even blackened the poor girl’s eye, though never her heart. Jack and Veronica are drawn to one another and spend several moonlit nights, and one hazily lit mid-afternoon, in each other’s company. While Veronica is in love, Jack is merely amused. In fact, his heart has been considerably tainted by the reappearance of his ex, Carlotta, who is presently married to Zeno (Stefan Schnabel), a wealthy Italian industrialist. 

Fidelity is not a word in Carlotta’s lexicon. And thus, she does everything in her power to seduce Jack again. The elixir of her high-maintenance was pure poison to Jack not so very long ago. Hence, Jack has no interest in indulging her again. Alas, and although she is patient, Jack also allows Carlotta’s presence to color his happiness with Veronica. Turning to his ethics, Jack diligently works to improve the quality of the performances given by Barzella and Davie in Kruger’s picture, using a voice double for the Italian Cinderella, but Davie’s own voice to redub his dialogue. Trying to get a better performance from Davie, Jack is startled by the actor’s unbridled hostility. Davie bitterly informs him of the truth; Kruger is finished, the picture is a disaster, and he will not lift a finger to improve it. Davie accuses Jack of being Kruger’s stooge – a role he never intends to assume for this director.  Although Veronica is drawn to Jack, she is still very much in love with Davie. Jack understands this, and since he also recognizes he is not as much enamored with her, but second, that Davie is, does everything in his power as matchmaker to draw these unhappily broken-up singles back together.

As work on Kruger’s epic continues, the director invites cast and crew to a posh restaurant to help celebrate his wedding anniversary; the height of hypocrisy, as he has never truly loved Clara - the two, transparently in an open marriage buffeted by Kruger’s infidelities. Clara calls her husband out, then drunkenly assaults Barzella before storming off. Sometime later, Jack receives a phone call, informing him that Kruger has suffered a near-fatal heart attack. While Barzella continues to party with a trio of lascivious male suitors in the next room, Jack assures Kruger he will not let his movie die. Jack will complete the picture “the Kruger way”, pledging to see it a success. His double duties as the de facto producer/dubber, impresses the picture’s Italian financier, who leaks the re-shot rushes in Hollywood. This movie will make Davie a star and put Jack right back on top as a formidable name above the title in the picture biz. Alas, Clara has convinced her dying husband that Jack has not been altruistic in his pursuits, but rather, looking to ‘take over’ as a springboard to re-launch his own career. Incapable of perceiving such treachery, Jack storms out of Kruger’s hospital room.

Again, he is confronted by Lew Jordan. Only this time, the sycophantic sponge is looking to capitalize on Davie’s newfound fame and Jack’s prowess as a director. If he can just sign them both to long-term contracts, these cash cows are likely to produce enough revenues for him to retire on for the rest of his days. It matters not to Jordan that Jack has just been fired. He can write his own ticket, thanks to Davie, insisting Jack as the only director he is willing to work for in the future. Interestingly, a ‘queer’ détente has developed between this master and mate over the course of filming; Davie, taking Jack’s direction very well, and learning to ply his craft in meaningful ways. Jack suffers a momentary lapse of judgement, following Carlotta back to Zeno’s atelier where a small contingent of their fair-weather friends is indulging in a latent orgy. Carlotta tempts a drunken Jack with her feminine wiles before taking Zeno upstairs, presumably to make love.

Enraged by her deceptions, Jack burst in on the couple, pummeling Zeno, before storming out to his Maserati. Stirred by his vigor, Carlotta’s dishonorable intentions know no limit. She foolishly follows Jack to his car, barely able to crawl into the backseat before he careens like a madman down the darkened road, perhaps, hellbent on dashing them both to pieces in a fatal wreck. At the last possible moment, reason overcomes insanity. The next day, Davie desperately tries to convince Jack to remain with him. “I need you,” Davie insists, a line of loaded meaning in a Minnelli picture, but to which Jack coolly explains the only person Davie can ever truly rely on is himself. As Jack departs Italy, ostensibly with his brightest days yet ahead of him, he bids a heartfelt goodbye at the airport to Davie and Veronica, who have come to see him off.

Two Weeks in Another Town is so fitfully unsatisfying that its salient virtues are all but obfuscated by its clumsy script, and even clunkier performances. Inadvertently, Minnelli only compounds the creakiness in his present narrative by offering us excised moments from his superb, The Bad and the Beautiful (1952); Kruger, adoringly gazing at the gorgeous B&W images of Kirk Douglas and Lana Turner on the screen as Douglas callously dunks his sleeping leading lady in the pool.  The assets of Two Weeks in Another Town include David Raksin’s score – hardly his best, though nevertheless, lovely, and, Milton R. Krasner’s lush cinematography; Rome, in MetroColor and Cinemascope, looking as vine-ripened and appealing as an ancient bacchanal in full swing. This is Italy as seen through the eyes of an unabashed romantic – Minnelli’s visual references to a Fellini film mere homage, expunged of Fellini’s bright and bush cynicism, irony and condemnation of all that paparazzi-infused, post-war wantonness that had, by the mid-sixties, thoroughly eaten through the wormwood of his beloved remembrances and affinity for that pre-war era. In pre-production, Minnelli had encountered resistance from the last gasp of the Production Code, in part, for the novel’s salacious depictions of men and women engaging in premarital, extramarital and ‘other liaisons’ considered immoral.

On the surface at least, the Hollywood of yore was highly moral in its tit-for-tat affirmation of a polite society where even hot-blooded marrieds were confined in their nocturnal activities to twin beds, the imaginary Maginot Line drawn between them by a prominently featured nightstand, usually with a brightly lit lamp to illuminate clearly that ‘nothing’ was going on. When the lights went out? Ah…now that is a separate story, and one Minnelli and Schnee elected to imply at every possible turn in Two Weeks in Another Town: ‘imply’ being the operative word. So, sex would, could and likely ‘did’ happen – intermittently, and not in ways altogether sanctioned by the Catholic church. Objections made by the Code’s Geoffrey Shurlock would be sidestepped, despite the fact the picture’s de facto producer, Joe Vogel, likely subscribed to precisely the same edicts Shurlock had outlined in his memo to Minnelli.  As Minnelli continued to fall behind in his shooting schedule, the production benefited from sets already constructed for George Cukor’s aborted, Lady L. (aside: that picture would eventually be made in 1965, with Peter Ustinov directing).

Arguably, Minnelli’s verve for Two Weeks in Another Town was on the wane long before Metro’s front office began imposing their edicts on his artistic tastes; Sol Siegel’s cordial badgering, much later, to give way to Joseph Vogel’s unbridled displeasure and unceremonious last-minute tightening of the purse strings. As Minnelli was never consulted on the final cut, one may argue this is not the movie he would have preferred an audience to see, but one that remains buried somewhere in outtake purgatory, waiting, either in a vault at Cinecitta or the former MGM for some excavating archivist to unearth its hidden treasures. Whatever the truth, Two Weeks in Another Town lacks Minnelli’s inventive momentum on several crucial levels to truly achieve ever-lasting fame, or even satisfy in its most basic objective – to entertain us. What we are left with then, is an hour and forty-four minutes of razor-barbed sparring; brutalities, spewed like garlic and vinegar from a regurgitating mouth, inflicting the heart and soul, with Minnelli’s visual aplomb occasionally, if briefly, providing some eye candy, beautifully composed in Cinemascope, but ultimately gilded with too much bitterness and too little meaning. Minnelli’s critique of Hollywood’s displaced hoi-poloi, teetering on the brink between royalty and box office poison is viciously overwrought and overrun by thoroughly nasty, wicked and generally unpleasant caricatures – too brutal to belong to the soap opera milieu, and too over-the-top ridiculous to be considered enjoyable as farce.

The Warner Archive’s (WAC) Blu-ray is fairly attractive. MetroColor was neither as vibrant nor as pronounced as vintage Technicolor, but decidedly superior to Ansco and DeLuxe. The most prominent color in this palette is red – Minnelli’s favorite – and he uses it to exquisite effect throughout Two Weeks in Another Town; from the vinyl theater seats inside Cinecitta’s screening room, to the garish and eye-popping wall-to-wall gaudiness inside the Excelsior’s suites. The rest of the spectrum is subdued by comparison; greens, particularly in foliage, adopt a ruddy browning caste, with blues and yellows practically non-existent to downright dull. Flesh tones are bang-on accurate; Kirk Douglas’ more orangey complexion perfectly offset by the peaches and cream textures of Daliah Lavi’s porcelain façade. Contrast is beautifully rendered, although, briefly, scenes shot at night can look milky instead of inky black. Film grain has been accurately preserved, looking very indigenous to its source. There are no age-related artifacts. The image is smooth and solid, and, is sure to satisfy. The 2.0 DTS mono adequately reproduces the limited ambiance of vintage Westrex sound.  Disappointingly, there are no extras – save an original theatrical trailer. Bottom line: for completionists of Minnelli’s work only. Others can pass.

FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)

3

VIDEO/AUDIO

4.5

EXTRAS

1