CHRISTMAS IN CONNECTICUT: Blu-ray (Warner Bros. 1945) Warner Home Video
Peter Godfrey’s Christmas in Connecticut (1945) reminds
me why I used to like movies set in and around the pending holiday season.
Whereas today’s holiday fare – if even it continues to be produced – has
frequently been distilled into exemplifications of the worst about humanity at
large; people behaving like disgruntled farm animals, fighting tooth and nail
for the latest scraps at their local retailer (Jingle All the Way, 1996); greedily invested to outdo, discredit
and humiliate their neighbors (Deck the
Halls, 2006), or even furthermore, showing us dysfunctional families,
begrudgingly reunited and desperately struggling to think of even one good
reason to gather around the table for a turkey dinner (Home For The Holidays, 1995), Christmas
in Connecticut leans to that once prevalent cultural strain of celebrating
the most sacred of birthdays with its tongue firmly planted in cheek, cajoling
with its light romanticism and nimble nuggets of wisdom, imbued with the spirit
of a classy screwball comedy, bringing the afterglow of love to our hearts and,
on occasion, a heartfelt tear to the eye. Exactly how or why such tales have
fallen out of fashion in liberal Hollywood these days is beyond me. I really
have no stomach for the aforementioned ‘other ilk’ of holiday-themed pulp that
has infested pop culture. Keep your Cranks. Fruitcake belongs on the shelf –
not in your Blu-ray player!
Christmas in Connecticut bungles its
sentiment ever so slightly with a wartime scenario – a strapping soldier’s
story, quaintly out of sorts with its otherwise featherweight and fun plot: all
about Elizabeth Lane (Barbara Stanwyck as a pre-Martha Stewart maven of social
etiquette) who, regrettably and much to the chagrin of her publisher, Alexander
Yardley (Sidney Greenstreet) cannot even boil water without almost burning down
the house. Lane writes the most popular lady’s column for Yardley’s syndicate.
Too bad it is all a ruse: a fib, or rather, a figment of Liz’s wondrous
imagination. She doesn’t live on a rustic farm in Connecticut with sprawling
bucolic acreage. She resides in a cramped rented tenement, her only window
facing a brick wall and cluttered clothes line attached to the adjacent
building. Her roaring fireplace is actually a noisy steam-generating radiator.
And her emblematic vision of the ideal wife, mother and housekeeper (the
pre-feminist poster child for all a woman could – or rather ‘should’ be) is
actually a concept this single-minded glamor girl knows absolutely nothing
about. Liz cannot even change a diaper, much less whip together a five-course
turkey dinner with all the fixings, in addition to maintaining a sweet-smelling
babe with an immaculately groomed husband she has, in fact, yet to procure but
writes as though she knows her way expertly around both the nursery and ‘wifely
duties’ in the kitchen.
There is
something deliciously insidious about the way the Lionel Houser/Adele
Commandini screenplay (based on a story by Aileen Hamilton) punctures the
balloons of these varying hypocrisies one at a time; Yardley, inadvertently
setting into motion an even grander deception with his self-invite to Liz’s
fictional home for the holidays. Elizabeth connives friend/architect, John
Sloan (Reginald Gardner) into allowing her the use of his escapist Connecticut
retreat for the weekend. Or…is it the other way around? You see, Sloan is no
fool. Moreover, he is in love with Elizabeth and seizes the opportunity to
force her into accepting his proposal of marriage. It all sits with the sour
aftertaste of turned milk for Liz’s uncle, Felix Bassenak (the marvelously
comedic curmudgeon, S.Z. Sakall); a master chef who, along with Sloan’s
housekeeper, Norah (Una O’Connor) endeavor to revive Liz’s reputation as the
undisputed mistress of the culinary arts. There are numerous flies in this
ointment, not the least, Yardley’s insistence Liz open her home to returning
war hero, Jefferson Jones (amiable love interest and resident Warner contract
player/heartthrob, Dennis Morgan). Jones has expressed his desire to meet
Elizabeth in the flesh. Alas, already he has begun something of a mildly obtuse
affair with Mary Lee (Joyce Compton), the nurse responsible for his care since
being rescued, along with fellow soldier, Sinkewicz (Frank Jenks) from a
floating raft after their ship was torpedoed by the Nazis.
Either out of a
sense of nostalgia for home, hearth and all those otherwise uniquely American
virtues (most astutely heralded in songs by Irving Berlin) homesick servicemen
were fighting for overseas, or perhaps simply to cater to the Christian
principle in celebrating the most obvious holiday on the calendar with glittery
heartfelt aplomb, holiday-themed movies were big business throughout the
1940’s. Then, as now, part of their appeal was predicated on WWII having
created a bittersweet separation with loved ones. This wound, and the other to
America’s sagging patriotism, was shored up by Hollywood’s proliferation of ‘feel
good’ family fare. Some were more seriously placed than others. Yet, none
focused on the hardships inculcated by the war, instead referencing the
European conflict merely as backdrop; a built-in ‘emotional crutch’ onto which
many a simple and similarly-themed plot found far more enriching subtexts to
extol. The Christmas movie also found
its champions in the Catholic League of Decency; a self-governing body of
censorship with their own ‘gold star’ ‘seal of approval’ given to any story
extolling the virtues of marriage, ma, the American standards, and, the divine sanctity
of the Christian faith. Christmas In
Connecticut may seem a slightly soft-headed and strange amalgam of these
virtues, but it remains one of the most well-heeled holiday farces; a sunny marshmallow
ball of fluff, ably enveloped in its all-pervasive, if absent-minded and
thoroughly jovial holiday spirit.
So, it matters
not a whit that our heroine is an unrepentant fraud, perpetuating her delicious
myth to scores of aspiring women as the supremely contented/accomplished
homemaker. Nor is Christmas in
Connecticut particularly keen on affording this liar any comeuppance
befitting her deceptions. No, the story is, in fact, one of grandly improbably
wish fulfillment. Thrice, our panicked heroine is brought back from the brink
of disaster: first, rescued from total exposure by the wealthy architect who
offers to furnish Elizabeth with every luxury she requires to continue to pull
the wool over Yardley’s eyes. In exchange for these niceties, Liz agrees to
marry Sloan, then, most unscrupulously, does everything she can to delay their
nuptials. In the meantime, there is the congenial dark horse/young buck,
Jefferson Jones, to consider; a hunk in uniform, more Liz’s speed and age, who
has been dreaming of Elizabeth as she reports herself to be in print, only to
discover he loves her even more sincerely just as she is. Finally, there is
Uncle Felix, curt yet kind, and full of feistiness to ensure his favorite niece
does not become ensnared in a loveless marriage to a sop, merely to keep her faux
respectability and her job.
In all, Christmas in Connecticut is about
establishing the perfect alibi for the holidays – believing in the fanciful
and, in the end, getting exactly what you wished for on December 25th.
The sheer joy in the exercise does not derive from watching Elizabeth squirm on
the hook as her fibs grow more unmanageable and then begin to unravel into
sheer slapstick; although, herein, Barbara Stanwyck is ably assisted by two of
the most beloved buffoons in movie history; S.Z. Sakall (as her bumbling and
easily flustered Uncle Felix) and Una O’Connor (as Norah, Sloan’s frazzled
housekeeper). Right until the very end it is a toss-up who will win out. What
is guaranteed, the frothy comedy, occasionally taking a backseat to Stanley
Fleischer’s pastoral production design. Like virtually all movies made
throughout the forties, Christmas in
Connecticut is studio-bound. Its’ snowy landscapes are a panacea of plaster
and gypsum built inside cavernous sound stages; its romanticized moonlit
horizons, mere painted plywood. If anything, the film is as much about
make-believing as our heroine; the two, working in cahoots to serve up the
perfect escapism. And in reflection, Christmas
in Connecticut is damn near perfect; a cozy, classy, and cordial misfit of
a dream remembered, tinged in the satisfaction of seeing seasoned A-list
Hollywood pros doing precisely what they did best back then – entertain us with
a capital ‘E’.
The story
concerns all-American able-bodied seaman Jefferson Jones who, through a
gracious whim of fate, and the flawed logic of his nimble-minded nurse, Mary
Lee, is invited to the idyllic country estate of syndicated columnist and
homemaker extraordinaire, Elizabeth Lane for the Christmas break. Lane is Betty
Crocker, Ann Landers and Emily Post all rolled into one – a highly
successful/wildly popular contributor to Alexander Yardley’s monthly
publication. Yardley is an adorable killjoy, virtually ignored by his own
family and destined to spend the holidays alone. Under the pretext of being a
lonely widower, Yardley wangles an invitation to Elizabeth’s home in the
country. He also decides to exploit Jefferson’s valor by having Liz open her
home and heart to one of America’s returning war heroes. What a story! What
publicity! What goodwill! One problem: Liz is a fake. She has no husband, no
children, no picturesque farm nestled in the sweet wood of New England’s winter
playground. Fortunately, what Elizabeth does have is John Sloan, a stuffed
shirt architect/friend who would love to make Liz his wife. She reluctantly
agrees to his proposal of marriage in exchange for the use of his idyllic lodge
to pull off her weekend ruse. Problem
#2: Liz does not love Sloan. Hence, at every turn, she delays their wedding
and, through a series of rather contrived complications, easily falls in love
with Jefferson Jones instead.
The
Houser/Comandini screenplay loosely flirts with a series of “what if”
scenarios. What if Elizabeth were single? (which, of course, she is). What if
Yardley found out his most popular feature writer was a fraud? (predictably, he
does). What if it could all turn out just fine in the end? (like, no kidding –
it will). It must be pointed out the Houser/Comandini screenplay has some
difficulty getting off the ground; particularly in its tedious and thoroughly
misguided prologue: Jones' harrowing near-death experience as a sailor
surviving a U-boat torpedo and being rescued from his floating raft at sea. The
opening act of Christmas in Connecticut
is a red herring at best, and a dead end at its worst, mainly because Jones’
ultimate entanglement with the bubble-headed Mary Lee is marginalized as Houser
and Comandini begin to telescope the rest of their scenarios around Liz’s
increasingly complicated game of smoke and mirrors; fooling Yardley, keeping
Sloan at arm’s length, while sidling up to Jones, who really does not mind, but
actually doesn’t quite get either; a married woman after his bones?!?
From this rather
auspicious wartime introduction we segue into an awkward and unconvincing
screwball skit between Jefferson and Mary Lee as he recuperates from his injuries
inside the army hospital. The real problem with these early machinations is
that, like the characters themselves, they lack conviction. Is this a wartime
melodrama? Well, no. Is this going to be a screwball romance? Uh…partly. Is any
of this making an iota of sense? Regrettably, not. But once the story moves
from New York to Connecticut its various narrative threads begin to crystalize
in unexpected and very satisfying ways. Jones meets Elizabeth for the first
time and we sense their immediate mutual attraction, much to Sloan’s bitter,
but mostly obtuse chagrin. Sloan is a lovable fop – too self-appointed, proud
and officious to allow his supposed wife and mother to fly the coop after
taking advantage of his goodwill, yet too possessive of Liz to do either her or
her career any deliberately malicious damage. And then, of course, there is
Yardley – the somewhat stern, though ultimately benevolent Santa Claus figure
of the piece; fascinated rather than perturbed to discover his most prized
columnist cannot live up to his expectations, but equally contented upon
realizing she has severely fudged the truth mostly for his benefit. Any woman
who would go so far to please a man – especially her boss – cannot be all
bad…can she?
We move from
effortless vignette to effortless vignette; Jefferson and Liz increasingly
becoming inseparable; he, resisting the urge to be gallant outright (because
conventional movie-land morality dictates no passes made at an obviously
‘married’ woman), but not quite able to divest himself of the urge to be
flirtatious in undemonstrative ways; playing the piano, telling stories about
his childhood that Liz can definitely relate to and obviously finds
romantically charming, etc. When Sloan borrows a baby from a local woman to
pass off as his and Liz’s offspring the plot heats up considerably; the dark
and curly-haired child looking remarkably unlike either surrogate. Yardley does
not see it, however; presumably blinded by his desire to have the perfect
Christmas holiday. Yet, even when this bubble is burst it does not seem to
matter. For Yardley cannot deny that despite Liz’s dishonesty, he has been
royally treated to a holiday like no other; certainly, none to have warmed his
heart at home in a very long while. As the audience, we come away with a
similar feeling.
Christmas in Connecticut is not as
readily revived as some of the other classic holiday movies on my perennial ‘must see’ list; Holiday Inn, A Christmas
Carol, White Christmas, The Bells of St. Mary’s and Miracle on 34th Street among them. But
it does deserve more consideration. Barbara Stanwyck is a sublime deceiver,
fumbling the ball at the proverbial forty-yard line; unable, at least in
spirit, to carry off the clever deception to its fitting conclusion – or
rather, one that would only benefit her. Stanwyck’s Liz is, quite simply too
nice to go that far; although, conversely, she is not above continuing to
perpetuate the untruth for the millions of legitimate homemakers who regard her
as their guru. Dennis Morgan is a fitting love interest; his great gift to the
movies a thorough lack of male ego, almost eager to share the screen or even
deferring to the other performers with whom his cinema space is shared. He comes across as a square-jawed handsome suitor,
easily the guy for Stanwyck’s Liz: the congenial ‘take home to mom’ fellow most any woman in the audience would have
aspired to land using every feminine wile in the handbook.
Christmas in Connecticut is also
immensely blessed to have three solid hams in its cast. We begin with Sidney Greenstreet’s
charmer, Alexander Yardley. Greenstreet, who began his movie career at the age
of 60 as the venomous Casper Guttman in The
Maltese Falcon, 1940 (reportedly, so incredibly nervous then, that he
innocently pleaded with co-star Mary Astor not to be made to look ridiculous)
is one of the all-time delightful Warner contract players. It’s Greenstreet’s
girth that first catches the eye - his devilish chuckling, second. But hitherto
he brings to the part a tubby cuteness. Una O’Connor is the other fabulous fop;
her puckered visage and hard-boiled eyes capable of conveying faux piety and
more than a modicum of thorny impatience – frequently exacerbated to humorous
effect. And then there is S.Z. Sakall – one of the cinema’s irrefutable
delights; his waggling jowls, those Coke-bottle glasses he reportedly did not
need but used as a prop, and that high-pitched/thick-laced Hungarian accent.
Sakall is a miraculous comedian. He can draw laughs from even the most benign
line; overtly animated and full of the befuddled firebrand herein that easily
made him a main staple of so many light-hearted comedies and musicals
throughout the 1940’s and 50’s.
In hindsight, Christmas in Connecticut is much more a
puff pastry. It is a souffle, cast to perfection with stars we remember much
more so than the plot. Although it occasionally becomes just a tad too precious
for its own good, the picture endures as a feather-weight entertainment –
perhaps not in the same league as some of the others I have already mentioned,
but good for exhibiting and extolling good ole-fashioned Christmas cheer.
Together, the crisp Stanwyck and congenial Morgan possess that spark of elusive
romantic chemistry that makes everything click as it should. Sakall and
O’Connor are inspired shadows of what this couple might look like in forty
years and remain great fun to watch as an aside. Greenstreet and Gardner offer
winning support. Does it work? Mostly. Is it fun? Definitely. Will you enjoy
it? Undoubtedly. Am I recommending it? You bet!
Warner Home
Video’s Blu-ray release is a marginal improvement over their previously issued
DVD. Everything tightens up as it should and the minor blemishes that plagued
the DVD have been virtually eradicated for a very smooth visual presentation.
Contrast, alas, continues to appear just a tad weaker than anticipated. The DVD
was more problematic in this regard, but the Blu-ray still looks anemic: no
true blacks, but variations in tonal gray. There are no pure, bright or clean
whites either. Even snow glistens a soft light gray. Never having seen Carl E.
Guthrie’s cinematography on an archival 35mm print I cannot rightly state this
is not how Christmas in Connecticut
looked in its original theatrical engagement.
And anyway, even an impeccable mastering effort can only yield an
approximation to the film-based viewing experience. But the image is less than
a shade darker than I expected, especially when compared to other vintage WB
product. Either way, the slight is negligible and should surely not distract
from enjoying the story. The DTS mono audio gives good solid support to
Friedrich Hollaender’s score. Dialogue is clear. There is no hiss and pop.
Extras have been ported over from the 2005 DVD, including Don Siegel's 1945
Oscar-winning short, ‘A Star in the Night’, with J. Carrol
Naish, plus Christmas in Connecticut’s
original theatrical trailer. Bottom line: highly recommended!
FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)
3.5
VIDEO/AUDIO
3.5
EXTRAS
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