The Cat's Meow
The Cat's Meow on DVD |
The Cat's Meow, Peter
Bogdanovich's first feature film in nine years, sailed into theaters in 2001, barely
raising a ripple as it sank out of sight. If, like me, you missed it completely, its
release on DVD will offer a chance to remedy that oversight.
The film tells the story of Thomas Ince's death in 1924.
Ince was an early Hollywood producer, director, and screenwriter who was once considered
the equal to Mack Sennett and D.W. Griffith as a director -- the three founded Triangle
Motion Picture Company together. He produced the movies that made William S. Hart and Mary
Pickford stars -- in fact some people have gone so far as to claim he "invented"
the Western. He also founded the first studio in Culver City, later the home of MGM.
Here's what is known about Ince's death: He died at home on
November 17, 1924. There was no autopsy and his body was cremated promptly, after which
his widow departed for Europe and stayed there. Although his personal physician listed his
cause of death as heart failure, the (non-Hearst) Wednesday morning papers had lurid
headlines: "Movie Producer Shot on Hearst Yacht!" No mention of this was made in
subsequent editions.
After Mrs. Ince had departed for Europe, the Hearst
organization issued a statement claiming that Ince had been visiting San Simeon with his
wife and children, when he fell ill and later died at home. Hollywood was rife with rumors
about what really had gone on. These ranged from barely credible melodrama (that
Ince had raped Marion Davies' secretary, who was later found dead under suspicious
circumstances after having given birth to a baby girl) to tales of absolute power
corrupting absolutely (that Hearst shot Ince thinking him someone else) to the fantastic
(that a below-decks struggle for a gun resulted in a shot fired -- a shot that happened to
strike a guest in the head several decks away). The Cat's Meow is, as Joanna
Lumley's Elinor Glyn describes it, simply the whisper told most often.
And what a tale!
William Randolph Hearst (Edward Herrman) is giving a small
birthday party/cruise for Ince (Cary Elwes) on his yacht, Oneida. On board are his
mistress, Marion Davies (Kirsten Dunst), Charlie Chaplin (Eddie Izzard), racy novelist
Elinor Glyn (Lumley), a new Hearst journalist, Louella Parsons (Jennifer Tilly), and
assorted others to fill out the party.
Hearst is, of course, the emperor of the country's largest
media satrapy; he's also heavily involved in the nascent film industry, bankrolling lavish
historical romances as showpieces for Davies. Ince, despite his early successes and
acclaim, has hit a dry spell and hopes to persuade Hearst to "collaborate" with
him -- he even goes so far as to offer to chaperone Davies for the jealous millionaire.
Chaplin has just suffered his first setback. His decision
to direct, but not appear in, A Maid of Paris seems ill-judged, as audiences did
not attend. His next film, The Gold Rush, is behind schedule and over budget --
worse, the little tramp not only wooed and won, but also impregnated, his underage
co-star. Tongues were wagging and some Hollywood prudes were predicting his utter ruin
because of his moral laxity. Chaplin hopes to take his mind off his troubles with a
dalliance with Davies.
And then there's the novelist Elinor Glyn, who wrote lurid
romances, such as Three Weeks, in which the hero is "saved" from an
unsuitable match by his parents, who send him off to exotic Lucerne, where he falls in
love with a mysterious woman in black, with whom he has a three-week-long affair, during
which the two make mad, passionate love, among other places, upon a tiger skin.
This so seized the public's fancy that wits spouted the
following doggerel:
Would you like to sin
With Elinor Glyn
On a tiger skin?
Or would you prefer
To err
With her
On some other fur?
It goes without saying that, when the film industry began
to flourish, Glyn achieved a Joe Eszterhas level of notoriety as the screenwriter of such
films as Three Weeks, It, and Knowing Men. Glyn had a reputation as a
great beauty and a wicked wit, and Joanna Lumley simply eats the role up, dryly teasing
her fellow passengers and verbally fencing with one and all.
The entire cast seems inspired. Edward Herrman paints a
plausible portrait of Hearst as the poor little rich man, so insecure he tries to buy the
love of his mistress and too filled with his sense of entitlement to tolerate even the
thought of being made a cuckold. Herrman's Hearst seems the very personification of the
hurt little boy Orson Welles presented as the inner Citizen Kane, and his attempts to
simulate gaiety and bonhomie are undercut with a deep yearning for approval and
devotion. He seems ill at ease among his guests -- as though he can't wait to get back to
his cabin and eavesdrop on the proceedings rather than participate in them.
As Davies, Dunst is constantly in motion -- talking,
laughing, dancing, flirting. Like the real Davies, who proved an adept comedic actress
after Hearst's death freed her to attempt such roles, she's funny. But Hearst
thinks humor is vulgar and won't even listen to Chaplin when he informs him that his
mistress's true métier is comedy.
Eddie Izzard is the true gem here, however. Everyone knows
he can be funny, but who knew he could act? He doesn't try to mimic Chaplin's athleticism
or mannerisms, yet he makes his ardor and passion for being passionate almost palpable. Of
course, Hearst suspects him of trying to seduce Davies -- his desire for her is
overpoweringly apparent.
What Bogdanovich illustrates brilliantly in The Cat's
Meow is the way Hearst's money and power, like a black hole, distorted everything that
came near him. With the exception of Davies, who seemed to offer him a loyalty he never
earned, everyone wants something from him. No conversation is about its ostensible
subject, laughter seems forced, the celebration seems frantic, and silences are
intolerable. At one point, even Hearst feels the discomfort overwhelming the table --
stuck for anything to say or do, he arranges his face in a rictus of joy and shouts,
"Charleston!" The band strikes up the dance and everyone leaps to their feet and
gyrates feverishly -- except for the millionaire mogul himself.
While The Cat's Meow gives a convincing explanation
for Ince's death, it's not a mystery. The film begins and ends with Ince's funeral and the
events unfold chronologically in flashback. The script, adapted by Steven Peros from his
own play, is witty and filled with clever touches, but surely there's something more to be
made from this tale? The Cat's Meow is well made, brilliantly acted, and
beautifully filmed (turning on the lights after watching it, I felt as though I was
returning to a shabbier, more poorly lit era); yet I was left wanting more.
Perhaps this is what Peros and Bogdanovich were shooting
for -- perhaps what we are missing is the denouement of justice served.
Be warned -- in The Cat's Meow, the wicked flourish.
If Ince was murdered, as the film suggests, his murderer never pays for it -- well,
actually, he does. The widow is bought off to go along with the charade, Ince's
mistress (who was on the cruise) gets the Hollywood career that had previously eluded her,
and Louella Parsons finagles a lifetime contract out of her knowledge of what really
happened -- depicted here in a scene that is so precisely written, it seems beyond
perfect.
Chaplin, of course, goes on to finish The Gold Rush,
which became the biggest hit the movies had seen up to that point. Davies remained
Hearst's mistress until his death, and Elinor Glyn eventually returned to the UK, where
she continued to write novels and, eventually, an autobiography.
As for Hearst, other than a few whispers, nothing much
seemed to change at all. But then, we all know that the very rich are allotted the finest
justice they can buy.
The DVD is a small gem. The surround sound is atmospheric
and natural, and the film is packed with wonderful music of the '20s, including Paul
Whiteman's original recording of "The Charleston." The cinematography is first
rate and the transfer is crisp without the faintest trace of edge enhancement. The disc is
almost devoid of extras, which also means it doesn't trot out any infomercials in the
guise of entertainment -- call it a wash, then.
There's so much to like in The Cat's Meow. Perhaps
my sense of mild letdown does not really give it its due. Certainly, if it were the work
of a new director, I'd probably greet it with paroxysms of celebration. But coming from
Peter Bogdanovich, who has shown himself capable of such finely nuanced detail in the
past, it feels strangely incomplete.
However, its literate screenplay and playful sense of
speculation, underscored by an almost wicked glee in turning a microscope on the world of
the rich and privileged, are completely satisfying. Its ensemble of superb actors, who are
so obviously having a ball, is the strongest argument for seeing the film -- to miss
Herrman's Hearst, Dunst's Davies, Izzard's Chaplin, or Lumley's Glyn would truly be a
pity. So don't -- rent or buy The Cat's Meow and luxuriate in some of the finest
individual and ensemble acting you are likely to see in this or any year.
...Wes Phillips
wes@onhometheater.com
|
