You Can't Take it With You (1938): Eitan's Take

You gotta hand it to a film that ends with a rousing hoedown of "Polly Wolly Doodle" on two harmonicas and a xylophone... no one does it quite like Capra. The great sentimentalist director was known for his iconic scenes of suburban whimsy -- the title of his late movie "Pocketful of Miracles" pretty much sums up his approach to filmmaking -- and "You Can't Take it With You" is no different. However, I was surprised and pleased by the subtlety of these scenes. I still knew exactly what they were, and I could still sense the hand of Capra moving these scenes along (such as when reliably aw-shucks Jimmy Stewart and Jean Arthur learn how to dance the Big Apple and when old Grandpa Vanderhof's countless friends unite in a courtroom near the end of the film to pay a $100 fine he receives for the illegal manufacturing of fireworks), but they were strangely charming and uplifting, rather than being cloying and pseudo-religious. Regardless, people who hate Capra will still hate this film, but I think it has some unique elements that relieve it from possibly pandering and being obnoxiously over the top.

Lionel Barrymore was one of the best parts of Grand Hotel, and he is absolutely wonderful here as Vanderhof, the patriarch of a predictably wacky family, populated by goofy black maids, Russian wrestlers/ballet teachers, typesetters for the coming Communist revolution, and a frustratingly bland younger daughter. Seriously, how in the world did mopey, boring Alice Sycamore end up in such a nutty family? Regardless, Barrymore's performance is one of the most captivating I have ever seen in a Capra film, and every scene he is in is truly joyous. When he tells the stuffy, fat, Baldwin-esque Anthony P. Kirby that no one can "take it with him," I felt in awe of both the important lesson at hand (see, there's Capra, yanking at my heartstrings again) and the naturalistic eloquence with which Barrymore delivered the line.

Magic, whimsy, and solid screenwriting aside, I'm actually quite surprised that this movie won Best Picture. It doesn't appear that 1938 was a particularly strong year for movies -- it was definitely the calm before the storm of 1939, still considered the greatest year in cinema history -- but You Can't Take it With You doesn't seem to fit the arc of winners so far. It isn't epic, important, beautifully shot, or all that consequential in the scheme of things. It's just a character-driven story, well acted, nicely developed and modestly fleshed out from a nice little stage play (which we did at my school in 9th grade, when I was really into technical theater) with a neat little "everyone learned their lesson" ending. As movies go, it's watchable, charming, and fun. As Best Picture winners go, it's not exactly a natural part of the club. 8/10.

You Can't Take It With You (1938): Shira's Take

This is our second Frank Capra movie (after It Happened One Night), and it just doesn't compare. Don't get me wrong. I love the Capra/Jimmy Stewart team (Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and It's a Wonderful Life are both amazing). But I just can't care too much about the characters. Firstly, the chemistry between Stewart (Anthony Kirby Jr.) and Jean Arthur (Alice Sycamore) was really sub-par. Aside from an adorable scene in which they are taught how to do the big apple by a bunch of kids and end up running from the cops, Tony and Alice are really a boring couple. Lionel Barrymore as Grandpa really carried the movie (as he did with earlier best picture winner Grand Hotel). I believe also that this story makes for a much better stage play than movie. I think eccentric characters feel less overdone in stage plays.

Despite everything I said above, I clearly still enjoyed the movie. It was VERY Capra; there was a scene in a court room filled with Grandpa's neighborhood friends all sticking up for him that ended in chaos as news reporters flooded in trying to get pictures. Meanwhile, Alice rebuked Tony's family and ran out, and the mass of people somehow cleared enough for her to get through, but not enough for anyone to follow her. You gotta love these charming classics. I also sort of like the message. Clearly, the Sycamore/Vanderhof family is completely insane, but I admire their dismissal of the opinions of others. In general, it could have been better, but it still had most of what I like in a movie. Note to myself: Two words: kitten paperweight. 7/10

Grand Hotel (1932): Shira's Take

I think my feelings about Grand Hotel can be summed up in four simple words: I just don’t care. Between Greta Garbo’s flighty-Tennessee-Williams-leading-lady-esque performance as ballerina Grusinskaya and the doctor’s Phantom of the Opera face (played by Lewis Stone), I yawned and yawned and tried not to fall asleep. Don’t get me wrong—performances were great. John Barrymore as the Baron Von Geigern played the part of an ambivalent thief charmingly and wonderfully. At times, watching Joan Crawford (the stenographer Flaemmchen), I felt like I was watching a movie from the 1940s or 1950s with highly superior acting. And of course the fumbling, adorable Lionel Barrymore (Kringelein) was delightful. Everything about Grand Hotel was technically fantastic. I just couldn’t stay interested in the story. In theory, I do like this type of movie (see: Chinatown). Some crazy stuff happens, we get wrapped up in it, and it ends with someone settling the audience down. The Grand Hotel, “where nothing ever happens”, has a perfect ending speech by the (Phantom) doctor. In retrospect, I like it all a lot more than when I was suffering through it. Notes to myself: OMG DACHSHUND. SO KYOOT. 6/10

Grand Hotel (1932): Eitan's Take

Not much to say about Grand Hotel. The tagline of the movie pretty much sums it up -- "Grand Hotel. People coming, people going, nothing ever happens." This was a truly painful movie to sit through. It was bloated, dull, and a waste of time for its astonishingly talented actors. You would think that if they got Greta Garbo, Joan Crawford, John and Lionel Barrymore, and Wallace Beery in a film together, they would give them more to work with than a bunch of tawdry and uninteresting affairs, arguments about alcohol, business mergers, and a woe-is-me ballerina. Seriously. This film bumbled along from one lame set piece to the next, with occasional respites during which Lionel Barrymore's pathetic drunk of a character ruminated on life, death, and Louisiana Flips (a cocktail of some sort that he rattles on about for 5 minutes). Considering the sharp, intelligent screenplays of many of the other movies I've seen from this era, the Academy should have been ashamed to reward this bland snapshot of elitist German jerks whose pithy life concerns are more of a dull embarrassment than a genuine commentary on humanity or society.

I know that the Academy picked this movie because it was a "multi-faceted" experience with several intertwining storylines (a la Robert Altman and P.T. Anderson films, and in the dreary and vapid Crash) inhabited by gorgeous rising stars and the reverently-viewed veterans of the silent era -- the toast of Hollywood, to be sure. It's a shame that the movie is about as tasteless and undesirable as burnt toast. I am happy that the bloated egos of this era were lampooned so marvelously in Sunset Blvd., a truly great and dark movie about the stupid life of the rich and famous. If this movie had had any darkness, or any twinge of irony, or any sort of joking self-awareness, it might have been redeemable. Its skull-crushing banality and self-seriousness earn it my contempt. Those points were earned by a loving conversation between John Barrymore and a dachshund, as well as a late-in-the-game murder twist (that wasn't even explored very well.)

"You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave." 4/10