By Amy Nicholson
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By Calum Marsh
By Stephanie Zacharek
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By Voice Film Critics
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Alan Scherstuhl
The movie's white-on-white deco sets were once the essence of modernityand so was its worldly attitude. Obviously, Trouble in Paradise, which runs for a week in a new 35mm print to open Film Forum's 34-film Lubitsch retro, could not have been produced after the 1934 Production Code arrived to regulate the fantasy lives of American moviegoers. Hedonism was never more nonchalant. Trouble in Paradise has none of the single-entendre tawdriness or salacious Puritanism that gives pre-Code Hollywood its carnival flavor. Style is substance in Lubitsch's instantly recognized masterpiece: "As close to perfection as anything I have ever seen in the movies," the young Dwight Macdonald wrote in a little literary magazine. Indeed, style is morality.
Trouble in Paradise, adroitly adapted by Samson Raphaelson from a Hungarian play inspired by a turn-of-the-century jewel thief, is graced with a shimmering cast, impeccably streamlined in evening clothes and impossibly clinging gowns. Hopkins's self-amused coquettishness embodies the film's sense of mischief even as the superbly slouching Francis provides a sheen of lazy sensuality. Francis has the bewitching bedroom eyes, but the sly, effervescent Hopkins is the scene stealer; she must literally sit on her hands at one point to keep from swiping Francis's jewelry. ("I wouldn't fall for another man if he was the biggest crook on earth," Hopkins fumes upon realizing that Marshall is about to betray her.)
The Lubitsch Touch
June 13 through July 3, at Film Forum
The Nazi Officer's Wife
Directed by Liz Garbus
Written by Jack Youngelson
Opens June 13, at the Pioneer
At the apex of the triangle, the stiff yet soigné Marshall, often positioned in the frame to show off his profile (or conceal his prosthetic leg), leans forward to inhale his irresistible co-stars, both of whom are experts at swooning on divans. Romance in this movie, which opens with a gondolier lip-synching Caruso on a Venetian garbage scow and has comic secondarios Edward Everett Horton and Charles Ruggles sniffing around Francis in doglike devotion, seems markedly olfactory. Francis is the widow of a French perfume magnate while, to judge from its shine, Marshall's pomade was made for aroma-rama. The sets might have been dusted with talcum powder or confectionary sugar; and then, of course, there's the intoxicating smell of money.
This comedy of jewel thieves is itself the prize sparkler of Lubitsch's enterprising careera ransom that he never quite redeemed. Trouble in Paradise combines the visual glitter of Lubitsch's silent films with the verbal wit of his talkies; it leavens '20s frivolity with a soupçon of '30s class consciousness. Exceedingly fluid for its day, Trouble in Paradise was the director's first non-musical talking picture; cut to sprightly incidental music and paced by playful spoken rhythms, it dances to its own tune. (Later movies would be heavier, even as they sought to amuse.) Never equaled, Trouble in Paradise twinkles like the polestar in the sky above the comedies of Billy Wilder, George Cukor, and (less brightly) Otto Preminger; it anticipates the banter of Hitchcock's To Catch a Thief and North by Northwest. The ultimate nightmare would be a Vegas-set remake with Hugh Grant, Jennifer Lopez, and Gwyneth Paltrow, written and directed by Nora Ephron.
Trouble in Paradise acknowledges itself as a comic mechanism with the repeated use of clocks to structure its precision-tooled gags. Everything is artifice. The gem-encrusted purse that Marshall pilfers from Francis and then returns for the rewardbecoming her private secretary as a resultis only one of several free-floating sexual symbols. Some, like Francis's bed, are not even symbols. Like many of Lubitsch's films, Trouble in Paradise riffs on role-playing and mistaken identity. A passion for theater is at the heart of his cinema, and the bed, always empty, is presented as a potential stage throughout. Indeed, as blithe as it is, Trouble in Paradise is something of an impossible love storyand not just because of the characters' triumphant self-absorption.
The Venetian prologue, wherein Marshall and Hopkins steal each other's hearts, among other items, is a superb mutual seduction. But it is Francis and Marshall's never consummated affair that occasions the movie's most haunting montage: As dreamy Francis murmurs that she and Marshall will have "weeks," "months," "years" together, Lubitsch frames them in a series of distinct shotsside by side, then reflected in Francis's boudoir mirror, and finally as shadows on her satin sheets. It's a master's touch indeed that renders their desire as both ephemeral and eternal.
The phrase "genius of the system," coined by Thomas Schatz to characterize the golden age of the Hollywood studios, might equally be applied to Lubitsch, whose career as a popular artist affords a parallel history of commercial movies from World War I through World War II.
Born in Berlin, the stagestruck son of a tailor not long removed from some Eastern European shtetl, Lubitsch studied with Max Reinhardt and broke into movies at 21 in the persona of a comic Jewish go-getter. One-reel Lubitsch vehicles like Meyer on the Alps and Shoe Salon Pinkus were extraordinarily popular with German audiences; switching to directing during World War I, Lubitsch formed an alliance with the tempestuous Pola Negri, who became, in his movies, Germany's greatest female star.
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