The Talk of the Town

The Talk of the Town (George Stevens, 1942) One could almost look at The Talk of the Town as being a sequel of sorts to Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, focusing on the judicial branch, rather than the legislative, and with more of a divided heart as to what kind of movie it should be.  

Part of that may be the number of screenwriters involved. Not only is Mr. Smith's scripter Sidney Buchman present, but also Irwin Shaw (both men would feel the lash of the blacklist in the 1950's) and Dale Van Every for story adaptation.  That many cooks typing away may explain the sometimes lurching tone from comedy to romance to high-mindedness to, uh, the underlying plot-line that once-in-awhile gets attended to.

The "main" interest is: who will Nora Shelley (Jean Arthur) end up with, romantically?  Stevens shot two endings and let preview audiences decide. Case closed.

It's the least material aspect to the film in the first place.  The plot involves the burning of a local mill and the framing of mill worker and "activist" (one assumes a unionist) Leopold Dilg (Cary Grant) for arson and the murder of the plant foreman.  Everything is stacked against Dilg from the mill owner calling for his blood in the sympathetic press, to the trial judge being in Holmes' hip-pocket.  Dilg escapes from prison (in a dramatic opening sequence that's a bit out of sync with the rest of the movie) and hides out in "Sweetbrook," the rental house run by his high-school acquaintance Nora, who's trying to get the place in shape for the impending arrival of a temporary lodger, law dean Michael Lightcap (Ronald Colman) who's taking the Summer off to write a book.  This being a comedy, Lightcap arrives early—the night Dilg has stumbled his way in—and Nora has to hide the runaway in the attic, while the police comb the area looking for him.

"Hilarity ensues"

After a restless first night for all—nervous Nora has spent the night in another room and Dilg snores in his attic roost leading Lightcap to advise Nora she needs to do something about her adenoids—the complications begin: Dilg is too restless a spirit and cranky an agitator to to stay cooped in the attic; Lightcap needs a secretary and to keep Dilg under wraps and separated from Lightcap, Nora takes the job; and then, to raise the stakes, a local Senator stops by to tell Lightcap he's being nominated for the Supreme Court.  So, politics being what they are (the same as always), if there's any hint of scandal, oh, like, say, harboring a wanted fugitive in your house, it could hurt the professor's chances of being one of the Supremes (depending on who's in The White House, of course).

Dilg being Dilg, he can't stay under wraps for long, and he's soon hiding in plain sight as "the gardener," and his views of the law leads to some sparring over the letter of the law and how it can conflict with the intent, especially when those intentions are not honorable to the spirit of the law, and Lightcap finds himself embroiled in a conflict of interest, where his cloistered view from his ivory tower looks pretty good in theory, but bares only a conversational similarity to its practical applications in the world of dog-eat-dog. 

That's the meat of The Talk of the Town, but the screenwriters and Stevens must gild it with a "who gets the girl" storyline that will satisfy the jury of the audience.  Stevens let the answer to the question be decided by a preview audience of peers—with nothing decided until the very last second.  With Colman as a sophisticated book-smart professional with a lot of learning to do, and Grant as am earnest dreamer, it's hard to choose, but Arthur is, as always, a delight, finding ways to make the quick-witted Nora flustered, but with the best of intentions and the most charming of choices.   Like the movie, she's a bit of a mess, but an enjoyable one.

Yankee Doodle Dandy

Yankee Doodle Dandy (Michael Curtiz, 1942) Of all the films in James Cagney's storied career, his favorite was his most unusual—not one of his gangster films (some of which revolted him) or his dramatic efforts, but this one, the one that won him his Best Actor Oscar, the musical biography (very loose) based on the life of George M. Cohan.  Cagney always described himself as "a hoofer," starting out as a dancer in vaudeville, and the athleticism did him well in Hollywood.  Cagney's energy, timing, and directness—his grace (even if he was playing a hood)—came from this background, and the compensatory toughness came from his growing up and observing the streets, providing "that unmistakable touch of the gutter," as he eloquently put it in his acceptance speech for the second AFI Lifetime Achievement Award.

Yankee Doodle Dandy begins with Cohan (Cagney) on Broadway playing Franklin Roosevelt in "I'd Rather Be Right" when he is summoned to the White House to receive the Congressional Gold Medal from FDR himself.  The visit gives him a chance to tell his life-story to the President, which is presented in flash-back form, from his early days to performing with his family (Walter Huston, Rosemary DeCamp, Jeanne Cagney) to the lean years when stubbornness gets him blackballed in the theater community, and he has to struggle back to the stage by song-writing,* eventually coming back and becoming the King of Broadway.

It's still startling to see Cagney's dance moves; loose, limber below the waste, and ramrod straight above, his movements alternate between drunken sloppiness that looks like it could severely snap tendons if gone wrong, and stiff-legged woodenness, giving the impression that he's a puppet with the strings cut—not really in control of his own movements (and, of course, he always was—that was the illusion of it all, the mastery of it), but compelled to dance for the sheer energy of it forced him to do so.  It's scary, but Cagney always is.  He is, after all, the guy who shoots people by pumping the pistol forward, as if the movement puts more energy in the bullet to kill faster, make it more definite, more personal.  His gangsters make the guns part of them, rather than just a tool.  

Some of the moves look archaic, compared with the gymnastics-as-dance school today—the leaping and bouncing off a wall (as if there wasn't enough room on stage) looks tame now, even though it amazed me as a kid, but the high kicks I appreciate more, the toe-steps, the tap—all amazing.  And they look spontaneous, which in itself is a marvel.*

It's a feel-good musical about celebrating the spirit of America, which we all do on the Fourth of July.  That it happened during war-time, added mightily to the propaganda potential of it (and, although it's always been denied, might've helped Cagney get rid of the "pinko" label he was being saddled with at the time—my, how times haven't changed).  But, it's a fine achievement, and Curtiz, who's known for hating unused space in a movie frame, overcrowds the stages—every theater-piece for this director was "SRO."  And, although something of an autocrat, with musicals he let loose the reins (something Cagney appreciated) and allowed spirit to flow.  Maybe that's why Yankee Doodle Dandy still seems fresh.


It was voted into the National Film Registry in 1993 for being "culturally, historically, and aesthetically significant."

* Cagney could relate.  He was constantly battling the Warner Brothers brass, at one point suing the production company and staying away.  Jack Warner called him "The Great Againster."

** Evidently Cohan's final tap down the White House staircase at the end, was improvised.

Gentleman Jim

Gentleman Jim (Raoul Walsh, 1942) It's all background in this Errol Flynn vehicle, as the audience focuses on Flynn portraying boxer "Gentleman" Jim Corbett as he serves as point-man (chin variety) for the gentrification of the pugilistic sport.  As we fade in the first rule  of the fight game is "nobody talks about the fight game." Not in polite society anyway.  As it is, floating boxing matches are staged hectically before the police can find out and they regularly end, not with the sound of a bell, but the sound of a gavel in a courtroom.  Once "Johnny Law" gets wind of the fight (or hears the sound of one, they're fairly rambunctious affairs), they descend, the crowd scattering as they round up fighters and fans alike.  It's all strictly word-of-mouth, grudge matches, really, the only civility being those of the Marquis of Queensbury—and anybody who's seen Wilde knows what a toad he was.

But Corbett brings some civility to the hammering blows, even to the point of impressing heavyweight champion John L. Sullivan (Ward Bond), who goes so far as to meet up with Corbett at a post-match soiree to congratulate him for being the man who took him down.  

Walsh contrasts the match fighting (which takes up relatively little screen-time) with Corbett's efforts to rise in the ranks of Society, as well as in the ring standings, learning to exploit his victories to promote himself to the hoi polloi as well as fight promoters.  It's the burgeoning of the age of sports figures as superstars, and not thugs, rising above gutter tactics and championing their skills as valuable commodities to the elite, giving the rich a taste of the hard-scrabble competition they've left behind.

It's a natural extension of Flynn's persona as a cavalier, being the winking bad boy who's naughty to all the right people, but especially to the really bad ones—the jaunty trickster with a gleam in his eye, who'll find a way to get ahead...by left hook or by crook, the competent high-wire artist in marked contrast to buddy Walter Lowrie (Jack Carson, one of my favorite character actors), the lovable schlub who plays pilot-fish to Corbett's shark, never ablt to achieve success, but omnipresent to enjoy it for him.

I Married a Witch

I Married a Witch (René Clair, 1942) A Preston Sturges production (that he quit over differences with the director) partially written by Dalton Trumbo (who quit over his differences with Preston Sturges—maybe he should have waited), this is one troubled flick, and, sadly, it shows.  Where it should be charming, it's merely cloying.  And the off-screen wrangling has an effect among the actors, too.  Joel McCrea (who would have been a better match here) passed on the starring role after his difficulties with Veronica Lake on Sullivan's Travels ("Life's too short..." was his comment) and Frederic March—a better actor and no slouch at comedy (see Nothing Sacred) was inserted.  But, his efforts comes off forced and flat, and Lake's antics off-screen soured any chemistry when the two were photographed together. 

And yet, Lake is great.  She didn't take any of this too seriously—it's a fantasy, after all—and she's that perfect combination of alluring and goofy.*  Her character, a witch named Jennifer burned at the stake during the witch-trials by one of the ancestors of March's character, places a curse on the male family-line to always marry the wrong woman.  By the time, lightning strikes a gnarled tree which frees the spirits (in smoke form), the latest of the Wooley clan is a scion running for political position and on the eve of marrying the starchy daughter (Susan Hayward) of his chief supporter, a newspaper publisher (Robert Warwick).  Everything seems well-orchestrated and on-schedule, prim and proper and corrupt.  What's needed is a little black magic.

And where there's smoke, there's fire.  Wooley and Jennifer "meet cute"...in a burning building—whatever the merits of the film, you can't say it's "formula"—and Jennifer's witch starts popping up everywhere, most notably in Wooley's pajamas in his bed, which makes things...complicated.  Now, that formula we mentioned earlier comes to the fore, when the witch decides to seal the deal with a love potion to ensure Wooley's love for her.  Guess who drinks it?  You don't need magic powers to guess.

Where the film picks up (and actually does catch fire) is in the drawn-out wedding sequence, where Jennifer's manipulations (along with her father's, played in corporeal form by Cecil Kellaway) manage to derail the most staged of political-social weddings and does so four times.**  The wedding singer sings "I Love You Truly," the wedding march begins, and then (boom) something happens and everything gets pushed back to the starting point—"I Love You Truly."  Having to pick up the pieces and re-stage something so elaborate that many times is comedy gold, and Clair and the writers (including Robert Benchley who has a prominent role) keep ramping up the stakes when returning to the ritual, leading to a fine capper involving the ceremony's stodgy wedding singer.

But, then, things turn "charming" again, undercutting the satire and the basic push-pull of organization and chaos.  But, for a brief time, anarchy reigns supreme, turning the greased gears of prominence and political glad-handing into a thudding, shuddering mess, seeing a processional and wanting to pull the rug out from under it.  No wonder Sturges wanted to do it.  And Trumbo?  He knew a lot about witch-trials (but not as much as he would).  Benchley is nicely droll throughout, light on the irony, heavy on the farce.  There's a constant battle between the wisenheimer and the twee and the result is rather milquetoast.  What should have bubbled like a cauldron comes across as rather tepid.

But that wedding section.  It's crashingly good. 


"that perfect combination of alluring and goofy"



* What is it with blondes and comedy?  As much as Hollywood tries to shoe-horn gorgeous blonde-types into drama, some of the most alluring women are at their best doing comedy—Carole Lombard, Grace Kelly, Kim Basinger, Cybill Shepherd, Charlize Theron (all serenely beautiful) were at their best (in my opinion) when they were sly and antic, as if there was something in their DNA (or peroxide) that compelled them to find the "funny" in a situation, especially their own, and blow it up.  One of those little mysteries that occupy my brain in stray moments.

** The bride is played by pre-stardom/America's sweetheart Susan Hayward, who's character is such a straight-laced sour-puss that she has to be reminded by her newpaper-editor of a father to smile at her own wedding, which she manages to do only the first three times.  It's among the collection of running gags in the extended sequence that builds to a satisfyingly disruptive conclusion.

The Palm Beach Story

"The Palm Beach Story" (Preston Sturges, 1942) Why did the maid scream and faint? Why is the bride trying to hail a taxi? Why did the maid scream and faint-again? Why is there a woman bound and gagged in the closet? Why are both the bride and groom late for the wedding? Why did the maid faint--again?

And that's just what happens in the credits!

Sturges is having fun with movie conventions, that is the conventions of screwball romantic comedies that involve the idle rich, the ones that George Cukor liked to direct and Katherine Hepburn liked to star in, where the couple getting married at the beginning of the movie might not be the the couple connecting at the end...or will they? Maybe they'll get back together. Don't like the answer? Wait two hours. It will probably change.

Sturges thinks (rightfully) that if such capricious creatures did hook up, their eccentric screwballishness would self-destruct their union within a matter of months, in which case this is Preston Sturges is making a sequel to "The Graduate" twenty-four years before "The Graduate." Such pairings can't work for love or money: when the money runs out the love goes out the window, and the love isn't enough to sustain a relationship under such pressures.

Meet Tom (Joel McCrea) and Gerry (Claudette Colbert), a cute movie couple who fight like cats and mice. We meet them in the kerfluffle that is the Opening Credits, and when next we see them five years later, they're splitting up. She's an eccentric heiress with a taste for the High Life and has this knack for attracting men—this could be the further adventures of Colbert's character in "It Happened One Night"—and he's an eccentric dreamer who can't make a nickel selling his "Big Idea" of taking those camouflage nets they build over airplane plants and reversing the idea by putting airstrips across the building tops of cities. The kids are broke, and she knows she can always attract some guy lousy with money and relieve him of trying to keep her in the style to which she is accustomed. So, because they're both so headstrong, she leaves and he pursues, all the way to Palm Beach, Florida, where the two (now posing as brother and sister) hook up with two rich-nicks in the Hackensacker clan, played by Rudy Vallée and Mary Astor. The Hackensackers are two of the oddest peas growing up in a single pod: he's bookish and wormy and has never been married, she's flighty and flirty and been married five times. Neither one seems to have a brain in their heads and are all-surface. He's careless with money; she's careless with love. They were made for Gerry and Tom.

But, this is still a screwball comedy, so complications arise, such as the married couple still being a married couple; "This is going to cost us millions," groans Gerry as they go into a clinch.

Sturges is already busting through the movie-screen to hold a fun-house mirror to those romantic comedies. But he still has one or two aces up his sleeve that manages to resolve the situation and still remain true to the "Anything Goes" spirit of them, the "Love is Anarchy" and Convention Be Damned attitude that keeps digging pot-holes into the Path of True Love. By the end, he's created a scenario as convoluted as a Shakespeare play in the classical comedy sense.

The principals are all having fun. Colbert and Astor frolic with their images and McCrea gets to perfect his slow burn. The only dirt in the gears of the fun machine is Rudy Vallée, who plays his role of dunderhead John D. Hackensacker III, as if he was playing it for real. His funny lines are brushed aside, his physical comedy made minor annoyances: one wonders exactly what Sturges saw that he would cast the 20's crooner in such a role—after having guided Henry Fonda expertly in such a role in "The Lady Eve"—and then have the man get a contract from the studio as a result of it. Vallée was a phenomenon not unlike "Pee-wee Herman"—a little goes a long way— and his fame having ebbed to be re-discovered here, he would again fade until the 1960's and "How To Succeed in Business (Without Really Trying)." One wonders where Ralph Bellamy was—he could play guilelessness without sliding into cluelessness. But then, Sturges would often hire dull actors to play the dull love interest.

He's the only fly in this ointment to film comedy conventions. Funny and absurd and a bit surreal at the beginning and end, "The Palm Beach Story" is a fine film to enjoy pre-, post-and during a love affair.

Don't Make a Scene: Shadow of a Doubt

The Story: Thornton Wilder could be pretty dark. Anyone who's seen his stage-plays will tell you that. Which is why his 1943 collaboration with Alfred Hitchcock was a match made in....well, I'm not sure where it was made, but it can't be anywhere pretty, that's for sure. The story of a mentally cracked serial killer who decides to take a cooling-off sabbatical with his Sister's family is a weird tale of family secrets and intuition and of the insinuation of the macabre and the terrible that moves like a black cloud over halcyon small town American life. Forty years later, David Lynch would stake his own plot in this territory. But Hitchcock, with his Wilder inspiration during the war days, turned over enough earth in that regard to last a generation.

The dark joke here is just how easily Uncle Charlie fits into the gentle Santa Rosa domicile. While the Newton family isn't "the Addams Family," they're not exactly the Cleavers (er, bad choice of name) either. Pa and his creepy neighbor (Hitchcock's friend Hume Cronyn) have a hobby of dissecting mystery novels and trying to improve the ways of knocking people off. They're all a bit gossipy, but that's small town for you.

There's tension around the table, too. There's a bond between the two Charlie's—she knew Uncle Charles was coming before the news came out, her restlessness and sense for excitement is a perverse reflection of his vicious vagabond ways. Then there's that "ear-worm," the song that keeps popping into her head, and in this scene shows up in her mother's.* And that's not the only Newton female affected; little book-worm-ish Ann has developed a fear of Uncle Charlie that she can't explain. For the men, there's little Roger's defiant defense of himself that Mom cows and Uncle Charlie is suspicious of. And poor Joe; displaced from the head of the table by Charlie, the conversation is dominated by his wife and brother-in-law to which he can only interject pleasantries and look sheepish at jokes between them he doesn't understand.

Hitchcock keeps the camera moving, picking up reaction shots while conversation goes on—the controlled chaos of the family dinner table. No shot is held for too long, until "The Speech." Then Hitchcock changes the direction the camera is looking to show Uncle Charlie's "other" side; it's a shot from Charlie's point-of-view at the table, which creeps closer and closer as Charles' words grow darker and more malevolent—she knows his true identity now and is fighting against it, and we're seeing the monster that lies beneath the surface. And when she protests Charles' misogynistic rant, she is speaking from the audience's perspective, echoing their own sentiments, only to be rebuffed by Hitchcock's extreme close-up of his face, coldly cutting us down.

We've just been chilled to the bone, but what sort of reaction do Charles' words have around the table? Next to none. Charles' sister prattles on as if nothing happened: "Well, you'd better not talk like that at the meeting..." Everyone else eats. Evil is sitting at their table and no one recognizes it except the one character to whom we are attached. That may actually be more chilling than the sequence itself. We know. We're alone.

The Set-Up: Charlotte "Charlie" Newton (Teresa Wright) is "bored, bored, bored," with her life in Santa Rosa, California, and wants some excitement. Be careful what you wish for. Her mother's brother, Uncle Charlie Oakley (Joseph Cotten), is coming for a visit from the East Coast. Shadowing him are a pair of FBI agents (Macdonald Carey, Wallace Ford) who suspect Oakley of being "The Merry Widow Killer," who's been murdering rich widows for their inheritance. There've been some vaguely troubling things happening since Uncle Charlie came to town (why is he obsessively reading the local paper?), and it isn't long before the agents tell young Charlie their suspicions. A trip to the Library confirms them, and she spends the day in her room, "sleeping" and avoiding her Uncle. A big dinner is planned, and Charlie conspires to spend as little time with him as possible, her relationship with him shadowed by her suspicions.

Action!

Charlie: Mother, let me finish mashing those. I'll fix the rest of dinner and get it all on the table. You go talk to Uncle Charlie.
Emmy: How do you feel, darling?
Charlie: Fine. I must have been tired or something. I slept like a log.

Emmy: Well, your Uncle Charlie was asking for you again. He's awfully fond of you. And that nice young man came twice to ask after you. I told him you were asleep and I didn't want to disturb you.

Emmy(Humming)
Charlie: I'm rested now and ready for anything. Is the gravy made?

Charlie: Why're you humming that waltz? Please don't hum that tune anymore. I've just got it out of my head and don't want it started again.

Charlie: Please remember, don't hum that tune.

Charlie: And don't keep getting up every few minutes. You just sit there and be a real lady.
Emmy: Alright, if you say so, but at least I can carry in the soup.

Emmy: Roger, wash your hands! Joe. Charles. Dinner.
Ann: Mama -
Emmy: What is it? Ann, I told you not to put things behind your ears. And don't pull at me. And don't whisper. When you whisper, anyone could hear you a block away.

Ann: May I sit by you at the table?
Emmy: By me? Why, I should think you'd want to sit by your Uncle Charlie.
Ann: No, I want to sit by you.

Emmy: Why do you want to change?

Charlie: Mother, let her change with Roger if she wants to.

Ann: I asked Roger, he doesn't mind.

Emmy: No, certainly not. Uncle Charlie might think... No, certainly not.
Charlie: Mother, let her change if she wants to.

Emmy: Well alright, but Ann has too many foolish ideas.
Charlie: Go on, go in the dining room, both of you.

Uncle Charlie: Well, what's going on here? Have I lost my little girl?

Emmy: Roger wanted to sit next to you, for awhile and I thought it would be nice if the children took turns.

Roger: I never...
Uncle Charlie: Never what, Roger?
Roger: Nothing.

Emmy: Come, Ann. Come and help me.

Emmy: Joe!
Joe: I brought it in by mistake. Had it in my hands, I guess. Nothing special in it.
- Want to look at the headlines, Charles?
Uncle Charlie: Thank you, Joe.

Emmy: Roger, don't make so much noise with your soup.
Ann: If he holds his lips close together, he could draw it carefully, like a horse.

Emmy: Don't be disgusting.
Roger: Mom, May I dip my bread in it?

Joe: Where's Charlie ?
Emmy: She wanted to serve dinner. - She'll be in in a minute.

Uncle Charlie: You're right, Joe. Nothing special.

Uncle Charlie: Nothing special tonight.

Uncle Charlie: Oh, here she is!

Uncle Charlie: Here's my girl.

Roger: I wonder how many hours you slept?

Roger: If you could tell me the exact minute you went to sleep, the exact minute you woke up, then tell you woke up in between and how long you stayed awake each time you woke up, then I could tell you exactly -

Joe: You won't sleep tonight, Charlie. Nobody who sleeps all day can sleep all night, too.

Charlie: I slept all right, and I kept dreaming perfect nightmares about you, Uncle Charlie.

Uncle Charlie: Nightmares about me?

Charlie: You were on a train, and I had a feeling you were running away from something and when I saw you on the train, I felt terribly happy.
Emmy: Well, Charlie, how could you feel happy seeing Uncle Charles on a train? Emmy: Goodness knows, I don't want to see him on a train. I hope he stays here forever.
Charlie: Well, he has to leave sometime. I mean we all have to realize he has to leave sometime. We have to face the facts.

Uncle Charlie: I like people who face facts.

Emmy: Well, we're not going to face any such facts as those.

Uncle Charlie: Oh, Ann, would you like to see the funnies?
Ann: I'm too old for funnies. I read two books a week. I took a sacred oath I would. Besides, in this family, no one's allowed to read at the table. It isn't polite.

Emmy: Ann! Don't correct your elders!

Uncle Charlie: She's right, Emmy. I'm forgetting my manners. Joe, I'm going to blame this paper on you.

Uncle Charlie: Roger, go to the kitchen, look in the icebox and bring me a big, red bottle you'll find there.

Charlie: You can throw the paper away. Dad's read it, you've read it. We don't need to play any games with it tonight.

Emmy: Ann, you can help Charlie carry in the vegetables. I saw that bottle when I was getting dinner.

Uncle Charlie: You know what St. Paul said...

Uncle Charlie: "Take a little wine for thy stomach's sake."
Emmy: Wine for dinner sounds so gay!

Emmy: Charles! Remember they had the champagne when the oldest Jones girl got married?

Uncle Charlie: This is sparkling burgundy.

Emmy: One sip and I'll be calling it "sparkling burgledy."

Emmy: Maybe I'd better not take any.

Joe: Oh... imported.

Emmy: Charles, Imported Frankie and his tweeds?

Uncle Charlie: And his loaded cane.

Emmy: His loaded everything!

(Emmy, Uncle Charlie Laughing)

Emmy: Roger, go to the cupboard and get four of the small glasses with stems.

Emmy: Charles, I promised Mrs Greene, the president of our club, that you'd talk to the ladies and she wants to know what you're going to talk about.

Uncle Charlie: Well, what am I going to talk about? Lectures usually given them travel or current events, don't they?

Emmy: Oh, not current events. We get current events.

Uncle Charlie: What sort of an audience will it be?
(Cork Popping)

Emmy: Oh, women like myself. Busy with our homes, most of us.
Uncle Charlie: Women keep busy in...

Uncle Charlie: ...towns like this. In the cities it's different. The cities are full of women, middle-aged widows...

Uncle Charlie: ...husbands dead, husbands who've spent their lives making fortunes...

Uncle Charlie: ...working and working, and then they die and leave their money...

Uncle Charlie: ...to their wives, their silly wives. And what do the wives do, these useless women?

Uncle Charlie: You see them in the hotels, the best hotels every day by the thousands, drinking their money, eating their money, losing their money at bridge, playing all day and all night,

Uncle Charlie: ...smelling of money. Proud of their jewelery, but of nothing else.

Uncle Charlie: Horrible, faded, fat, greedy women.

Charlie: But they're alive! They're human beings.

Uncle Charlie: Are they?


"Shadow of a Doubt"

Words by Thornton Wilder, Sally Benson and Alma Reville**

Pictures by Joseph A. Valentine and Alfred Hitchcock

"Shadow of a Doubt" is available on DVD from Home Video.

* It's "The Merry Widow" Waltz. Uncle Charlie has been dubbed "The Merry Widow" Killer by the authorities.

**Alma Reville was Hitchcock's co-scenarist, co-plotter, co-editor, co-conspirator and beloved wife. Sally Benson wrote the book of "Meet Me in St. Louis," as well as the screenplay for...wait for it..."Viva Las Vegas."