Richard Powell, on whose novel this movie is based, certainly knew his Philadelphia in the early 20th century. It was tradition bound in the sense that some coastlines are iron bound. And everything that deviated from that tradition was kept under cover because it was a quiet city. No scandals, no engaging corruption, no roguishness. You have to read E. Digby Baltzell's "Puritan Boston and Quaker Philadelphia" to understand the historical roots of this self-effacing character. Powell got the education part right too. The elite of Philadelphia send their sons to Princeton. If the kids go into a profession, like law, medicine, or finance, they revert to the University of Pennsylvania, which happens to have the best professional schools in the business. Those traditions seem to be dying now. The Main Line mansions that once housed people of class like Grace Kelly are now owned by basketball players and people of that ilk. Watching this movie is like looking into a time capsule.
The film gets that part right, and that's about it. Otherwise it resembles any other sprawling trans-generational epic story in which people make mistakes then after many travails find themselves again. Family secrets, idealists turned cynics, bastardy, money, social class, love, rebellion, marrying the wrong person, multiple subplots, chicanery, other assorted familiar mishigas -- it's all here.
I mentioned that the movie was like something that ought to be in a time capsule and that's true in more ways than one. Everything we see on the screen is old fashioned. The direction by Vincent Sherman has no pizazz whatever, not a nod in the direction of modernity. Staging is strictly functional in the sense that nobody gets in front of anybody else, and when a reaction shot is called for the editor lingers on the face for a few extra seconds to make sure we get the point. The photography is high key and has lots of fill and comes out flat. (In stark, and even welcome contrast to many of today's films in which even hospital operating rooms are in deep shadow except for the actors' faces and the hole they are bent over and peering into.) Everything seems to be shot indoors on a sound stage with perfunctory furniture and accessories. The makeup turns a pseudo-elderly Brian Keith Irishman into a caricature of Boss Tweed. The wardrobe completely lacks either realism or originality. (A butler appears on the witness stand -- dressed in his butler suit. Barbara Rush is decked out, in all seriousness, in a turban -- in 1959! I am anything but an expert on haute couture but turbans belong on Gale Sondergaard in a 1944 Sherlock Holmes movie.) Despite all the dialog about cash and custom, there is no sense of place. The story might have taken place in almost any big city and might have been shot at any time between 1935 and 1950.
As for the performers, Paul Newman doesn't do a bad job but neither is there any Paul-Newmanness in his acting. He looks at the floor, hits his mark, speaks his piece, and is done. The people who come out of this the best are perhaps Otto Kruger, an old smoothie himself who has been through this sort of thing many times before, and Robert Vaughan in a juicy supporting role. John Williams, in his umpeenth role as a lawyer or investigator of some kind, also comes out ahead.
There are a couple of scenes, though, that stick in the mind. Alexis Smith, no longer a spring lamb, looks yummy and when she is consumed by horniness and tries to crawl into Paul Newman's bed at night he weasels out of the complicated business in such a way as to leave her breathless with gratitude.
Newman's explanations to the dotty Billie Burke about how she can easily avoid paying taxes on some stock she owns and some charitable contributions she makes was, I thought, quite instructive. If it left me saddened, and it did, it was only because I am so poor I don't pay any taxes and so those kinds of shenanigans were of no more than intellectual value to me.
There's a short courtroom scene (only one witness: the snooty butler) that wraps everything up neatly and resolves all problems. It's hardly gripping, although the stakes are high. If you're in the mood for this kind of film, it ought to be satisfying enough, but I wound up with a sense of despair at all the opportunities that were simply thrown away because no one seemed to be paying attention.
The film gets that part right, and that's about it. Otherwise it resembles any other sprawling trans-generational epic story in which people make mistakes then after many travails find themselves again. Family secrets, idealists turned cynics, bastardy, money, social class, love, rebellion, marrying the wrong person, multiple subplots, chicanery, other assorted familiar mishigas -- it's all here.
I mentioned that the movie was like something that ought to be in a time capsule and that's true in more ways than one. Everything we see on the screen is old fashioned. The direction by Vincent Sherman has no pizazz whatever, not a nod in the direction of modernity. Staging is strictly functional in the sense that nobody gets in front of anybody else, and when a reaction shot is called for the editor lingers on the face for a few extra seconds to make sure we get the point. The photography is high key and has lots of fill and comes out flat. (In stark, and even welcome contrast to many of today's films in which even hospital operating rooms are in deep shadow except for the actors' faces and the hole they are bent over and peering into.) Everything seems to be shot indoors on a sound stage with perfunctory furniture and accessories. The makeup turns a pseudo-elderly Brian Keith Irishman into a caricature of Boss Tweed. The wardrobe completely lacks either realism or originality. (A butler appears on the witness stand -- dressed in his butler suit. Barbara Rush is decked out, in all seriousness, in a turban -- in 1959! I am anything but an expert on haute couture but turbans belong on Gale Sondergaard in a 1944 Sherlock Holmes movie.) Despite all the dialog about cash and custom, there is no sense of place. The story might have taken place in almost any big city and might have been shot at any time between 1935 and 1950.
As for the performers, Paul Newman doesn't do a bad job but neither is there any Paul-Newmanness in his acting. He looks at the floor, hits his mark, speaks his piece, and is done. The people who come out of this the best are perhaps Otto Kruger, an old smoothie himself who has been through this sort of thing many times before, and Robert Vaughan in a juicy supporting role. John Williams, in his umpeenth role as a lawyer or investigator of some kind, also comes out ahead.
There are a couple of scenes, though, that stick in the mind. Alexis Smith, no longer a spring lamb, looks yummy and when she is consumed by horniness and tries to crawl into Paul Newman's bed at night he weasels out of the complicated business in such a way as to leave her breathless with gratitude.
Newman's explanations to the dotty Billie Burke about how she can easily avoid paying taxes on some stock she owns and some charitable contributions she makes was, I thought, quite instructive. If it left me saddened, and it did, it was only because I am so poor I don't pay any taxes and so those kinds of shenanigans were of no more than intellectual value to me.
There's a short courtroom scene (only one witness: the snooty butler) that wraps everything up neatly and resolves all problems. It's hardly gripping, although the stakes are high. If you're in the mood for this kind of film, it ought to be satisfying enough, but I wound up with a sense of despair at all the opportunities that were simply thrown away because no one seemed to be paying attention.