The Mankiewicz Dispatches: NYFF52. A LETTER TO THREE WIVES.

A LETTER TO THREE WIVES

Synopsis: An ex-farmgirl, a career gal and an ostensible golddigger are served notice by their Rockwellesque small town's exemplar of womanly perfection that she has indeed made off with one of their husbands. But. Which. ONE???

Mank recieved his first Oscars for writing and directing this flick, basically a two-hour gossip session writ large, and exactly that much fun, intoxicating and surprising. It was the first time, I believe, that Mank employed the three-narrator structure, something he'd return to with great success in the following year's ALL ABOUT EVE and 1954's THE BAREFOOT CONTESSA (now that'd be a triple bill!). Mank had featured strong women in his narratives prior to this flick, most notably as producer of the Kate Hepburn vehicles THE PHILADELPHIA STORY and WOMAN OF THE YEAR, and as Gene Tierney's steward on THE GHOST AND MRS. MUIR. Here though he turns the proceedings completely over to them, using a humdinger of a plot device, a whodunnit that's more a who-left-who, to unfold the individual life stories of the three leads, to endear them to the audience by focusing on their intelligence and their grit. Jeanne Crain's US Naval reservist has served her country proudly in WWII, if only to find the adjustment from farm life to war more easily made than that of war to suburban social circles. Ann Sothern's radio writer maintains breadwinning status and a happy marriage at a cultural moment unwelcoming of such an arrangement. Linda Darnell might be seeking status and success, but she only believes she's sold a part of herself off to attain it, surprised at the sudden appearance of the substantial woman she's made of herself. All three actresses knock it out of the park, Sothern and Darnell in particular, if not because they possessed a bit more moxie than Crain than because their characters do.

The men fare fairly as well, Jeffrey Lynn as Crain's husband come across a bit milquetoast, but again the contest might be an unfair one, as he's teamed with a pair of charisma-minters named Douglas: Paul and Kirk, unrelated. The former is a gruff businessman, a master of men who is servant to wife Darnell. His name says it all: Porter. The latter spins charm on a loom as a poorly paid schoolteacher, loose and confident, but ever ready to swing away whether with fists or wits when dared to defend his masculinity. They're aces, but this show belongs to the wives, their bonds tested as surely as their confidences, in themselves and each other, when their very identity is threatened by the departure of their other halves. It's still refreshing to see female characters from this period not collapse into a ball of melodrama at the suggestion that their mariage might be finished. Indeed, when the film's mystery has been seemingly resolved the lead's reaction is one of stoicism, not hysteria. They are the strong in this narrative, the three pillars that the film rests upon, its ebullience and its heartbreak.

If women are the film's heroes, however, what to make of its villain, also a woman, the disembodied voice known as Addie Ross. She is meant, presumably, to rep the fear of perfection not one's own, here of the feminine variety. Is this perfection the reason none of the men ultimately choose her, favoring flesh and blood iterations, admittedly loving the flaws of their spouses, a byproduct of their humanity. Addie seems a cruel creation though, from the same imaginations that brought such positive visions of womanhood to the screen. She is denied visage, warmth. Even motivation would be a flaw in this otherwise ideal, so her narrative voiceover is granted none. She exists simply to provide disquiet, to threaten the principals and their status quo, making of her a typically and unfortunately hateful representation of the gender. Perhaps Mank, screenwriter Philip Dunne and original writer John Klempner were saying something depeer about a particular brand of postwar suburban treachery rather than employing a hackneyed siren stereotype. In any event we are meant to cheer her failure at film's end, toasting with full martini glasses while she, or perhaps her essence, is denied an unbroken one.

Next up: 1958's THE QUIET AMERICAN and 1953's JULIUS CAESAR. Tonight at the Howard Gilman and Francesca Beale Theaters. Follow my exploits at www.NitrateStock.net for full coverage of the NYFF52 Revivals series and the Mankrospective. Excelsior!

- Joe Walsh