The Philadelphia Story

For years I've recoiled at Katharine Hepburn's name the way some people do at hearing Megan Fox or Shia Labeouf. The more of her work I watch, however, the more my revulsion fades, and the more my tolerance (if not love) for Kate grows. Maybe catching some of her later films first, when she devolved into self-parody and John Wayne-ish laziness, ruined it for me? Certainly I'm in no hurry to revisit The Lion in Winter and find out.

Hepburn did her best work in comedy, where her imperious attitude and brittle wit were perfectly served. George Cukor's The Philadelphia Story (1940) is a case in point. Teaming Hepburn with frequent co-star Cary Grant and newly-minted leading man James Stewart results in a classic (if sometimes problematic) comedy of manners.

Philadelphia socialite Tracy Lord (Katharine Hepburn) is about to marry a self-made mining boss (John Howard) and the tabloid press smells a story. Writer-turned-gossip columnist Macauley "Mike" Connor (James Stewart) is assigned to cover the wedding, much to his chagrin, with the help of photographer/paramour Liz (Ruth Hussey) and C.K. Dexter Haven (Cary Grant), Tracy's ex. Tracy is hostile towards these interlopers, but they help her discover there's more to happiness than contrived perfection.

The Philadelphia Story is a cracking good comedy. Donald Ogden Stewart's script is cleverly constructed, with its sharp character development and subversion of genre tropes. The film lacks expected set-pieces, developing the story through observation and character interaction, all culminating in a Shakespearean impromptu wedding. There's an endless ream of clever dialogue, though the precocious supporting cast is a bit much at times. The charming cast handles even the smallest moments, the most insignificant lines with perfection: James Stewart gets a huge laugh spinning a chair and uttering "Whee!"

Philadelphia covers familiar screwball ground but is weightier than most. The movie's egalitarianism cuts both ways, viewing "snobbery" as something not confined to class or income. Tracy's impossibly high standards (for herself and others) lead to personal grief and loneliness. Mike's a talented writer understandably frustrated by his beat, but his prejudice towards high society is first ridiculed (by the Lords themselves) and then dispelled. George's ultimate crime is being a humorless doofus. Better to pursue imperfect happiness than a false ideal of "perfection."



The message gets flubbed a bit. Three different characters pontificate on Tracy's "goddess"-like hauteur in five minutes, I suppose to benefit slower viewers. And yet the ending seems to undercut this, contriving to match the most obvious pair. It's easy to talk about class tolerance, harder to prove it when your pretty heiress ends up with a glamorous playboy. I feel like a grouch for complaining but it still struck the wrong note.

Katharine Hepburn owns the film, overshadowing her co-stars. The part is tailor-made for her, a veneer haughtiness and wit masking inner vulnerability. Hepburn pulls her character off wonderfully, snapping off Ogden Stewart's dialogue while making Tracy's self-doubt and inevitable conversion credible. Tracy's certainly one of Hepburn's most endearing characters and arguably her best performance.

James Stewart won his only Oscar for this film, a year after his star-making turns in Destry Rides Again and Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. He's amiably charming with an undemanding character, if not Best Actor-worthy. Cary Grant gets a weak role, recycling his spurned husband schtick from His Girl Friday. Ruth Hussey gets some arch repartee as Stewart's photographer pal. The supporting cast is adequate but none really standout, aside from the obnoxious Virginia Weidler.

The Philadelphia Story is a definite winner, a comedy that combines charm, observation and wit. And hey, maybe I was wrong about Kate Hepburn after all.

I may take a break from "the Love" and find an action movie to watch today. Stay tuned.