Review - Coquette

March 20, 2021

Coquette – U.S., 1929

Time has not been kind to Sam Taylor’s Coquette. The film opens with an exterior shot of a southern mansion, and as we peer inside, we see one of those ill-advised shots so frequently seen in old Hollywood of a black male lazily strumming on the guitar from one of the lower steps of the stairwell. As the day breaks, the camera focuses on a black maid preparing breakfast while decked out in clothes that suggests a film set in the antebellum South. That impression is reinforced by the sudden appearance of a young White teenager who proceeds to chastise the maid for not having his father’s coffee ready and then boasting to his father of having lit a fire in her with his insulting insinuations of idleness. So, yes, you could say the film has its foot in its mouth from the get-go.

Sadly, this is hardly the film’s most distinguishing feature. See, Coquette is based on George Abbot and Ann Preston Bridgers’s play of the same name, which ran in New York City from December 1927 to October 1928, and while none of the cast of Taylor’s adaptation seems to have appeared in the Broadway version, Taylor’s direction seems almost certain to have been inspired by that production. In fact, a common instruction to the cast appears to have been to lift your head and stare wistfully at the back of the room, despite the fact that the person you are talking to is directly to your right. Oh, and be sure to freeze in key positions with your face forward and arms on your hips. Dramatic effect, you know. It is as if they anticipated an ovation or laughter and wanted the commotion to die down before continuing. All perfectly acceptable on stage, but utterly distracting on camera.      

Coquette takes place in an unnamed Southern state in the then present-day. We know this because at a dance, we see a bunch of young people bustin’ a move to the latest swing grooves. Early on in the film, we learn that Norma Besant, the daughter of a successful doctor named John Besant (John St. Polis), has acquired a reputation for being a bit of a “coquette” (flirt), which was apparently such an insult that the mere mention of the word is enough to start a physical altercation. The moniker is not entirely inaccurate, for there’s talk between the doctor and his son, Jimmy (William Janney), of her receiving the attention of at least fifteen young men. The problem is the double standard: There’s nothing wrong with that many young men pursuing the same woman, but shame on the woman for enjoying all that attention.

We meet Stanley Wentworth (Matt Moore), one of Norma’s suitors, early on the film. Stanley is kind, considerate, well-dressed, and apparently successful. He also gets along well with Norma’s father. Therefore, he must be rejected. It’s one of cinema’s golden rules: the irrational choice is always preferable to the rational. And so, Norma sets her sights on Michael Jeffrey (Johnny Mack Brown), an admittedly lethargic gentleman who breaks a date with her because he deems his attire not up to party standards. Somehow that appeals to Norma. When he learns that Norma returns his feelings, he vows to change his ways; to prove his love, he decides to take a job far away in the “hills” (in the mining industry perhaps), work and save for six months, and then return to marry Norma.

Bear in mind, these two have only been a couple for ten minutes, so for this sudden vow of change and commitment to work, the scene must establish the kind of connection that drew Romeo and Juliet together. And it is here that the film fails. Their conversation starts off understandably awkward, as Norma has to come to terms with her newly-discovered feelings, and Pickford plays this realization as well as she can, despite some extremely questionable staging and a few too many gestures from the silent era that proved hard to remove from her repertoire. No, the problem is Michael or rather the way the character has been written. It is hard to see what Norma would see in him. What’s needed are a few more scenes establishing their love; instead, after a confrontation with Norma’s father, the character leaves town, meaning that the entire relationship is based on a fifteen-minute conversation and followed by three months of separation. Perhaps he is an incredibly romantic letter writer.

Coquette is one of those films that diminishes in quality the more I think about it. There’s the annoying way that every scene featuring Jimmie has a variation of the sentence opener I like a girl who; Michael’s incessant eccentricities, which in one scene have him berating himself for not being strong enough to resist returning to see Norma; Michael’s supposedly thoughtful notion that he had better not be alone with Norma because he “can’t control himself”; and the film’s discomfort-inducing subtext regarding just who Norma loves more, her fiancé or her father.

Nevertheless, there is an unmistakable draw to Coquette. Pickford was always a powerhouse in front of the camera, and Coquette gives her some incredible emotional moments to tackle, all of which she nails memorably. St. Polis is also impressive. In what is essentially the Daddy Capulet role, he is controlling, yet caring; emotional, yet honorable, and it is clear that love is, if not the first, the second factor driving his decisions. Also, Moore impresses in the role of Stanley. It is clear that his motivation is making Norma happy, and when she chooses Michael, he does what he can to help it work out, while never completely concealing the heartbroken look in his eyes. And then there’s Louise Beavers. While the role is stereotypical and her wardrobe deeply troubling, Beavers does what she can to make the character more than it is. She roles her eyes at the absurdity of the son and never makes his and his father’s interpretation of her become the viewers’. And then there’s her masterstroke. In one scene, she sits Norma on her lap and gently listens as she details the sordid tale to her, just as a mother would to her daughter. It is an important reminder of the important role that African-American women have played throughout history.

Pickford won Best Actress for her work in Coquette, an award that raised eyebrows given the fact that her husband was president of the Academy and the process by which awards were determined at that time was hardly incorruptible. While her work is fine here, modern critics have often cited Jeanne Eagels work in The Letter as the true acting high mark of 1929. Having seen the two films, I would agree, but few people could say that Pickford wasn’t worthy of some form of recognition given her impact on films in the years before sound. If Coquette works, it is primarily because she creates a character that that we grow to root for. I was with Norma from her initial descent down the stairs until the credits rolled, and no amount of after-the-fact misgivings can change that. (on DVD from Warner Bros. Archive Collection)

3 stars

Review - Madame Butterfly (1915)

November 7, 2020

Madame Butterfly – US, 1915

There’s a scene about a quarter of the way into Sydney Olcott’s Madame Butterfly in which a young woman named Choo-Choo San is woken up by her maid, Sazuki (Olive West). Nothing irregular there, I suppose, but observant souls will notice something rather peculiar: Choo-Choo’s hair is already neatly done, her face is powdered, and her lips appear to have red lipstick on them. Now before you say that movies have always shown the morning to be especially kind to the faces of attractive female characters, that was probably not the motivation of Olcott or anyone else involved in the filming of the scene. They simply had no choice. Imagine the scene shot differently. A maid, upon walking gently into a teenager’s room, softly tells her that the time has come to start the day. The teenager opens her eyes, stretches, and, thinking of the kind foreigner she saw the day before, smiles. And what would we, the audience, be saying? Hey, that’s Mary Pickford!

I don’t mean to suggest that when the film was released, moviegoers didn’t know beforehand who the star of the film they were about to see was. However, for Madame Butterfly to work, we have to accept what is unfolding on the screen as authentic, that the dusty rural streets that the rickshaws are going down are really in Nagasaki (It’s really Plainfield, New Jersey.), that a tea ceremony in which the bride and groom take three rapid sips of tea, is truly representative of Japanese culture, and that Choo-Choo San is really a teenager girl suddenly experiencing her first crush. Seeing the face of America’s sweetheart would ruin all of that, and so, Choo-Choo San can never be seen without make-up, not even when there’s little reason for her to be wearing it. (I suppose they could have simply hired a Japanese-American actress, but that rarely happened in early Hollywood – or in today’s Hollywood, for that matter, but that’s a topic for another day.)

Pickford made Madame Butterfly during her Paramount years, which lasted from 1914 – 1916. She was already a star by then and only made five more films with the company before expanding her resume to include producer. Clearly, she wanted more control and trusted her instincts. With Madame Butterfly, though, they failed her slightly. The story goes that Olcott had originally wanted Pickford to be reserved in her portrayal of Choo-Choo San. When Pickford refused, it is said that Olcott stormed off the set, leading Pickford to proclaim that she would direct the film herself. Olcott eventually returned and cooler heads prevailed, but it is obvious who won the clash. Pickford’s portrayal, much like Paul Muni’s in D.W. Griffith’s 1919 drama Broken Blossom, is rather Western in style – Choo-Choo is fully expressive, independent, and romantically idealistic. In the other words, Pickford plays her as if she were a twentieth-century woman instead of the late nineteenth-century teenager she is in John Luther Long’s 1898 short story.

As for the film itself, it is a bit of a mess. Its pacing is so scattered and off-putting that I’m tempted to say that Olcott was in such a hurry to be done with it that he took a pair of scissors to any scene that was either longer than two minutes or designed to develop the characters. San’s love interest, Lieutenant B.F. Pinkerton (Marshall Neilan), is such a non-entity that it’s hard to believe that San would fall so hard for him. He shows up, smiles a bit, gets annoyed at the guests who attend his wedding, looks serious as he reads a letter from his girlfriend in the U.S., and then leaves, hardly to be seen again. In between, there are one or two tender moments, but these are only loving because Pickford works overtime to make them so. There is little evidence – not in this film at least - that Neilan has a romantic bone in his body. (By the way, Neilan has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, so he was clearly talented.)

Characters come and go in awkward fashion. We meet San’s parents briefly, just long enough for them to collect a handsome dowry and then disown San after her wedding party ends disastrously. There’s also a Japanese suitor (David Burton) who arrives to present himself as Pinkerton’s replacement. In Long’s version of the story, San does not refuse his offer right away, choosing instead to use it to try to make Pinkerton jealous. Here, San spikes his drink, and he leaves in a huff. Later, San comes face to face with Pickerton’s American wife. Instead of being angry at her husband for marrying, impregnating, and abandoning San, wife number two offers to adopt their child. It takes San less than thirty seconds to agree.

Obviously, Long’s version of this conversation and the events that follow it are quite different. But what seems to matter here is getting to the finale, so with the child gone, we watch San wander deliriously to the banks of a river, while intertitles proclaim what follows as a sacrifice for her child. And before you have time to wonder why she has to sacrifice for a child she has already given away, she submerges herself in the water, and the end title appears, concluding the film at the sixty-minute mark.   

The film improves in the second half, and much of this has to do with Pickford’s energetic and emotional performance. Praise should also be doled out to William T. Carleton. Carlton plays the American Consul, and he is the only Western character who seems disgusted by Pinkerton cavalier attitude toward marriage and parenthood. I got the feeling that Pinkerton is not the first American he has come across who lacked a sense of honor or responsibility. Unfortunately, the latter half of the film suffers from scene after scene of San trying to locate a robin. See, Pinkerton had told her he would be back when robins returned, and instead of interpreting the remark as referring to a time of year, San…oh never mind.  

The film is said to have been a box office success, and given its leading lady, I don’t doubt it. I also have no doubt that 1915 moviegoers reacted positively to Pickford’s performance. After all, they could relate to it. Pickford’s depiction of “Japanese” is purely American, requiring no understanding of Japanese culture or social mannerisms to comprehend, and it reinforces the Western notion that American men, even those who use women and then desert them, are so unique that it is better to die than move on from one. Did audiences view the film in this light in 1915? Probably not. Contemporary audiences likely will, though, and Madame Butterfly suffers as a result. (on DVD) 

2 and a half stars

Review - Stella Maris

October 25, 2020 

Stella Maris – US, 1918

At the height of her fame, Mary Pickford chose to make Stella Maris, a film about two women, Stella Maris, bedridden since childhood, and Unity Blake, an orphan. Both young ladies are rather sweet: Stella is greatly delighted by the picturesque views of her aunt and uncle’s vast property, while Unity displays an optimism that many in her situation would have long ago abandoned. The two of them could easily have been the best of friends. Could is the key word there, for other than a few brief conversations, the two rarely interact, and the reason for that is something neither of them had a direct hand in. Destiny saw to it that Stella would not want for anything, while fate put Unity on a collision course with hardship and cruelty. 

Both characters are played by America’s Sweetheart during the Silent Era, Mary Pickford, and Pickford pulls off the trick superbly. Stella is closer to Pickford’s normal role, and the fact that she played it is said to have put the film’s financial backers at ease, for, who, they reasoned, would want to see Pickford look homely and ordinary. Stella is the picture of youthful innocence and cheerfulness, and she is so loved that in one scene neighborhood children dance for her and then line up to give her flowers. She is also visited by John Risca (Conway Tearle), and each time he visits, Stella adopts the persona of a queen being called upon by one of her loyal subjects. John, unreservedly smitten with Stella, plays along, even kissing her hand the way one visiting a princess might. As Unity, Pickford adroitly adopts a distinct personality and alters both her appearance and mannerisms. Unity is timid and vulnerable, yet retains an optimistic streak. A few decades later, she could have been the main character in one of those romantic comedies in which an ugly duckling character blossoms into the beautiful swan after altering her hair style and choice of clothing.

Thankfully, Stella Maris is not that kind of film, yet it is about two characters awakening to the reality that the world can be a cold place. We learn that Stella’s aunt and uncle have successfully kept the real world a secret from her. Her world is one in which food is plentiful, nature is lush and green, and men are princes from enormous castles – in other words, it is a fairy tale. Early on in the film, an operation enables Stella to regain the use of her legs, and soon reality rudely inserts itself. While walking around the garden, she comes across a rather poorly dressed family that hasn’t eaten in three days. It is her first encounter with poverty, and it won’t be her last shock. Pickford plays these moments of awakening perfectly.

Unity, on the other hand, is hardly surprised that life can be cruel; she is, however, shocked by just how malicious it can be. Early on in the film, she thinks she is being adopted, only to learn later that her role is to that of a servant other than a daughter. Things go downhill from there. Her tormentor is Louise Risca (Marcia Manon), John’s abusive, alcoholic wife, and his wife’s actions stir John to give Unity a better home. You would think this would indicate that things are looking up for her, but it should be noted that what she does as John’s adopted daughter is not that different from what she did for Louisa.

There’s much to like about Stella Mars, from Pickford’s stellar performances, the excellent work of Tearle and Manon, and Marshall Neilan’s effective directing to the story’s effective display of the economic divide and the subtle classism of some of the film’s upper class characters. For example, John is reminded that his wife was “a commoner” when he married her and Stella’s aunt is not nearly as empathetic toward the poor as Stella is. It is also interesting that the topic of divorce is never broached, not even after Louise is sent to jail for three years. I suspect the topic - and the public’s possible reaction to it - made studio heads anxious. Maybe it shouldn’t have. Just two years after the film’s release, Pickford and Hollywood A-lister Douglas Fairbanks divorced their spouses and got married; the public’s reaction was a collective shrug.

Unfortunately, photoplayer Frances Marion (or perhaps Pickford herself), working from a novel by William J. Locke, felt the need to devote time to the jealousy that Stella’s dog Teddy develops after a smaller, cuter dog enters the picture. Seeing how dutiful Stella is to the new pup, Teddy conspires to get rid of it. There is even a close up of Teddy as he is apparently hatching the plan. It is a distraction, and it undercuts the tension created by Louisa’s sudden reappearance, as well as Unity’s growing fondness for John. It should be noted, however, that early audience’s generally looked upon such plot lines fondly.

The ending owes a little to Charles Dickens and it is both logical and discomforting. I found myself reflecting on Louise and Unity and wondering what it meant that commoners were depicted as either vicious or undesirable. Sure, Unity is a likeable character and ultimately the hero of the picture, but the film makes it clear that John will never see her the way he sees Stella. And it was jarring to see how quickly John forgets her and how Stella, in spite of her earlier awakening to the brutality of the real world, has no reaction to her actions. Instead, the film ends with her in John’s arms, without even a mention of Unity’s sacrifice. It is as if commoners exist merely to facilitate the dreams of the advantaged.     

Is this an unreasonable quibble? Perhaps. After all, few Hollywood films have really tackled the plights of normal people. It is just easier that way. Characters can fly to Paris at a moment’s notice without having to worry about the higher costs associated with purchasing tickets last minute, can treat their friends to dinner at the fanciest restaurants without fretting about next month’s credit card bill, and can quit a job without having an immediate replacement. However, one of Stella Maris’s key themes is discovery, in particular, Stella’s, and since part of her discovery is the world’s inequality, it is disconcerting that she has no reaction to the fact that her happiness is the direct result of that disparity. A more realistic ending would have had both her and John acknowledge this. Instead, we get the standard Hollywood ending, bliss gained through selective amnesia. How convenient. A pretty good film, but Unity deserved much better. (on DVD)

3 and a half stars

*Stella Maris is a silent movie.

Review - Sparrows (1926)

October 12, 2017

Sparrows – US, 1926

I’m on record as saying that Mary Pickford could do no wrong, and there is nothing in her 1926 film Sparrows that would dispel me of this notion. Nine years removed from her sweet performance as a neglected child in The Poor Little Rich Girl, Pickford, 34 when Sparrows was released, still retained her youthful appearance and all of the charms and syrupiness that came with it. By then, she was no stranger to the type of role she plays in Sparrows, but, in this case, familiarity breeds a feeling of comfortable pleasure. You know what you are getting with her, and it still amazes.

In Sparrows, Pickford plays a young orphan named Molly, known more affectionately to the abandoned or lost children she takes care of as “Mama” Molly. The orphans all live and work on a farm owned by Mr. and Mrs. Grimes, and as you can tell by their moniker, they are hardly the type of people that should be raising children. In fact, early on in the film the swampland that they live on is introduced as the “Devil’s share of creation” with Mr. Grimes as its logical tenant. He has an air of gothic villainy to him, walks with a limp, and has a slight hunch. His land is made up of hog dens, vegetables patches, and an eerie quicksand-like swamp that is described as having no bottom – a fitting metaphor for the Netherworld. Throughout the film, he even references tossing children into the swamp when they either acted up or were no longer of use to him. In other words, he is every bit the kind of dark, oppressive villain that often occupies children’s nightmares.

It’s helpful to bear in mind that two years before the film was released the US Congress had introduced a constitutional amendment outlawing child labor one that was not ratified. This had followed two Supreme Court rulings overturning laws that had aimed to do the same thing. Sadly, it was not until 1938 that child labor officially became illegal. Therefore, Sparrows stands as a view into an America that was still struggling to protect its most vulnerable citizens from exploitation; however, it is also a look into a country trying to find its way on the issue. It is telling that Molly keeps the children’s spirits up by telling them about the goodness of God and repeating, regardless of how bleak their situation is, that they have not been forgotten. Mr. Grimes, on the other hand, is portrayed as a heathen much more concerned with acquiring wealth than achieving salvation. It is clear where the film’s – and by extension the audience’s - sentiments lie.

Director William Beaudine strikes a perfect balance between the film’s lighter, more kid-friendly moments and its much heavier undertones. We see the energy Molly puts into caring for the children, and these scenes have a tenderness that convincingly establishes her as the matriarch of the group. Such moments are interspersed – often in the same scene – by ones of raw emotion and occasional peril. In one of them, Molly works feverishly to nurse a malnourished infant named Amy back to health, only to have to watch helplessly as her condition worsens. A later scene in which we learn Amy’s fate is particularly touching, and I can imagine it bringing more than a few tears to audiences that saw it in the theater.

Much of the first half of Sparrows depicts Molly and the other childen’s daily trials and tribulations. In one of those horribly sweet scenes that you want to slap yourself for being amused by, the children hold a spontaneous competition to see whose stomach is “emptier.” The second half of the film changes the pace significantly. In it, Grimes becomes involved in a major crime, and Molly must become even more of a protector than she has ever been. This involves going on one of the greatest journeys ever put on film, one which retains all of the suspense it had on the big screen in 1926.

Throughout it all, there’s Pickford, smiling, scolding, reacting in ways that transcend the screen. She skillfully navigates the treacherous waters of a film of this sort, one which in lesser hands might feel forced and uneven. She makes us feel Molly’s concern, her love for the children in her care, and the conviction of her faith. Those people who know and understand silent film acting will once again be in awe of what she is able to do in front of the camera.

I suppose I could find something to nitpick about - perhaps the ending - but when a movie works as well as Sparrows does, it just seems wrong to do so. Sparrows is truly one of the greats of the Silent Era – timely in 1926 and a poignant reminder now of what was and still is in some parts of the word. It is a film that director Ernst Lubitsch once praised as “one of the eight wonders of the world.” It is a description that seems wholly appropriate. My only question is this: What are the other seven? (on DVD as part of the Mary Pickford Rags & Riches Collection)

4 and a half stars

Review - The Hoodlum (1919)

September 21, 2017

Hoodlum, The – US, 1919

Mary Pickford had it. By it, I mean that practically indefinable set of qualities that propels someone to that rarefied status that many actors strive for but few achieve – that of the greats. The greats are spoken of with a certain reverence, they impress far after their time has passed, and their movies remain untouched by the erosion and depreciation that years of cinematic changes and the evolution of storytelling can have on them. And even when the films themselves are less than stellar, they are elevated by the mere presence of the star at their center. This is the case with Sidney Franklin’s 1919 film The Hoodlum.

In the film, Pickford plays Amy Guthrie, the pampered and temperamentally challenged granddaughter of Arthur Guthrie (Ralph Lewis), a rich and powerful businessman who believes in crushing his competition and using those in lower classes for his own nefarious purposes. There’s even a reference to framing an innocent man for a crime that his company committed. Guthrie soon invites Amy to go to Europe with him, yet despite her initial excitement – and the thrill of shopping for new travel accessories – she quickly sours on the idea, an act that shows how truly spoiled she is, for only those with a fractured sense of privilege would view such an opportunity as imposing hardship on them. Ultimately she decides to hang out with her father (T.D. Crittenden), a “sociological writer” penning what he refers to as his life’s work, on Craigen Street. Amy reasons that if it’s good enough for her father, it’s good enough for her. She is in for quite a rude awakening.

From here, The Hoodlum becomes a virtual depiction of culture shock. First, there’s rejection, then a quiet acceptance accompanied by an attempt to fit in, and finally full acceptance with a tinge of preference. Modern viewers will recognize the duck-out-of-water plot line and see its twists and turns coming a while away. The film devotes a great amount of time to showcasing Amy’s attempts to assimilate and, unfortunately, not enough time to showing her transformation. Craigen Street has its fair share of suffering and financial hardship, but The Hoodlum lumps all of their experiences into one heartbreaking example of a sickly mother and her impoverished children. And while the moment is startling and abruptly changes the tone of the film, it is also entirely simplistic and seems to suggest that if this one family is helped, the community’s worst suffering has been relieved. The film then quickly shifts from dealing with poverty to the restoration of a wrongly-convicted decent man’s good name.

As I watched The Hoodlum, I was somewhat uncomfortable with its handling of the residents of Craigen Street and Amy’s attempts to fit it. Was the film mocking them through Amy’s use of their vernacular and habits, or was it being respectful by depicting her being like “one of them”? Early on, I sensed it was the former; later on, I adopted the latter view. I was also a bit bothered by the character of Amy’s father. Practically a non-entity in the film – he takes Amy to Craigen Street and subsequently disappears – he seems to be living there for purely selfish reasons. He doesn’t appear to be trying to draw attention to the plight of the poor or influence the actions of the local government. He just wants to write a great story, and he even chastises Amy for putting his efforts at risk. It is telling that we never see him talking to his neighbors or interacting with the local children. Instead, we see him sitting in a mosquito net eating dinner, an image that implies a rather sheltered and cut-off existence. His actions bring to mind the worst examples of “slumming it.”

It would be easy, therefore, to find fault with The Hoodlum, and while I indeed have my misgivings, they seem almost insignificant. This is Pickford’s film, and her energetic presence and stirring looks at the camera make such reservations seem petty. Her performance is a grand showcase of her range – from the pouting young lady we see if the film’s opening scenes to the fun bad-kid character she adopts later on to the mature adult who ultimately chooses right over family. We see her go full circle. In between are some amazing moments. In one, she engages in a Chaplin-esque dance with a man with an umbrella, moving unnoticed in step to avoid the rain; in another, she looks at a family in need, and we see the full expression of her realization of just how much suffering exists outside the guarded walls of her grandfather’s estate. True, the film all too often chooses comedy over drama and some of its characters turn decent on a dime, yet Pickford makes up for it. She does it all, but this is not surprising. After all, she is Mary Pickford. (on DVD as part of the Mary Pickford: Rags & Riches Collection)

3 and a half stars

Review - The Poor Little Rich Girl

June 15, 2017

Poor Little Rich Girl, The – US, 1917

Maurice Tourneur’s The Poor Little Rich Girl is about a sweet young girl named Gwendolyn (Mary Pickford) whose parents neglect her. Her father is too busy making money – or trying to at least - to give his daughter much more than a passing thought, and her mother seems to believe that her social life comes before her child. In fact, this character is so thoughtless that at one point in the film, she celebrates Gwendolyn’s eleventh birthday, but “forgets” to invite Gwendolyn. In another memorable moment, we see Gwendolyn sitting anxiously waiting for her mother to arrive. Her mother, it seems, promised her “a minute” of her day, and she keeps her word - literally.

In their extreme carelessness, Gwendolyn’s parents leave the job of parenting to the servants, and they could not be any different from those that graced the pages of Little Orphan Annie or danced to Annie’s arrival in either of the comic’s film adaptations. Rather, all but one of them go through their days with nary a smile or laugh, and frowns greet Gwendolyn practically every time she looks in their direction. Perhaps most disturbing is the amount of shaking they do. Their idea of discipline is to place restrictions on every aspect of Gwendolyn’s life, and when she goes against their tyranny, to shake, scare, and shame her. It is a child’s nightmare.

In a more honest movie, Gwendolyn would suffer from depression and have a number of angry outbursts, perhaps designed to get the attention of her intentionally oblivious parents. However, in The Poor Little Rich Girl, Gwendolyn remains relatively chipper and upbeat in circumstances that would overwhelm many of the most well adjusted children. Gwendolyn often rubs her mistreatment off, smiles infectiously, and finds a way to turn negatives into positives. A few times she even finds a way to play with some of the neighborhood children, even though it is strictly forbidden. It is a fairy tale version of a horrendous scenario, and, filmed today, I have no doubt that The Poor Little Rich Girl would look remarkably different.

And yet, the film is still immensely watchable, and the credit for that should go to Pickford. Known at the height of her fame as America’s Sweetheart, Pickford is widely considered to be the first female international superstar, and all of her talents are on display here. She has a natural sweetness that draws audiences in and reassures them that there is goodness and decency in the world. Pickford’s Gwendolyn is not rebellious or conceited, she doesn’t lash out at the adults who lash out at her, and her motivation is something that everyone can relate to. After all, what human being can’t relate to a film that presents children as just wanting a better relationship with their parents? Gwendolyn does not challenge the family hierarchy – she reinforces it, and even when the film turns slightly dark towards the end, it does so in a way that will invite children’s awe and wonderment, not frighten or startle them.

The Poor Little Rich Girl is a product of its time, a safe, unchallenging look at childhood that takes no chances and presents no obstacles to viewers. And as such, it has likely lost some of what once made it so beloved. After all, ours is a culture that has embraced slightly darker versions of reality. Personally, I found the film immensely watchable, yet was surprised to learn that it was selected to the National Film Registry by the Library of Congress in 1991. Not pleasantly surprised, mind you. It’s more like looking at a list of the best films of all time and seeing one on it that makes you do a double take. You know, the kind that makes you immediately think of all of the other films by a director or starring a legendary performer that they could have chosen. You understand the sentiment, yet question the selection. The Poor Little Rich Girl is one of those films, good, but I’m pretty sure that Pickford made much better ones. (on DVD and part of Milestone’s Mary Pickford Rags and Riches Collection)

3 stars