Summer Romances (pt. II)

The Long, Hot Summer

A Bigger Splash

Happy Summer, my sweltering friends. As I type this blog, even from my air conditioned room, I am sweating, because we are in the deepest, thickest, heaviest, hottest part of Summer. Living in Texas typically gives me a unique perspective on the misery of this looooong stretch of hot months, but the entire world is currently experiencing a horrendous heat wave, so I’m not entirely alone in my suffering. Along with the screaming of cicadas and the scorching of sunburns, my seasonal affective disorder is unavoidable in the Summertime, so I’ve learned to live through it with my favorite coping mechanism: watching movies. Despite my proclivity for feeling perilous during this hellish season, I can still understand why so many steamy, sultry romances are set during this time. But when a Summer Romance is a little bit off-kilter and a little bit darker, that I can really understand. That’s why my last round of Summer Romances were not straightforward or even that romantic… Mississippi Masala was a tapestry of cultures and history wrapped up in eroticism, and The Talented Mr. Ripley was about deception and class dynamics as well as Matt Damon and Jude Law’s white-hot chemistry. So, for my next Summer Romance selections, I wanted to maintain this vibe of intimacy and grit, tenderness and intensity, and I’m happy to say that both of tonight’s films delivered—on both complexity and sex appeal.

Let’s begin with a film that, when I recall the bits and pieces and flashes of Paul Newman’s body I remember seeing as a child, seemed a lot sexier, this is Martin Ritt’s 1958 film The Long, Hot Summer. As an English major born to two native Mississippians, I am unfortunately quite familiar with the heavy-handed prose of William Faulkner, and while he had a few good quotes in his career, his writing just isn’t my cup of sweet tea. The Long, Hot Summer is an amalgamation of Faulkner’s novella Spotted Horses and his short story Barn Burning, that takes major inspiration from Tennessee Williams’ play Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, allllll Frankenstein’s-monstered together by screenwriters Irving Ravetch and Harriet Frank Jr. And though I tire of overwrought Southern dramas, I would do just about anything for Paul Newman. The film opens on a large, lonely barn just as it begins to catch fire, and the blaze quickly gets out of control. We then cut to a general store, where the smallest makeshift court of law decides that a young man named Ben Quick (Newman) is guilty of barn-burning, and is therefore exiled from town. He takes a boat from one stretch of Southern nowhere to another stretch of Southern nowhere, and eventually hitches a ride with two gorgeous girls in a gorgeous car, headed for a town named Frenchman’s Bend, Mississippi. One of the girls, Eula (Lee Remick), is giddy to see such a handsome, mysterious man, but the lady behind the wheel, Clara (Joanne Woodward), is less impressed with this sweaty, dirty stranger, and drops him off in town the second she can. This quaint community is actually booming and bustling with people, and every business has the name “Varner” on it, so Ben rightfully assumes that he’ll have to speak with the domineering Varner if he wants a job and a place to live. Meanwhile, Clara and her friend Agnes lament their single-hood over iced tea as Eula shows off her shopping haul to Jody (Anthony Franciosa), her husband and Clara’s brother. “It’s unnerving having all this time on my hands, I wanna rush home and fix supper for some big, handsome man”, Agnes bemoans—and no stringing of words has ever been less relatable. Though strong-headed and content, Clara, too, yearns for a man that won’t be scared off by her fierce sense of independence, or her theatrically-aggressive father. Right on cue, the dirty, mysterious stranger Ben Quick comes walking up to the sprawling Varner estate in search of work and lodging, but first finds unmistakable chemistry with Clara. When the infamous Will Varner (Orson Welles) finally emerges, red-faced and rotund and fresh off an extended hospital visit, his first order of business is to be driven around town, blaring the Sheriff’s horn, greeting his subjects like a king. His next order of business is to visit his mistress(?) Angela Lansbury, and HE tells HER that SHE’S gotten fatter, with not so much of a wink to her or the audience. That’s not central to the plot, I just wanted to mention that. By the time Varner agrees to give Ben a job, he’s already made himself at home in a shack on the property and gotten to work, immediately showing that he won’t be intimidated into submission like the rest of this town. Varner is seemingly charmed by Ben’s chutzpah, and though he flirts with him more than Clara does, Varner seems hopeful that this may be the man who finally makes an honest woman out of his decrepit, 23-year-old daughter. Clara won’t be tied down that easily, but Ben seems to delight in the idea of trying—though as their connection deepens, so do the townspeople’s suspicions. The Long, Hot Summer is a feverish, foolish, fountain of soapy drama that could’ve had the sexiness and the stakes turned up a bit higher for my taste. And while all of the patronizing, ass-slapping, cheek-pinching, classically-1950s sexism was tough to watch, what really got on my nerves was the fact that this film is less focused on Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward’s chemistry and far more concerned with Orson Welles YELLING. Any compelling drama or tension that is offered in this film is between the two romantic leads and their will-they-won’t-they magnetism, and yet so much time is spent on Orson Welles, hooting, hollering, and doing a Colonel Sanders impression that was far better suited for a stage performance and not one for the screen. The majority of this cast was comprised of young students from the Actor’s Studio, and yet they displayed stronger, more nuanced and believable acting abilities than the man who is often heralded as one of the greatest filmmakers and performers of all time. Leading man Paul Newman became a bit of a muse of Martin Ritt’s while teaching Newman at the Actor’s Studio—a job Ritt sustained after he was blacklisted from Hollywood during the McCarthy reign of terror—but Ritt’s most impressive feat was taming Orson Welles. Welles was, unsurprisingly, quite difficult to work with: sweating profusely underneath the prosthetic nose he insisted on wearing, refusing to learn his lines, offering everyone unsolicited feedback, and by the time Martin Ritt made it into post-production, he feared no one would be able to understand a word Orson said (thankfully, subtitles are widely-accessible now.) And though Welles eventually acknowledged and apologized for his treacherous temperament on that set, he later said that he hated every second making that movie, and only took the part because he was, and remained to be until his death, in an immense amount of debt. Just as I’d figured, Paul Newman was the best part of The Long, Hot Summer, and any time he uttered a suggestive phrase or simply threw a devilish look Joanne Woodward’s way, I couldn’t help but swoon. That’s what I want out of my steamy, Summer romances—palpable chemistry between red-blooded, ravishing human beings that nearly jumps off the screen and (in this case) leads to their eventual marriage. And don’t get me wrong, I had a good time with The Long, Hot Summer, just be prepared for what you’re signing up for. Because while its poster promises young love and thrills and a sexy, smoldering Paul Newman, what you mostly get is an Orson Welles stage play.

Another curious, sexually-charged film with a deceptive poster and plenty of secrets is tonight’s next film, from one of my favorite contemporary auteurs and emperors of eroticism, this is Luca Guadagnino’s 2015 film A Bigger Splash. If you’ve seen Call Me By Your Name, you know that Summertime in a Guadagnino film is something truly special and unique. Somehow the sizzling of cicadas isn’t as cacophonous in his films, and every body of water and body of a person looks too dazzling to ignore. He impeccably showcases the slow, lazy, sometimes strange, kinda nothing days that make up a Summer of someone of privilege, and A Bigger Splash’s Summer malaise also came with a side of scintillating, scandalous mystery. A Bigger Splash introduces us to Marianne Lane (Tilda Swinton), a famous rockstar who is currently vacationing in an isolated villa on the small Italian island of Pantelleria, resting her voice alongside her partner, the dashing filmmaker Paul (Matthias Schoenaerts.) They blissfully, peacefully sunbathe nude, make love to each other, take a dip in the pool, and enjoy each other’s mostly silent company, until someone’s phone rings and their entire Summer shifts. On the phone is Harry Hawkes (Ralph Fiennes)—manic music producer, loud lothario, and Marianne’s ex lover—and he’s on his way to interrupt their idyllic, sandy getaway since he was already in the neighborhood, aka Rome. Harry jolts into this couple’s life with an explosion of energy, stories, and did he forget to mention his long, lost daughter Penelope (Dakota Johnson) was coming, too? His friendliness is frenetic, his ideas are chaotic, and almost immediately it seems that Harry and Penelope have overstayed their welcome. Before Marianne and Paul can react, Harry has set their itinerary for the evening, and weasels his way into a stunning and secluded cliffside restaurant by namedropping Marianne, who is still trying to maintain her vocal rest and anonymity as much as possible as she rasps to the waiter, “I’d love a daiquiri.” Harry talks a mile a minute and desperately wants Marianne to speak too, but Paul insists that she save her voice and rest—two things Harry knows nothing about. The next day, Harry is already gutting a fish and preparing to cook it, making a mess in the kitchen, and has invited over two more strangers to party because, “You’re not speaking, so I had to make other plans!” As the day drags on, laps are swum and drinks are drunk, and Harry plays record after record, regaling everyone with tales of his associations with various bands and music legends, with Marianne, Paul, and Penelope quietly tolerating it all. We are also intermittently shown flashbacks to Marianne and Harry’s drug-fueled past, and the moment that Harry introduced Marianne to Paul. Harry makes eyes at Marianne, Penelope makes eyes at Paul, and the dynamics between the four only become more complicated as the film goes on. A Bigger Splash was funnier, kookier, sexier, and darker than I expected, and though I’m well-versed in erotic thrillers, this one still had plenty of surprises that I didn’t see coming. And though this film is often compared to Jacques Deray’s 1969 film The Swimming Pool, Luca says this film was mostly inspired by David Hockney’s painting A Bigger Splash. It was a thrill to see Ralph Fiennes and his nudist, hedonistic Cat-in-the-Hat energy, and a fun change of pace to see Tilda in such an understated and quiet role. Luca always has a way of finding unassumingly sexy people, like Matthias Schoenaerts, and his depiction of Italy is immaculate and dreamy. Of course, I thought Dakota Johnson’s role could’ve been played by anyone, but I’m also aware that any criticism I lob at this nepo baby playing a nepo baby is just going to come off as bitter jealousy, because truthfully I would’ve loved to have played this role. To be a witness to Ralph Fiennes’ madness and Tilda’s custom-made Dior wardrobe within a Luca Guadagnino Italian Summer adventure? That’s the dream. But I will say, as much as I enjoyed A Bigger Splash, I did not expect there to be many parallels between it and The Long, Hot Summer beyond the Summertime sexcapades, but there was just a dash of that same sense of patriarchal ownership of women here—which I didn’t love! I still enjoyed both of tonight’s films, even if they both had a tendency to highlight the melodrama over the sex appeal. Well that’s enough sweaty stimulation for one evening, but I thank you for stopping by and indulging me in my niche cinematic interests once again. Until next time, stay cool 🥵