Dreams Are What Le Cinema Is For: Daisy Miller - 1974

DAISY MILLER 1974 lecinemadreams.blogspot.com/2017/09/daisy-miller-1974.html

“Such, my angels, is the role of sex in history” The Lion in Winter(1968) Well, someone could certainly write a book (and a heavy tome it would be) about the role of sex in Hollywood history. Especially when it comes to the influence libidinal urges have had on the casting of films, and the part that sex and sexual attraction has played in the launching and ruination of careers.

During award season, when film industry types conspicuously engage in self-serious discussions in which they refer to one another as "artists," laud the challenges of “the work,” and praising their colleagues, ad nauseum, for their bravery, vision, and artistic courage; one would think that all decisions relative to the making of a film are based on talent and artistic merit elclusively. Closer to the truth (thanks to decades worth of autobiographies, tell-it-alls, and TV talk shows) is that a great many decisions—particularly those relative to casting— generally seem to emanate from below the belt.

When it comes to casting, the Hollywood paradigm has traditionally been that of a patriarchic boys' club built upon cronyism, nepotism, and cliques; its inherent misogyny and sexism feeding into the normalizing of a kind of “vertical casting couch” sensibility when it comes to the relationship between those in power (male producers and directors) and those with relatively little (actresses).

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Few behind-the-scenes Hollywood clichés are as enduring and tiresomely pervasive as that of the movie director who falls in love/lust with his leading lady. Whether it be infatuation (George Sidney and Ann-Margret: Bye Bye Birdie), obsession (Alfred Hitchcock and Tippi Hedren: The Birds, Marnie), love affair (Clint Eastwood and well…everybody), or subsequent matrimony (Steven Spielberg and Kate Capshaw: Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom)—the faces change, but the particulars have the same weary ring: movie contact = movie contract. (I’ll save the male-on-male wing of this phenomenon [director Luchino Visconti and Helmut Berger] for another time.)

An inevitable phase of soundstage lust blossoming into true love is when the fatherfigure/mentor has the impulse to star his muse/protégé in a work of classical literature.

Paramount head Robert Evans acquired the rights to The Great Gatsby for wife Ali MacGraw before she made a literal getaway with her The Getaway co-star Steve McQueen, summarily ending both her marriage and her career. Roman Polanski had a dream of casting wife Sharon Tate as the ruined heroine of Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles before her tragic death.

Director Peter Bogdanovich garnered considerable bad press when, during the making of The Last Picture Show, he fell in love with model-turned-screen-ingenue Cybill Shepherd and wound up leaving his then-pregnant wife Polly Platt (the film’s production designer) and their toddler daughter. The flames of Bogdanovich's and Shepherd's already highly-publicized Svengali scandal were further fanned when the director decided to star his lady love in an adaptation of Henry James’ Daisy Miller.

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Cybill Shepherd as Annie P. "Daisy" Miller

Barry Brown as Frederick Forsyth Winterbourne

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Cloris Leachman as Mrs. Ezra B. Miller

Eileen Brennan as Mrs. Walker

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Mildred Natwick as Mrs. Costello

Duilio Del Prete as Mr. Giovanelli

Adapted from Henry James’ novella, Daisy Miller tells the story of a headstrong, overindulgedyoung lady from Schenectady, New York traveling Europe with her family in 1876. The Miller family: vivacious, gadabout Daisy (Shepherd), bratty little brother Randolph (James McMurtry), and distracted mother (Leachman), are a ragingly nouveau riche clan and the walking embodiment of the ugly American. Uncurious, unsophisticated, and forever talking about everything being so much better back home; appearances brand them modern and outof-step with antiquated formalities, but in actuality they are simply primitive.

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It is Daisy, however (no one calls her by her given name, Annie), imbued with enough beauty, charm, and convivial graces to mitigate her shortcomings, who has learned to turn her forthright baseness into a kind of performance art. A mass of flirtatious affectations and frilly adornments, Daisy is a perpetual motion machine of restive parasol twirling and fan-fluttering, all choreographed to the trill of her own relentless, mindless chatter.

So thoroughly is Daisy a creature of self-interest, that in the restrictive atmosphere of European society and its rigidly-adhered-to codes of conduct and decorum, her guileless impudence might easily be mistaken for nose-thumbing recklessness at worst, proto-feminist rebellion at best. But of course, given Daisy’s thorough lack of awareness—self or otherwise— what we’re really witness to is a display of America’s top commodity and chief export: entitled arrogance.

Our Daisy as you're most apt to find her...mouth wide open and talking a blue streak

While touring Vevey, Switzerland, Daisy meets American expatriate (the name white immigrants have devised for themselves) Frederick Winterbourne; a formal and reserved young man who has lived abroad so long that he is unaware of how thoroughly he has absorbed and assimilated the repressive manners and moral customs of Europe. Ever the flirt, Daisy takes great pleasure in ruffling Winterbourne’s starchy feathers, heedless of the obvious fact that her actions largely succeed in merely confounding him.

As both parties later descend upon Rome, Winterbourne’s cautious courtship of Daisy both mirrors and is impacted by the pressures of aristocratic propriety. Their principle difficulty arising out of Daisy not caring a whit for social conventions and Winterbourne being fairly ruled by them. Though there is mutual attraction, things keep getting gummed up by the nearconstant misunderstanding of overtures and misreading of gestures.

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In this beautifully composed shot, Mr. Winterbourne keeps his eye on Daisy (seen in the mirror behind him, talking to the hostess, Mrs. Walker) while Mrs. Miller prattles away to no one in particular, and Randolph amuses himself with the silverware

Daisy’s greatest sin stems from the fact that she’s a self-possessed fully grown woman who dare bristle at the socially-mandated obligation that she conduct herself like a helpless child.

The confining affectations of propriety that require women to seek male authorization, maternal escort, or societal consent for even the most innocuous activities don’t sit well with the freewheeling Daisy. Thus, it isn’t long before her penchant for doing just as she pleases results in tongues wagging, invitations withdrawn, and puts her reputation and social standing (such as it is) at risk.

The romantic dilemma this poses for Winterbourne, who keeps company with far too many old gossips and is forever second-guessing himself, is whether the mere appearance of transgression is as damning as the actual thing. Winterbourne hopes Daisy is only a recklessly naïve girl and not the fallen woman everyone believes her to be, but things are not helped by his never thawing out enough to honestly express his feelings for her. Nor does Daisy drop her flirt-and-tease façade long enough to be as direct with him in her words as she prides herself as being in her actions.

The outcome of Daisy Miller is foretold by the deliberate names of its characters, the combination of daisies and winter evoking images of growth restricted and certain death.

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Daisy Miller is largely remembered as the film that broke Peter Bogdanovich’s three-film boxoffice winning streak: The Last Picture Show, Paper Moon, What’s Up Doc?. And while critics at the time treated it with more kindness than its reputation would suggest, it was nevertheless a film audiences found very easy to resist.

Part of this, I think, is attributable to something Bogdanovich references in his commentary on this DVD: that Daisy Miller was made several years before the vogue in Merchant/Ivory-style period picture adaptations of literary classics. But as a member of “the public” who was around at the time, I can say that another, and I would say sizable, reason for resistance to Daisy Miller had a lot to do with the public’s oversaturation with the Svengali/Trilby roadshow Bogdanovich and Shepherd treated us to on talk shows and in the press.

Innocent flirt or fallen woman?

Bogdanovich likes to believe that people resented the couple’s happiness. Closer to the truth is that Bogdanovich and Shepherd failed to see how callous and unfeeling their public declarations of love and happiness came across given that everyone with access to Rona Barrett or Rex Reed knew it came at the cost of betraying a pregnant wife and abandoning a child.

True love may have been in flower for this “beautiful people” pair, but us common folk merely saw an oft-repeated Hollywood cliché: neophyte director dumps his lean-years wife for blonde 8/17

goddess starlet at first flush of success. In addition, the public likes to think it makes stars, but Bogdanovich was shoving Cybill down our throats (he produced an ear-torture vanity project LP of his lady love singing songs by Cole Porter), branding her a star before it was even earned.

I’m not sure what Bogdanovich saw when he looked at Cybill Shepherd (likely, the funny, talented actress and singer she eventually grew to be), but at the time, I have to say I saw only a meagerly gifted girl of well-scrubbed attractiveness. She was wonderful in The Last Picture Show, but as a member of a strong ensemble, not star material.

When it was announced that the inexperienced former model was to actually star in Daisy Miller, everyone (except Bogdanovich, apparently) seized on the irony of this well-known Orson Welles idolater in essence recreating those scenes in Citizen Kane where Charles Foster Kane insists upon making his modestly-talented sweetheart into an opera singer for his own ego-driven reasons. No, by the time Daisy Miller made it to the screen, the public not only wanted this couple to fail, they needed them to.

While I recognize it’s unfair to judge a film based on the personal lives of the people making it, I’m also not so naïve as to not also understand that the obfuscation of reality and fantasy is the absolute cornerstone of the Hollywood star system. The public’s interest in Elizabeth Taylor’s real-life scandals helped make many an Elizabeth Taylor clunker into a hit (The Sandpiper), in fact, the studios relied upon it. The only time people in the film industry think the merging of private and professional is unjust is when it bites them in the ass at the boxoffice.

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Winterbourne: "Wouldn't it be funny if they both were perfectly innocent and sincere and had no idea of the impression they were creating?"

Mrs. Costello: "No, it wouldn't be funny."

WHAT I LOVE ABOUT THIS FILM With Daisy Miller, Peter Bogdanovich has crafted what I feel is a handsomely mounted, exquisitely filmed and costumed, and at times, genuinely moving adaptation of Henry James’ short novel. Uncommonly faithful to its source material, not only are the locations precise and the actors fit the physical descriptions of their characters to a T; but the script adheres so closely to the text you could actually follow along with the book while watching the film.

Bogdanovich's cinematic eye is as sharp as ever, and the film never feels sluggish or airless like a great many costume dramas. Daisy Miller is a rarity in period dramas, in that it is also very entertaining and watchable. Its flaws are minor and it plays very much like the oldfashioned period films of Hollywood's Golden Age, when sharp storytelling and keen pacing took precedent over the kind of over-referential stiffness that later came to exemplify films of the genre.

Indeed, so much is so ideal about Daisy Miller that it’s rather a shame my only complaint falls on the weakness presented by Daisy herself. The actress portraying her, not the character.

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Daisy, making friends and influencing people. Not.

With a great deal of humor and style, Bogdanovich has constructed a semi-tragic comedy of manners that feels like Theodore Dreiser American vulgarity meets Edith Wharton British propriety. He finds ample opportunities to dramatize the contrasts between the dreary Eurocentrism of the Miller family and the studied hypocrisy of Americans abroad who have adopted the customs of the British aristocracy.

Interweaving this with a love story that never can get started, Bogdanovich, who clearly envisions Daisy as something of an early suffragette and feminist, still leaves it up to us to draw out own conclusions as to whether Daisy’s independence is the result of a unique brand of Yankee boorishness or an admirable resistance to senseless social constriction.

This societal drama is sensitively and amusingly played out, but what’s lacking is a Daisy capable of conveying even a hint of why, beneath all the flirting and white-noise chatter, she is worthy of the attention James/Winterbourne/Bogdanovich expend on her.

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Watching Daisy Miller, I was left with the impression that the fatal flaw of the film is that Bogdanovich took Shepherd's appeal as a given. Certain that Cybill was "born for the role" and that she and Daisy were one in the same, he simply plops her in front of the camera. Gone is the protective, loving care of the sort lavished on her performance in The Last Picture Show. Here he allows Cybill to merely be Cybill, certain that audiences will find her to be as bewitching as clearly had found her to be. It's a special talent to be able to project one's personality on the screen, Shepherd at this point was simply too green.

PERFORMANCES For a brief moment in time Bogdanovich had wanted to star opposite Shephard in Daisy Miller with Orson Welles directing. While the idea sounds positively bananas, the side of me that loves Beyond the Valley of the Dolls and Showgirls wishes it had actually happened.

In considering projects for Shepherd to star in, Bogdanovich stated that it was down to Daisy Miller and Calder Willingham’s 1972 novel Rambling Rose. Rambling Rose was made into a film in 1991 and garnered an Academy Award nomination for its star, 24-year-old Laura Dern.

I bring this up to illustrate why I think Cybill Shepherd’s largely cosmetic performance in Daisy Miller is what ultimately stops it from being the film it could have been. Shepherd and Dern were roughly the same age when making these films; both stories about naïve young women who innocently threaten the pervasive social structure.

Somber Barry Brown, who committed suicide in 1978, gives the film's best performance; his sad-eyed melancholy fairly aching to be relieved by the life force that is Daisy

Going by type alone, Cybill Shepherd would have been-well cast as Rose, just as Dern would have made a fine Daisy Miller; but to look at what these two actresses do with these roles is to understand the subtle but lethal difference between capable amateur and gifted professional.

Shepherd is not awful in Daisy Miller, she does have her moments. But her performance is largely external and superficial. Saddled with a character who never shuts up and a director fond of long single takes, Shepherd obviously had her hands full. Thus Shepherd can't be faulted if (as my partner noted with his usual perspicacity), after delivering - in machine gun rap - what must be page upon page of dialogue and hitting all those marks, she invariably resorts to hoisting that prominent chin of hers and adopting a look of smug self-satisfaction at having simply made it through the whole thing without having made a mistake. It's clear she's doing the best that she can. Nuance of performance be damned, she remembered it all!

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Try as she might, lovely Cybill Shepherd has but a single, all-purpose expression to offer the camera when it comes in for a closeup. Ideal for magazine covers, it's a non-look that communicates considerably less than Bogdanovich thinks

THE STUFF OF DREAMS As literary heroines go, I find Daisy Miller to be a captivating (if exasperating) heartbreaker. I loved her on the printed page, her deceptively complex, out-of-step-with-the-times character fitting in with the women I fell in love with in Far From The Madding Crowd, Madame Bovary, Sister Carrie, and Anna Karenina. Perhaps because I liked the book so much and because Bogdanovich’s adaptation is so glowingly faithful to it, I can overlook the shortcomings I have about Cybill Shepherd in the role.

As I’ve stated, the film can be very moving at times (I get waterworks at the end, no matter how many times I see it), so perhaps, when I relinquish my desire for what Daisy could have been and allow myself to enjoy THIS Daisy (Shepherd is not without her charm), the emotions and thwarted romance of the story are able to reach my heart.

Mildred Natwick is a real delight in her brief scenes. This amusingly well-turned-out bathhouse is just one of many examples of Bogdanovich adding visual interest to dialogue-heavy sequences

Staying true to his devotion to creating a kind of Orson Wells-type repertory company of 13/17

actors, Bogdanovich features in Daisy Miller a many of the players from The Last Picture Show. Eileen Brennan and Duilio Del Prete went on to join Shepherd in Bogdanovich's next feature, the equally ill-fated At Long Last Love.

Had I seen Daisy Miller when it was released, I'm fairly certain I would have disliked it. In the heat of huge 1974 releases like Chinatown, The Godfather Part II, The Great Gatsby, Mame, The Towering Inferno, and countless disaster films and Oscar contenders (1974 was a biggie!), I'm afraid I wouldn't have appreciated Daisy Miller's small-scale virtues.

When it comes to watching the film today, I'd be lying if I said it didn't mitigate matters considerably knowing that time and cruel fate has mellowed what once seemed so obnoxious and insufferable about Hollywood's "It" couple (Peter & Cybill) and my feelings about the project as a whole. It's easier to recognize and appreciate what a talented director Peter Bogdanovich is when he's not telling us so. Likewise, knowing that Cybill Shepherd went out and studied and ultimately matured into a very good actress and comedienne, that I like her introspective take on her younger self (her autobiography Cybill Disobedience is a great read), and respect her political activism; well...it all goes a long way toward getting me to relinquish my dogged resistance to her professional inexperience as Daisy and simply enjoy the many pleasures this film has to offer.

Funny how time has the power to work that kind of magic.

BONUS MATERIAL

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When in Rome, Daisy and her family stay at The Hotel Bristol. Which also happens to be the name of the fictional hotel where Barbra Streisand wreaks havoc in What's Up, Doc?

From 2004: Shepherd tells her favorite Elvis Presley anecdote on The Graham Norton Show HERE

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Cybill's bestselling 2000 autobiography is available for free download in its entirety on her website HERE

"I have never allowed a gentleman to dictate to me, or interfere with anything I do."

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Copyright © Ken Anderson

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