This is the beginning of a blog series in which I’m going to try to get back in the habit of writing about cinema (which I did a lot in college) as well as getting practice in for designing arts promotions (which I do regularly). I decided to start with 1940’s The Philadelphia Story because it was back in theaters last week, and I think I sighed at the end, it was that good. Also, *SPOILER ALERT* for anyone wanting to see the film without any knowledge of the plot.

I saw The Philadelphia Story for the first time in the summer of 2010.

Eager to expose myself (wait, what?) to the art I’d theretofore neglected, I saw a shabby DVD case on a library shelf and took it home to share with a few friends whose favorite films starred Jimmy Stewart (It’s a Wonderful Life) and Cary Grant (Bringing Up Baby).

It never made it off the cutting room floor for us, as they say. I tried watching it in advance to gauge how well it would go over in a social setting, and deemed the pacing too slow to hold the attention of a gaggle of eighteen-year-olds (read:me) for the full runtime. I think we ended up watching Singin’ in the Rain again.

In any case, I didn’t think about The Philadelphia Story again until I found it on my computer a year later, and, in the same way one idly eats whatever mediocre snacks appear in the course of daily life– simply because they’re there– I interrupted my unenthusiastic attempt at homework to commit to watching it.

To be fair to eighteen-year-old me, the early exposition scenes of the film are oddly constructed. George Cukor, whose work I adore almost without exception, introduces the major players thusly: first, a quick little pantomime of Tracy Lord (Hepburn) and C.K. Dexter Haven’s (Grant) semi-abusive marital discord, second, a rather longer scene with the lady Lords– elegant Tracy, impish Dinah, and traditional Mother Lord– preparing for a wedding, which presents the many internal familial conflicts in a tightly-packed scene that requires absolute attention to pick up on tensions later on, thirdly, a bizarrely long montage of doors opening at a tabloid office to bring in sardonic writer/photographer duo Macaulay “Mike” Connor (Stewart) and Elizabeth Imbrie (Ruth Hussey), and finally, a better-paced scene with Tracy and upstanding fiancé George at the stables, revealing his moralistic persona as well as his vainglory.

Once you have the stakes well in place, though, The Philadelphia Story takes off. Tracy, brought to life with Katharine Hepburn’s electric, indomitable spirit, is beautiful and charismatic– and yet, her intolerance for weakness in herself and others damages her relations with nearly everyone she knows. With the exception of Liz Imbrie, every character makes a comment or the occasional scene-long monologue about Tracy’s emotional hardness, lack of understanding, and general tendency to keep people at a distance, particularly those she cares about. A poetic accusation from Dexter cites her “blank intolerance,” and “prejudice against weakness,” and Dexter, Mike, and George all liken her to a “virgin goddess” and a “distant queen.” Tracy despises these accolades from Dexter's lips, knowing them to be mocking, but George uses them to describe what he likes best about her– her purity and unattainability, her reputation, and how she will add to his status and elevate his class.

Class is a bit of a hot-button issue in Main Line society, and a thematic point for the characters to argue about. While initially, Mike, Liz, and George have either contempt or undue respect for the blue-blooded Lords and Dexter, by the end of the film, Tracy, Dexter, Mike, and Liz seem to have reached the consensus that class, on some level, is not defined by money. Being a first-class woman, or writer, or human being hinges on learning “to have some small regard for human frailty.” Generosity of spirit, not lucre, is what separates George and Tracy at The Philadelphia Story’s conclusion. And ironically, George– a self-identified man of the people– finds himself on the miserly side of that class divide.

Unable to give Tracy the benefit of the doubt after her early-morning, champagne-fueled swim with Mike, George presumes her guilty of full-fledged fornication before getting the full story from her. Upon learning of her innocence, he maintains that his verdict was just, as “all the evidence was there,” but for once, Tracy has to play the misunderstood supplicant. She realizes that in situations where people don’t have all the facts, they believe what they want to believe– and that reveals the kind of people they are, be that understanding or priggish. Frustrated with George’s lack of understanding in the same way that Dexter, and Mike, and Dinah, and her parents have been frustrated with hers, she ends their engagement, in order to own her flaws at last.

A point I’ve taken issue with is Tracy’s father’s insinuation that he might not have embarked on an affair with a chorus girl if Tracy had been more emotionally present. It’s a dodgy thing to do, blaming someone else for your own destructive choices. But I also understand that the point of the scene is to better demonstrate that Tracy’s invulnerability has damaged her familial as well as her romantic bonds. And, her adulterous father’s assertions that she’s a “prig, and a perennial spinster” are what catalyze her drunken escapade (and the revelations it causes) later in the night.

This movie has a special place for me in the empty space where most humans have a heart; it’s always fun watching a film with an emotionally unavailable protagonist and inevitably drawing constant comparisons to your own life. And if you’re among the litany of people who have been made victim to that, I really am sorry.

There is also a scene at the end of the film with lighting I can’t quite get over. It’s just daylight, but it’s an intensity and angle and temperature of daylight that I remember most vividly from a very specific day, on which I had brunch at my grandparents’ parish hall and ate sausages and pancakes. I associate it with the simplicity of childhood, but also with my grandparents, and an era where people wore tailored clothing and sent letters. It looks how 1940 ought to look in my mind.

The costumes in The Philadelphia Story are also absolutely dynamite, and I could fill an entire blog about them, but for brevity’s sake, I’ll leave you with the knowledge that you haven’t seen a peak lapel until you’ve seen the peak lapels sported by Jimmy Stewart and Cary Grant.

Anyway, I can’t recommend this picture enough! I’m going to try to write about / design new art for my favorite (or maybe not-so-favorite?) films pretty regularly, though what interval of time that will be is anyone’s guess. Congrats on reading this far, if you’ve read this far!

In refreshing the poster for the film (read:fan-art), I designed a typeface that was a little art-deco-y but also somewhat hoity-toity, as Katharine Hepburn is when she's in her gleaming white engagement dress with the geometric sequin embellishments (That's the white title, the quote beneath is in a typeface called Matchbook from One by Four). I also found a promo shot with the three men of the story seemingly accusing her of being the problem, while Hepburn rolls her eyes, which I love. There's also a running metaphor throughout the story likening love to sailing; Dexter builds Tracy a boat called the "True Love," known for its easy handling (yare, to use a nautical term). He plans on replacing it with a new boat (the True Love 2nd), which Tracy threatens to blow out of the water, making a subtle argument that maybe you only truly love once. I don't think I believe that, but it's a romantic notion and I do love me a romantic notion every now and then. I also included the Spanish proverb from Macaulay Connor's book: "with the rich and mighty, always a little patience." Going back to what I said about class earlier, I think that quote can apply to anyone who's proud: they just need time and patience to get knocked down a few pegs. And, it's a little enigmatic, which is what a good poster should be, in my mind. So, there we are.