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PREFACE: This is now the second installment in what will be a continuing series that takes an informal, desultory approach by providing cinematic vignettes that offer additional depth and insight to observations of mine. I currently have some longer pieces in the works, so I sincerely hope that you enjoy this little piece in the meanwhile! The first piece, which focuses on Bette Davis, can be found here.
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GENTLEMEN OF THE PRESS and SCANDAL SHEET both pander to the fragility of the masculine ego by appropriating blame onto the newspaper industry instead of the individual, but in doing so they concomitantly bolster their defense of the vamp by denoting her as the lesser of two evils. It’s a complex and curious framework that, while not pioneering or progressive by modern standards, warrants a proper re-evaluation as well as appreciation.
Left: poster advertising SCANDAL SHEET, 1931; right: poster advertising GENTLEMEN OF THE PRESS, 1929. Note the similarities in design that prioritize the male protagonists, although Kay’s likeness does appear on the latter, given that by 1931 her career was in steep ascent.
Both movies were borne of anti-journalist rhetoric, and while they boast different storylines at the individual level, they ascribe to the basic pedagogy that the medium itself is to blame and not its constituents — which in and of itself is illogical. While it is true that both protagonists are punished for their behavior, it’s generally implied that the repercussions trace back to their involvement with the industry and fail to account for their own autonomy.
My goal in making this observation is not to absolve the gargantuan media industry of all blame, nor to imply that it is innocent. Rather, I want to bring attention to the deliberate evasion of culpability reflected in the treatment of these men. Not once does either movie allude to their own agency and thus, responsibility for their actions — rather, they portray these men to be unfortunate victims of circumstance in a way that spuriously skews the narrative in a way that benefits and preserves their masculinity. The unexpectedly delightful byproduct that emerges from this phenomenon, however, affords a window of leniency and forgiveness to the women — both stereotypical vamps — in the films. In a strange, sort of roundabout way, the condemnation of the newspaper industry insinuates that their behavior is permissible or even justifiable, which is a remarkable reflection of happenstance that presents a most fascinating examination. Thus, the sacrifices put in place to benefit the male protagonists also lends itself to the women as well. Though the degree may be lesser, the resulting impact is much greater.
Myra May of GENTLEMEN and Edith Flint of SCANDAL SHEET and the respective abatement of their incrimination make for two of the most zealous, tour-de-force performances given by Kay Francis in her early career, before she achieved the acclaim that gave way to the star-studded vehicles like JEWEL ROBBERY and TROUBLE IN PARADISE that are most often associated with her today. Whereas any young and attractive woman could have easily and effortlessly phoned in such a performance, Francis injects an infectious self-assuredness into both roles, and as a result steals considerable attention away from both male leads, which was telling of her potential and, as time would prove, a harbinger of the success that was to come her way.
Left to right, the two vamps as portrayed by Kay Francis: Edith Flint of SCANDAL SHEET and Myra May of GENTLEMEN OF THE PRESS
The vamp originated (and thus earned its notoriety) as a result of the deeply sexist convictions that existed (and to some extent, still exist) so deep and innately that its manifestation is subliminal and subconscious. It was a way to police women’s sexuality and afford it negative connotations that would distract and detract from its fear-mongering origin. It seems disproportionately unfair that a philandering woman decisively arouses more scorn and contempt than does a man who engages in the same sort of behavior. Affairs were common and constant topics of films, particularly pre-Codes, and it doesn’t take a thesis level dissertation to discern just how differently infidelity was received and its contingency on gender.
Thus, when approached objectively, the worst crimes committed by both Myra and Edith is their adultery — and again, I want to stress that I am not raising this point to dismiss or condone it, but rather to prompt critical analysis. The behavior itself takes on a very different context for both women, given the statutes of their relationship and how it affects their interactions with other characters, upon which I will elucidate further below.
Myra May’s relationship to Snell (Huston), the journalistic protagonist of GENTLEMEN is one that is ambiguous and marked by fluid boundaries. She is first introduced as a secretary for hire, and throughout the course of the film becomes his errant lover, yet is never properly anointed the moniker of girlfriend and thus is unable to reap all its concomitant privileges. If anything, this only serves to paint her in a more sympathetic light, as Snell is the one who is continually denying her the security and comfort of an explicit relationship. Going along these lines, it also significantly lessens the heinous nature of her so-called offense, even calling it into question: are her actions really considered disloyal if she never was officially committed to Snell in the beginning? A focal scene emerges toward the film’s denouement, when Snell confronts her and threatens to leave her if she continues on with her other man, who is coincidentally his daughter’s husband. What follows is a smarmy exchange that puts Francis’ talents on full display.
“All I’ve got to do is look at Ted Hanley, and I’ve got him,” It’s a confident declaration, delivered with a cigarette perched between two fingers. She does not shirk from her lover’s confrontation and if anything, only grows more self-assured by his effrontery. In a matter of a few words, she eviscerates the masculinity of not just one — but two men. She lands the line with deliberate icy pragmatism, yet for all the disdain she also provides an air of impenetrable self-assurance. And while the delivery unfortunately spares the viewer of her expressive visage, it’s a complimentary testament to the sheer dynamism that accompanies her performance: visuals aren’t even necessary when the timbre of her voice alone captures the complexity of her situation through a range of conflicting emotions.
A beleaguered Snell walks in on Myra and Ted in GENTLEMEN OF THE PRESS
Throughout the ensuing scene, Myra remains poised and smug, patronizing her benefactor with dismissive quips to undermine his intentions. At times she takes it even further, coyly touching his shoulder or trailing her hand in a vaguely flirtatious manner — just to remind him that she, in fact, is the one in control — and that his unwavering attraction to her will always be his Achilles heel, resulting ultimately in subordination to her wishes and desires.
More striking yet is the fact that Myra goes unpunished for her behavior, and if anything suffers the least of everybody present in the film. While she is undoubtedly cast in an unsavory light, she remains the secondary evil in the story’s whole. GENTLEMEN OF THE PRESS concludes with a fraught and dismayed Huston demonizing his industry in an impassioned rage, assigning it sole blame for the collapse and ruin of his social life. “All right, I’ll give you the best advice I ever had about the newspaper business,” he snarls, before rising from his chair and pushing his aspiring admirer, “get out. Get out of it!” He proceeds to claim that even robbery is a less nefarious racket, before the anger in his voice transitions to crippling self defeat and abject misery. “Get out of it before it poisons you!” The film concludes in total ruin for Snell and Ted, both bereft of a daughter and wife, yet Myra is spared.
Edith of SCANDAL SHEET is undoubtedly the more culpable of the two women, and only on account of her marital status. It is made clear at the film’s start that she is married to newspaperman Mark (Bancroft), but in spite of the added severity of her (actions) she benefits from explicit disregard from her pompous, overly self-absorbed husband. Like Snell, he’s a workaholic, but he also takes a sadistic pleasure in ruining the lives and prestige of others by printing unnecessarily controversial material. Edith is left alone at home to entertain herself, and because of her overwhelming empathy she continues to complacently remain in the marriage even given her own unhappiness. Despite his abrasive and insensitive nature, Mark provides well for Edith and makes it very clear that he is fond of her. While Edith is actively having an affair, the film continually depicts her in a sympathetic light by continually making it a point to showcase her reticence. Every rendezvous she shares with her lover is markedly framed around her indecision and guilt, showing that even in her weakest moments she remains sensitive to her husband’s image and needs, putting them even before her own. Inferential happenings also prove supportive, as her transgression pales in comparison to Mark’s unrelenting tyranny in his work.
Like in GENTLEMEN, Kay is only granted a minimal part– but she manages to make the most of her limited screen time by bulwarking her role with a visceral and emphatic delivery. Again, her most striking performance occurs during a moment of confrontation. Mark’s worlds collide when through his job he learns that Edith is having an affair with the local banker, Noel Adams, whom he is trying to implicate for financial fraud. He is presented with a photo by one of his employees that depicts the couple in a compromising position, conclusively proving the tryst. In a bid to stroke his ego, he violently confronts Edith, expecting her to fall at his knees and beg forgiveness. He threatens to print and publish the image, and she vehemently protests — at first. As the scene unfolds, his cockiness grows with startling momentum. He grabs her roughly by the wrist and wrestles her against his chest, overpowering her struggle to break away. When he asks her what she has to say for herself, an increasingly frustrated and irate Edith snaps, “Give me a chance, I’m going to answer you. But first, am I talking to my husband or a newspaper man?”
Mark answers both, and Edith, undeterred, presses onward: “Are you going to print what I say?” He affirms that he will print every word, and his heartless approach only further emboldens Edith, who finally has mustered the courage to speak out against him and subvert his abusive scare-tactics. Still tangled in his forceful embrace, she snarls, “I love Noel Adams! Do you hear? I love him. Now splurge that all over your paper!”
Kay puts her acting talents on full display in this faceoff from SCANDAL SHEET
The shot changes from depicting the couple in profile to a strategic over-the-shoulder shot that provides a luminous close-up of Francis. “I was going to tell you,” she begins, tilting her chin upward with authority, pausing momentarily to build suspense. What ensues next is perhaps one of the finest and effective emotive displays I’ve ever seen on camera. “Yesterday, he and I …” she says, letting her voice trail off. She leers down at him and her gaze becomes incrementality more smug and satisfied, occasionally interspersed with shots of Mark staring back in disbelief. As the camera cuts back to Edith, he inquires what happened — her eyes widen and her nostrils flare, and she flashes a momentary smirk before taking advantage of his shock and backing away. “Yes,” she answers, chin still jutting upward. “You wanted headlines … now you got one.” It’s a deliciously rewarding moment, especially seeing his rightful comeuppance doled out to him by the one woman who continually stood by his side. From there, Mark’s life descends into a downward spiral, culminating in murder and his subsequent arrest. And once again, Edith, like Myra, is spared — though she loses her lover, it reads as sympathetic to her plight more than anything else, even if there is the underlying insinuation that the murder occurred as a result of her dalliance. After all, an affair seems trite relative to the reprehensible comportment of her husband.
These circumstantial portrayals defy convention enough on their own to achieve novelty, but the power of Francis’ effusive acting takes it to a new level of astute prominence. She breathes fire into roles that would otherwise be disregarded as menial or unimportant, and in doing so she not only bolsters the quality of both productions but also makes an undeniable case for her own budding career. Her early ability to adroitly and conclusively steal scenes from her male leads is impossible to ignore, particularly given its emotional resonance. It’s a particularly rewarding experience for the viewer who is familiar with her later work, as it’s pivotal expository development that teases glimpses of what would come to envelop and define her style.
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