The Hidden Art of Hollywood: In Defense of the Studio Era Film

By John Fawell. Westport, CT: Praeger, November 2008. Cloth: ISBN 978-0313356926, $49.95. 240 pages.

Reviewed by Robert E. Meyer, DePaul University

In reading The Hidden Art of Hollywood: In Defense of the Studio Era Film, one quickly realizes that author John Fawell has faced the challenge frequently confronted by those who teach classic American film to today’s undergraduates: how can these products of the age of web-surfing, text-messaging, and (most recently) tweeting, be guided toward an appreciation of the great films made not just before they (the students) were born, but in many cases, before their parents were born? It isn’t easy, but Fawell has some valuable ideas which he shares in this volume.

The value of a book of this type usually lies in the author’s reading of individual scenes--and even entire films--that can help unappreciative viewers to look beyond the distracting superficialities (black-and-white film, unconvincing special effects, etc.) likely to trigger an almost knee-jerk condemnation, or at best dismissal, to see the exquisite filmmaking achievements to which they might otherwise be blind. The trick, of course, is to couch these readings in accessible terms, framing them in ways that the astute but uninitiated can share, despite their inclinations to the contrary. Toward this end, when Fawell provides specific explications of particular scenes, he frequently reveals a convincing power of interpretive observation. For instance, in discussing Charlie Chaplin’s The Kid, Fawell explains how Chaplin avoids excessive sentimentality by preparing the viewers for the emotionally charged moment when the Tramp and the Kid are separated. As an example, Fawell points to the scene in which the Kid makes pancakes for the Tramp who “play[s] the role of the paterfamilias . . . making sure they bow their heads in prayer before they eat” (120). Fawell reports that, for his students, Chaplin succeeds in the heart-rending separation scene that occurs later in the film because he has done “the hard work of carefully building a relationship” (120).

Of course, a book on this topic will almost inevitably gravitate toward the usual suspects, the darlings of auteur criticism whose films are often taken more seriously than other Hollywood fare. Hitchcock, Ford, and Howard Hawks all receive more than their share of attention, but this is not to say that Fawell’s commentary is too cliché. His explication of a repeated pattern in Hitchcock’s Vertigo is very good, illustrating as it does the simple technique of editing with reaction shots used to prompt audiences to “start racing [their] minds, trying to figure out what he [protagonist Scottie Ferguson] has figured out” (58). Another example is Fawell’s discussion of the surgery scene in My Darling Clementine when Ford “buries the action of the operation deep in the saloon and shoots it from afar” emphasizing that “life [is] going on quite indifferently in proximity to the operation” (59) which, of course, is a very deadly affair. Fawell’s section on “silent filmmaking,” by which he means segments that have little or no dialogue, also has some valuable nuggets. It is in this context that Fawell discusses the ending to The Searchers, emphasizing the lighting and positioning of the actors, in addition to the oft-mentioned visual framing that is this sequence’s most famous element.

One of Fawell’s best sections is his chapter on character actors. His description of Donald Meek, who played Peacock, the mild-mannered whiskey drummer in Ford’s Stagecoach, submitting to the ministrations of a drunk Doc Boone (played by Thomas Mitchell), as displaying “the infinite patience of a dog that is being dressed up by children” (152) is the sort of analogy that makes reading film analysis a pleasure.

However, some of Fawell’s most interesting observations are those most likely to fall on deaf ears among today’s younger viewers. When he points out that “action can make a film more boring” (80), or claims that “the mistake the modern viewer makes is” to see “film as something that is successful only in proportion to how realistic it is” (95), those of us who agree may be inclined to applaud his honesty while remaining fearful that convincing anyone raised on a steady diet of action films with dazzling special effects is a difficult task.

Fawell occasionally drifts into a vagueness that smacks of subjectivity and, even in its most articulate form, is unconvincing. When he says that Gary Cooper “was unable to find bad lighting or to strike an angle that did not reveal a perfectly distinct mixture of elegance and sturdy reliability” (130), readers may be convinced only of Fawell’s enthusiastic approval of Gary Cooper, rather than of the point being made. Furthermore, Fawell uses empty descriptors, sometimes labeling visual compositions as “lovely” and referring to directors’ “trademark” shots. In fact, repetition, not only of words and phrases but of ideas, is a weakness of Fawell’s style. After making the point about realism, Fawell repeats it in almost the same words two pages later. And Fawell’s advice for instructors, again on the subject of realism, is well taken, but not particularly innovative: it’s important to prepare students for what they will see and to try to get them to question their own preconceived notions.

I would be remiss if I failed to mention that this book contains far too many typographical errors. Moreover, Fawell occasionally makes errors of fact regarding the films he mentions, on more than one occasion confusing the names of characters in the films he is analyzing with characters from other films by the same director (or other characters played by the same actor). Overall, however, Fawell’s analyses of these films offer readers a wealth of insights that may prove useful to teachers who find themselves obliged to defend the “Studio Era Film.”