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What to Watch When Life Hurts
"I began to imagine that I was Patricia Meyrand. Bertie seemed to like it. ... It was so good." 
"The truth is our future will be exactly what we decide to make it."
-- Mrs Winterbourne (1996, USA)
-- I Married a Dead Man (1982, France)
By Tara Plog | Two films based on the same novel by Cornell Woolrich (aka William Irish) take two very different turns. Mrs Winterbourne, with a screenplay by Phoef Sutton and Lisa-Marie Radano, forces an illusive, dank narrative into a Hollywood, cookie-cutter romantic comedy -- frosted and sprinkled. Ricki Lake (as Connie Doyle) and Brendan Fraser (as Bill Winterbourne) are alternately plucky and nonplussed. Still, it's difficult to ignore the fact that she's a talk-show host, not an actor. And the dialogue is too polished; the plot is too contrived. Like a familiar amusement park ride, it's a fun distraction -- as all the twists and turns are just where they should be. Plus, Shirley MacLaine (as Grace, the matriarch) is both endearing and eccentric; it's a wonderful performance. But, it's a performance nonetheless.
I Married a Dead Man, or J'ai epouse une ombre, on the other hand, takes the film noir and skulks with it, looking over its shoulder, lowering its hat over a moody brow. The screenplay by Robin Davis and Patrick Laurent ups the ante, and life becomes a gamble -- and a mystery. Nathalie Baye (as Helene George) and Francis Huster (as Pierre Meyrand) portray characters of depth, with sorrows and regrets. Yes, the heroine runs from the room too often. Yet, the major drawback is a disappointing dubbing effort. At critical moments, the voice-over actors are too animated, and often the appropriate voice doesn't mesh with either Helene's or Pierre's personality. Yes, the dubbed script seems too overt in spots -- or, in a few instances, used only to match moving lips. I would prefer subtitles, which allow me to hear the appropriate inflection and language nuances. Still, the plot thickens.
Ah, the plot. A young woman, bereft of family, is abandoned by her two-bit boyfriend -- pregnant and penniless. Hopping a train to wherever it will take her, the woman is befriended by a newly-married couple. A spilled drink takes the two women to the couple's compartment. Patricia removes her ring (to Connie's/Helene's aside, "It's bad luck to take off a wedding ring."). And Connie/Helene tries it on (to Patricia's bright "I don't believe in bad luck.") Suddenly, the train crashes. When Connie/Helene wakes up, her baby boy has arrived, the couple are dead -- and the doctor, hospital staff, and the dead man's family are all calling her Patricia. So, she calls herself that, too. It's a future for her baby and for her -- until threatening letters begin to arrive.
Both films are flavored by their country of origin: by music, (national) myth, and custom. Both stories unfold around a grand staircase -- where people arrive and depart, ascend and descend. Both films rely on an off-hand signature and flowing pen to spell distrust for the hesitant couple. Both stories feature bold, conniving heroines and dashing, confused heroes -- who also, by the way, appreciate Spanish music. And both films feature the holy sacrament of baptism and a grand church. The similarities, however, are superficial. For instance, where the American comedy uses the church, and its sheepish minister, as a means to force cheap chuckles (via appalling slang), the French noir behooves the church to uphold familial unity -- even if such dedication is reserved only for baptisms, weddings and funerals.
Unlike Mrs Winterbourne, which clings to a Sabrina feel -- of extremely rich suitors holding lush parties with live music, of hidden beauties needing only a haircut and more delicate makeup to reveal themselves, of business-dealings and relationships involving two very different brothers and their idiosyncrasies -- I Married a Dead Man relies on foible, on desire, on human extremes. The French family is well-off, but they live privately -- quietly guarding their investments and their reputation. Helene is polished by time and harsh experience, not makeup trends. And, the first brother is like a disturbing glance: rarely mentioned, barely seen. The noir is uncomfortable; it's too close. Too personal -- like someone breathing down your neck in a closet. Mrs Winterbourne stirs a hearty laugh, and romps onward.
Perhaps I should mention that I've recently enjoyed Mrs Winterbourne. With a healthy crush on Brendan Fraser, I've watched most every movie in which he's cast. And this film still elicits a smile. (Now, more than ever, I need to smile.) However, I find more significance in the film's highlighting of sibling relationships. Bill and Hugh are identical twins who are different in every other instance. As Connie says, "Hugh was ... kind without a reason." His brother replies: "You understood him. I never did." When Bill and Connie (aka Patricia) find themselves in the middle of Boston, Bill shares a childhood memory related to British Redcoats and Paul Revere with the words, "My brother's comin'. My brother's comin'."
And, Bill has pangs of guilt over falling in love with his brother's widow -- though he voices strong doubt on that point. "Is that OK? She's my brother's widow, maybe.... Is this wrong?" His mother responds: "Whatever else went on between you and your brother, he wanted you to be happy. Really." Ironically, some of the worst dialogue in I Married a Dead Man comes when the dead man's brother, Pierre, talks of this to Helene (aka Patricia) in a drunken tirade: "I've no idea who you are! My brother's wife. I don't have to fall for her." Maybe calling the supposed widow "a pain in the ass" directly before this lessens the sting of the on-the-nose dialogue. And the bonfire alongside Spanish/Gypsy music by Los Reyes.
While Mrs Winterbourne's strength is its focus on brotherhood, I Married a Dead Man's power is in mulling the human condition. The first film's heroine, Connie, falls inadvertently into a new identity -- being unduly drugged in the hospital; running into the driver of a car sent for her -- and she only commits to the ruse during her first family dinner. (She must consider "Cookie." Besides, the brother is awfully cocky.) In the second film, Helene awakens to a hospital visit by the dead man's father and brother; she is asked not to speak. The ill mother calls her on the phone; she hangs up. She blurts her circumstances to the mid-wife, who retorts: "If you've no family, no husband, you're all alone. What sort of life would you give [your son]?" Deliberating this, Helene then chooses to deceive -- first her doctor, then the family.
The tone of Mrs Winterbourne is self-assured and vivid, with mere patches of darkness. Perfect for a romantic comedy. There's even a gay Cuban butler, for kicks. In contrast, the mood of I Married a Dead Man is pensive, with flashes of searing joy. Fitting for film noir. And truer to much of life, I think. Though Mrs Winterbourne does homage to its origin -- by placing Bill in a dusky office with a manila folder labeled Connie Doyle and wafting cigarette smoke -- it's a moment of mystery otherwise surrounded by sentiment. It's a token. Bill's journey from grief to romantic adulation is a steep, consistent ascent. Pierre's mood swings, on the other hand, are keen -- as sweeping as a pendulum. Pierre doubts himself and suffers bouts of depression; Bill seems unconcerned with believing anything other than what he sees.
Connie's maturation in Mrs Winterbourne springs as much from her dependant child as from a weighty pocketbook, while in I Married a Dead Man Helene's character is nurtured by familial fidelity -- and hindered by guilt. Helene is sober and scared to be a mother; but, Connie is brazen and nonchalant. Both matrons, whether Grace or Lena, are staunch, independent women. Tellingly, however, Grace is ill in an off-and-on pattern; in episodes. As she says, flippantly: "Damn. Damn, damn. If it wasn't for this heart, I would live forever." This is markedly unlike Lena (actress Madeleine Robinson). Her illness is a presence; an unwanted member of the household. Lena speaks of her son, Pierre, then of her husband, Matthew. "I didn't love him enough. But, now it's too late. Those words are terrible: too late."
It's the difference between sickness which hangs on the air, and a cold which can be aired out with the sheets; between the smells of urine and disinfectant, and the odors of cigarette smoke and Ben-gay. Perhaps this is why I Married a Dead Man affects me more than Mrs Winterbourne: its mundane permanence, and its inexplicable humanness. Perhaps it's because my aunt has recently been diagnosed with cancer. Pancreatic cancer. It's the kind of cancer that moves in to stay awhile, then leaves with startling finality. And I wanted a movie in which I could find solace. No, I needed it. I even questioned -- once again -- why in this world film matters. I thought I wanted a diversion; what I found preferrable was immersion.
The world of Mrs Winterbourne offers me a Mercedes (or was it a Cadillac?), money (complete with a checking account), and marriage (to a handsome and charming suitor), along with a suitably seedy and greedy blackmailer to hate. I found the movie was fun while it lasted, but a poor investment overall -- like kissing someone you don't care about. Alternately, although proffering a similarly devious swindler, the world of I Married a Dead Man gives me a Jeep (in an unattractive, military green), a livelihood (involving rain, a vineyard and an ancient chateau), and relationship (with a passionate and flawed man). In this movie I discovered something to ponder; something I couldn't forget -- like an embarrassment or a betrayal.
Something here is true to life. The imperfection, the pain; it must be -- somehow -- worthwhile. Or, maybe, with impending loss I'm being unreasonably morose and inconsistent. Still, right now, I find death unreasonable. As the blackmailer oozes: "I know there's a God up there. Or life would drive us mad." Even from such tainted lips, these words seems more real than Bill's black-and-white recap: "Column B: security, home, love. Weighed up against Column A: Nothing.... Tough decision, that." Each film promises a dazzling vista: one uncovers a winding journey, edging forward; the other points to a mere destination -- complete with roadmap and legend. I find the first more compelling.
Most of all, it's the ending that nudges me toward I Married a Dead Man. The fact that death is dealt with flippantly in the comedy, but with a sort of mute respect in the noir. That Grace is ever a formidable matriarch to deal with in the comedy, while in the noir Lena is empowered by her weakness. Mrs Winterbourne glibly offers pat answers and quick resolutions -- though forgiveness is one of them; I Married a Dead Man shakily extends human grace in an ebb and flow of often over-powering emotions. As Lena screams: "Don't come in.... I forbid you to leave." The comedy strives to avoid suffering; the noir, to embrace it. And, however much and long we wish it, suffering cannot be avoided. Facing life, as well as death, we must choose to persevere. God, have mercy on us. Sinners.
Carole McDonnell
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READER RESPONSES
Thank you so much for your article. I understand completely how the joy of accidental
immersion in an art-piece. The unexpected joy and the flash of realization that someone is saying
something truly new which I couldn't quite voice myself. (Perhaps because I hadn't reached the
conclusion yet.) It's funny, too, that these great healing pieces cometimes comes from the art-world.
We don't expect that. It shows us that God's grace is everywhere and that the kingdoms of this
world --even the art kingdom-- is God's also. As an Episcopalian, I am squat in the middle between
the Catholic mindset --in which one ponders the trials and tribulations of suffering saints-- and
the American Protestant ethic which promises a future heaven but which also hints at a city set on
a hill and present material blessings for the sufferer. That's where our happy endings come from.
We can come close to God through joy. But we also come near Him through greif. The world doesn't
delight in crosses. And America is full of positive-thinking Christians. But both films agree in happy
endings. Except that those who understand grief -- or who have been plunked into it -- understand
how dark the world really can get before we see any kind of light. And sometimes, even as we see
the light, we are uneasy because we know it might not last long. But we appreciate it better, I
think, because of the grief we endured. This article made me remember the joy I felt when I
happened upon the Danish film, Celebration. Or when I heard -- of all things -- the Guns N Roses songs,
Don't Cry or the Dylan song, Knocking on heaven's door. Or when we read of the life of the saints.