Occupied Territories

Sweet Bird of Youth (Richard Brooks, 1962) In Richard Brooks’ film version of the Tennessee Williams play Sweet Bird of Youth (which Brooks adapted for the screen), the ending is different from the original ending of the play. It’s a happy ending, in which Chance (Paul Newman) gets the girl, and the only price he has to pay is getting his face bruised and broken. (This is important because he has all his life relied on his looks to get by in life.) In the play, however, not only does he not get the girl but, crucially, he doesn’t get beaten up: rather, he’s castrated as punishment for chasing after her. Undoubtedly, Hollywood censors were the proximate cause for this shift—they also eliminated references to venereal disease, abortion, and a hysterectomy—and it’s hard to say whether the movie suffers because of this. (Not having read or seen the play, I can hardly comment on this.) On the one hand, I would love to see another adaptation of the play, perhaps updated to the present day and allowed to show everything, as I found a lot to love in the film. The film cuts deep, conveying a despairing sorrow that simply cannot be concealed by cuts from the censors. It particularly made me think of Melancholia in some ways, which led me to imagine a remake in the style of that film (as well as a remake of Melancholia in the style of Sweet Bird of Youth). On the other hand, how happily appropriate is it that, in the end, instead of castration, Chance’s face—his looks, his image—is ruined. If you had to adapt a play like this, you probably couldn’t do better than with this particular twist. And it allows Brooks the opportunity for the shot above, in which Chance is presented his own ruined face in a car mirror. The way everything but that one circle is out of focus, the way it looks like Newman’s very image has been captured (robbed from him) and displayed in that mirror, that flame from a lighter illuminating his ruined good looks: everything about this one moment is simply perfect. It perfectly belies the oft-flung criticism of movies like this as mere “filmed theater,” as there’s absolutely no way a moment like this could be pulled off (in exactly this way) during a performance of the play. And yet, it is perfectly “theatrical” in its own way, an encapsulation of tragedy in a single image.

Sweet Bird of Youth (Richard Brooks, 1962)

In Richard Brooks’ film version of the Tennessee Williams play Sweet Bird of Youth (which Brooks adapted for the screen), the ending is different from the original ending of the play. It’s a happy ending, in which Chance (Paul Newman) gets the girl, and the only price he has to pay is getting his face bruised and broken. (This is important because he has all his life relied on his looks to get by in life.) In the play, however, not only does he not get the girl but, crucially, he doesn’t get beaten up: rather, he’s castrated as punishment for chasing after her.

Undoubtedly, Hollywood censors were the proximate cause for this shift—they also eliminated references to venereal disease, abortion, and a hysterectomy—and it’s hard to say whether the movie suffers because of this. (Not having read or seen the play, I can hardly comment on this.) On the one hand, I would love to see another adaptation of the play, perhaps updated to the present day and allowed to show everything, as I found a lot to love in the film. The film cuts deep, conveying a despairing sorrow that simply cannot be concealed by cuts from the censors. It particularly made me think of Melancholia in some ways, which led me to imagine a remake in the style of that film (as well as a remake of Melancholia in the style of Sweet Bird of Youth).

On the other hand, how happily appropriate is it that, in the end, instead of castration, Chance’s face—his looks, his image—is ruined. If you had to adapt a play like this, you probably couldn’t do better than with this particular twist. And it allows Brooks the opportunity for the shot above, in which Chance is presented his own ruined face in a car mirror. The way everything but that one circle is out of focus, the way it looks like Newman’s very image has been captured (robbed from him) and displayed in that mirror, that flame from a lighter illuminating his ruined good looks: everything about this one moment is simply perfect. It perfectly belies the oft-flung criticism of movies like this as mere “filmed theater,” as there’s absolutely no way a moment like this could be pulled off (in exactly this way) during a performance of the play. And yet, it is perfectly “theatrical” in its own way, an encapsulation of tragedy in a single image.

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