unacceptable. After being declared the genuine article, a truly forgotten man, Godfrey dubs the company around him “a bunch of nitwits,” is hired by Lombard as a butler, and the story begins. I have now lived in New York for twenty years and have wound up from time to time among the nitwits. Although I have never subscribed to the bias of my hometown—that the rich are worse than other people—it is true that vast sums of money have a tendency to look ridiculous from the outside, that the spectacle of spending and playing has a tawdry appearance that turns the stomach of the born-and-bred midwesterner. For a sight of pure silliness and smug self-congratulation, little can compete with the charity ball. They knew this in Hollywood and used it. When my grandparents’ farm was going to ruin in Minnesota, there were city slickers in New York who had managed to hold on to their dough.
My Man Godfrey
played for audiences in the sticks, too, audiences that feasted on the opulence of the grand New York house while they laughed at the absurdities of those who lived in it. Godfrey is the frog prince of an American fairy tale, a man whose experience of poverty transforms him. Pangborn, on the other hand, defies enchantment. The static being of bureaucratic management, he will never be transformed.
This stasis finds its best expression in W. C. Fields’s
The Bank Dick.
Pangborn plays the bank examiner, J. Pinkerton Snoopington. In tight black suit, bowler hat, and pince-nez, he is the picture of a stick-in-the-mud. Pangborn’s fate is to be nearly done in by Fields—Egbert Sousé. Fields’s hatred of banks and bankers is well known. And although his aesthetic is anarchic, not agrarian-populist, misanthropic, not humanist, his spleen against bankers must have struck a deep chord among audiences in 1940. It is worth remembering that torturing a bank examiner had greater fantasy value at that time than it does now.
W. C. Fields was not a great champion of women either. He plays a man whose every move is circumscribed by some foolish womanly notion. In Fieldsian myth, marriage, order, codes of behavior, and, above all, temperance are invented by women to fence in the natural man’s appetites. It is notable that as Souse lures his victim, Snoopington, to the Black Pussy Cat Cafe, he asks the bank examiner whether he has noticed Lompoc’s beautiful girls. The examiner harrumphs that he is married and has a grown daughter “eighteen years of age.” In other words, marriage has closed his eyes to other women. The man is no man. Souse, on the other hand, continues muttering under his breath. “That’s how I like ‘em, seventeen, eighteen …” Souse drugs Snoopington with a Mickey Finn in the Black Pussy Cat Cafe, half leads, half carries him to a room in the New Old Lompoc House, then either allows him to fall or pushes him out the window of that new old establishment, hauls the bruised and disheveled examiner up the stairs once again, back into the room, and puts him to bed—all because Snoopingtons sole desire in the world is to examine the books at the bank where Souse and his future son-in-law, Og, have made an “unauthorized” loan.
Even this brief summary reveals the Dickensian spirit of Fields, a comedian whose joy in naming things is as great as his joy in the visual joke. Should we be in doubt as to the source of the filmmaker’s inspiration, the bank examiner assists us. From his sickbed, the prissy Snoopington worries aloud about his wife. “My poor wife,” he moans, “Little Dor-rit.” But, as it turns out, Souse has underestimated the bureaucrat’s willpower. The examiner somehow manages to crawl from his sickbed and arrive at the bank ready for duty. Although he is obviously woozy and a tad unstable on his feet, Snoopington’s pressed suit betrays no sign of his earlier misadventures. The wily Souse conspires to crush Snoopington’s spectacles and render the examiner blind. Souse succeeds in smashing
My Man Godfrey
played for audiences in the sticks, too, audiences that feasted on the opulence of the grand New York house while they laughed at the absurdities of those who lived in it. Godfrey is the frog prince of an American fairy tale, a man whose experience of poverty transforms him. Pangborn, on the other hand, defies enchantment. The static being of bureaucratic management, he will never be transformed.
This stasis finds its best expression in W. C. Fields’s
The Bank Dick.
Pangborn plays the bank examiner, J. Pinkerton Snoopington. In tight black suit, bowler hat, and pince-nez, he is the picture of a stick-in-the-mud. Pangborn’s fate is to be nearly done in by Fields—Egbert Sousé. Fields’s hatred of banks and bankers is well known. And although his aesthetic is anarchic, not agrarian-populist, misanthropic, not humanist, his spleen against bankers must have struck a deep chord among audiences in 1940. It is worth remembering that torturing a bank examiner had greater fantasy value at that time than it does now.
W. C. Fields was not a great champion of women either. He plays a man whose every move is circumscribed by some foolish womanly notion. In Fieldsian myth, marriage, order, codes of behavior, and, above all, temperance are invented by women to fence in the natural man’s appetites. It is notable that as Souse lures his victim, Snoopington, to the Black Pussy Cat Cafe, he asks the bank examiner whether he has noticed Lompoc’s beautiful girls. The examiner harrumphs that he is married and has a grown daughter “eighteen years of age.” In other words, marriage has closed his eyes to other women. The man is no man. Souse, on the other hand, continues muttering under his breath. “That’s how I like ‘em, seventeen, eighteen …” Souse drugs Snoopington with a Mickey Finn in the Black Pussy Cat Cafe, half leads, half carries him to a room in the New Old Lompoc House, then either allows him to fall or pushes him out the window of that new old establishment, hauls the bruised and disheveled examiner up the stairs once again, back into the room, and puts him to bed—all because Snoopingtons sole desire in the world is to examine the books at the bank where Souse and his future son-in-law, Og, have made an “unauthorized” loan.
Even this brief summary reveals the Dickensian spirit of Fields, a comedian whose joy in naming things is as great as his joy in the visual joke. Should we be in doubt as to the source of the filmmaker’s inspiration, the bank examiner assists us. From his sickbed, the prissy Snoopington worries aloud about his wife. “My poor wife,” he moans, “Little Dor-rit.” But, as it turns out, Souse has underestimated the bureaucrat’s willpower. The examiner somehow manages to crawl from his sickbed and arrive at the bank ready for duty. Although he is obviously woozy and a tad unstable on his feet, Snoopington’s pressed suit betrays no sign of his earlier misadventures. The wily Souse conspires to crush Snoopington’s spectacles and render the examiner blind. Souse succeeds in smashing
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