Few things in life excite me quite like a person out of time. Even better, a woman out of time. A dame of sass and unusual import; a broad who gives far better than she’s ever going to get. Telling folks what’s what before the what is even established. A woman opposed to refinement, as it’s bound to get in the way of her independence. Someone who’s always ready and willing to run the show, provided it isn’t merely the power behind the throne. Hell, she is the throne. And the man – her man – remains evermore an ineffectual weasel, necessitating the sort of strength deemed dangerous by the powers that be. All things considered, that’s Bessie. Mrs. Winters, in fact, though one imagines she kept her own damn name, thank you very much, and the milquetoast at her hip was the one to compromise his identity.
If we’re being honest, the surrounding story of Pigskin Parade is ridiculous on its face, but here, at last, is a piece of fluff so damned entertaining, we forgive the insanity of the premise. We even look the other way during the film’s numerous musical numbers, if only because the songs have the good sense not to take themselves too seriously. Or at all. This is, after all, one of at least eight dozen movies of the period where hayseeds visit the big city to show them all; a proving ground for bumpkins and morons alike, demonstrating that the real imbeciles are the educated elite in hallowed halls. Reverse snobbery, American style, and no less insulting, even during the height of the Depression.
But I’ll be damned if the whole thing doesn’t work. Sure, we know all too well that the nobodies from Texas State are going to defeat the Yale powerhouse at the last second, almost certainly with a series of plays not out of place in a Marx Brothers farce. And that’s just fine by me. You can take the heart attack seriousness of slop like Rudy and just keep on walking. If you’re going to give me cinematic football, make it a delightful doozy in a raging snowstorm, complete with the nastiest, grouchiest radio announcer in the history of the medium. Something about the gridiron circa 1936 that makes us realize today’s athletes are mere pups in comparison to the warriors who played without facemasks. And those helmets! Mere caps that simply enhanced the likelihood of a concussion. It’s a wonder half the games didn’t end with a fatality. Maybe they did.
But yes, we’re here for Bessie. She’s the coach’s wife, only whenever we see her, she’s the one studying film, diagramming plays, or sending in player substitutions in real time. Coach Winters (“Slug” to the faithful) is a true, gen-u-ine idiot, and his wife never lets him forget it. Even the notes she sends in from the stands, mid-game, do little but remind the man of his inadequacies. I’d say he shouldn’t stand for such things, but here, I’m decidedly in her corner. Every point she makes is steeped in validity, and in another, more enlightened time, she’d be on the sideline while hubby dear froze in his seat. Let’s be frank: she’d be running the whole damn school, given that every single idea worth a damn comes from her fiery lips. Everyone else is merely a spectator.
The best scene for my money remains the one where old Bessie insists that her husband seduce a young lady for reasons so convoluted even Groucho himself would have dismissed them as a bridge too far. Using the parlance of the day (“I want you to make love to her!”), Bessie proves that winning must come at a heavy price, up to and including the self-respect of the man she happened to marry. In most cases, the woman would end up as fodder for a cruel trick. But here, in 1936, is a woman pulling all the strings and calling all the shots, usually with as many eye rolls and exasperated glares as humanly possible. She’s happily post-liberation many decades before it was fashionable, only one never imagines she was ever really tied down.
It’s important to note that the actress, Patsy Kelly, later solidified her fame with her role as Laura-Louise, the world’s goofiest Satanist, in Rosemary’s Baby. She’s wonderful, of course, but still, I advise all cinematic devotees to at least give her Bessie, executed 32 years prior, the full measure of their devotion. It’s a part that should have made her a star. And, predictably, Oscar was nowhere near the scene. Add that appalling omission to an ever-growing list of Academy mistakes.
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