Supplemental Post 1 (Josie Andrews) "Now, Voyager" and Consumerism

Supplemental Post 1

Josie Andrews

Because I had the flu last week, I wanted to comment on the film: Now, Voyager (Warner Brothers, Irving Rapper, 1942). This post is a bit long since I could not participate in class discussion last week.

Although not yet assigned, Charles Eckert’s 1957 article, “The Carole Lombard in Macy’s Window,” discusses how Hollywood/film became the site of rampant encouragement of consumerism as the Great Depression ended in the late 1930s. Because this article was linked so perfectly with the film, I decided to read it.  Eckert says that, recognizing the economic importance of the consumer and the dominant role of women as purchasers of most consumer items, film gave companies a captive audience in the 1940s and 1950s that could be manipulated. Film companies now negotiated and received free advertising by companies in exchange for product placement (furniture, coke, Camel cigarettes) in films. Eventually, large film companies, like MGM and Warner Bros, engaged in “tie ups” with companies that gave them exclusive access and use of contract stars (Coca-Cola); e.g., film company would be paid large sum, e.g. $500,000, and then company got exclusive use of star image/ etc. Also, film companies worked in conjunction with designated fashion houses (some who were designers associated with film company) to create fashion trends; selling outfits (originally high end) seen in films by stars; and later copy-cat low-end fashions to those in the films. A side benefit was filmmakers no longer had big expense for props/sets because the company advertising product would provide those products free.

“Mother, from now on, you must give me complete freedom, including deciding what I wear, where I sleep, what I read”—Charlotte Vale). The film Now, Voyager, is a wonderful example of the early consumerism Eckert (and Hansen briefly) discusses that dominated the early 1940s. The film stars Bette Davis as Charlotte Vale, a meek, overweight, mousy woman who has a nervous breakdown because of the cruel domination of her wealthy socialite mother. In the sanitarium, with the help of Dr. Jaquith, a diet, beautiful clothes, hats, heels, elegant make-up, and hair, Charlotte self-defines and dramatically transforms herself into a glamorous, confident woman who is self-reliant and can attract any man. In fact, she uses cosmetics, clothing and hairstyle as a means of resistance to the suffocating circumstances of her Bostonian life. When Charlotte’s mother threatens to cut her off financially, Charlotte aligns labor with power, responding (to her mother’s elitist horror): “I could earn my own living.  I’d make a very good waitress."

In this manner, the film exploits the new “women’s” market discussed by Ecker, telling female audiences that, like Charlotte, they can express their own sexuality and desires for freedom, pleasure and power by purchasing mass-produced commodities. Playing off of the idea that a woman’s social acceptance and marital happiness is conditioned upon the reactions of others to her physical self, advertisers used films, like Now, Voyager, to show that beauty, freedom and power are not inherent states but can be realized by any woman-even a frumpy Charlotte Vale—if they just purchase the right goods. If you can also lose your heavy eyebrows and weight and smoke a few hundred cigarettes—especially, if those cigarettes are sensually lit from Paul Henreid’s (Jerry's) mouth while he is lighting his own cigarette—all the better. Not surprisingly, according to Maria LaPlace, the film had several major tie-ins with national cosmetic companies.

What I truly love about the film is that, in the end, consumerism is not the all-encompassing panacea for all of Charlotte’s needs. While she is self-reliant--more likely due to her separation from her mother and Dr. Jacquith’s (Claude Rains) kindness and therapy--she must sacrifice her desire to have a husband, home of her own or even an adulterous affair, telling Jerry at the end of the film “why ask for the moon. We have the stars.”

One other note, I believe Bette Davis’s performance in Now, Voyager is also a wonderful example of the importance of star persona in a film’s success (Staiger and deCordova Readings).  Bette Davis evolved from early blonde bombshell pin-up films (Human Bondage, 1934) to strong films about women who transgress social conventions with an interesting combination of self-sacrifice and “vamp bitch.” A quick examination of publicity in this time period shows that Warner Brothers effectively used her private life to reflect Davis's changing screen persona during this time period (See March 28, 1938 Time Magazine, “Popeye the Magnificent” and January 23, 1939  Life Magazine, “Bette Davis: She Prefers ‘Attractive Wench’ Parts in Which Her Acting is Hollywood’s High”). Often marketed as unpretentious and a Hollywood "misfit," she was a legitimate Broadway actress which gave her more serious roles credibility, had married twice by the time the film was released, had opened the famous Hollywood Canteen, and was even the first woman to serve as the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Science president in 1941, furiously resigning after eight weeks because she was supposed to be only a “figurehead.” Also, Warner Brothers was known to revise film scripts significantly during the 1930s-1940s to reflect a star’s personality and online accounts of Now, Voyager’s Revised Final script indicates this occurred.

The ability of Warner Brothers to capitalize on star persona is particularly interesting in this film. First, while the film deliberately constructs Davis as mousy and ugly, the audience knows Bette Davis is beautiful, and part of the pleasure in watching the film is waiting for her disguise to come off—preferably in a magazine-worthy makeover that ordinary women can replicate.  Davis’s willingness to transform herself in such an unappealing way is a sign of her dedication to the craft of acting and talent. Second, given the time period, Now, Voyager surprisingly asked audiences to care and weep about a woman who has an adulterous affair with a married man and then, in an act of self-sacrifice, gives up that love to care for his child.  The publicity surrounding this film was carefully constructed to show Davis as a tragic heroine alone in her black velvet dress and the words “It happens in the best of families. But you’d never think it could happen to her!” Another publicity shot in the black dress is more “vamp-like,” with Davis holding the cigarette that is so prominent in the film, and the words “Don’t blame me for what happened.” The film was a tremendous box office success and solidified Davis’s star persona.

Interesting trivia: I read online that, signed to Warner Brothers with no way out, Davis was a huge box office draw but had no control over her roles and was paid one-third what her male counterparts, like James Cagney, were paid. In the late 1930s, she sued Warner Brothers to be released from her long-term contract. Although unsuccessful, she actually then got roles that she wanted. Now, Voyager was one of those films.