Dinner at Eight (1933, George Cukor) (Patreon)

59/100

Second viewing, last seen 1993. Clearly not much stuck with me, as I'd inaccurately remembered a witty ensemble piece with everyone mostly in the same room, trading banter, whereas the actual film is a fairly dour melodrama that assembles its all-star cast—excepting the actor whose character commits suicide!—only in the last 15 minutes. Indeed, this is one of few '30s Hollywood films I can think of that constantly reminds viewers of the Depression happening offscreen; almost everyone's desperate and scrounging, even among the most affluent, and the play's canny structure forever withholds its ostensible titular gratification (albeit not as radically as Buñuel later would). That sounds like a movie I'd love, but in truth I wish there were more sparkling repartee and less maudlin self-pity. Each individual storyline has its sharp moments, and Cukor admirably resists the temptation to italicize; I was particularly impressed by the scene in which John Barrymore's washed-up actor gets asked to vacate his hotel room, during which all parties maintain the polite, respectful façade that the room in question was previously reserved for another guest. (Many filmmakers would feel compelled to throw in some clear indication that this is a lie, even if just an exchange like "Isn't that right, So-and-So?" "Um—oh, yes, sir." Cukor trusts that we'll get it sans prodding.) At the same time, though, there's a grinding inevitability to every conflict, which makes practically the entire film feel as if it's still laboriously setting things up for act two. Dressler, Beery and Burke best walk the tightrope between poignant and absurd, while Harlow gets the lion's share of on-paper zingers. Worthy but creaky. Joke I had to research to fully understand: A minor character, told about various has-beens who'll be at the dinner, sarcastically asks "And Jenny Lind, is she coming?" Today's precise equivalent would be Jack Benny, i.e. someone who's not just out of fashion but has been dead for 46 years.