Writer/director Aaron Sorkin loves the crackling intensity of rapid-fire dialogue amid interpersonal conflict, as we’ve seen in earlier projects from TV’s The West Wing and The Newsroom, to big-screen efforts such as The Social Network and The Trial of the Chicago 7.
 |
| The stars of I Love Lucy — from left, Desi Arnaz (Javier Bardem), William Frawley (J.K. Simmons), Vivian Vance (Nina Arianda) and Lucile Ball (Nicole Kidman) — rehearse a scene wherein Ricky and Lucy Ricardo attempt to "re-unite" the bickering Fred and Ethel Mertz. |
Being the Ricardos is set primarily during a tumultuous single week in late 1952, as the stars, writers and sponsors of I Love Lucy shape the second season’s next episode, prior to it being performed and filmed before a live studio audience. That said, frequent flashbacks reveal the early careers of Lucille Ball (Nicole Kidman) and Desi Arnaz (Javier Bardem), and how they met and married.
Those elements are fascinating, as Sorkin deftly sketches the ambition, shrewd intelligence and business savvy that — once they got together — transformed two B-movie contract players into industry visionaries: They co-created one of television’s all-time most successful shows (No. 1 in the Nielsen ratings for four of its six seasons) and then founded Desilu, one of the world’s top TV production companies at the time (and later the home of Star Trek, among many other hits).
Captivating as all this is — and the power couple’s many innovations almost are too numerous to take in, so quickly (a Sorkin trademark) — the film primarily focuses on three crises that erupt during this one week:
• A newspaper photo that leads Ball to believe that Arnaz is having an affair;
• Muckraking gossip columnist Walter Winchell’s bombshell announcement that Ball is a communist (!); and
• The revelation that Ball is pregnant with their second child, and her determination — with Arnaz’s support — to break television’s then-cultural taboo against showing pregnant women on screen.
While all these events are factual, Sorkin has “massaged” history — and heightened the intensity of his film — by having them occur simultaneously. (They didn’t. Most notably, Winchell’s radio bombshell wasn’t made until a few days after Ball’s second meeting with the House Un-American Activities Committee, in September 1953.)
Ergo, the cacophony of calamity is artistic conceit, but it’s a forgivable sin.
Verbal jousting is ubiquitous throughout, in the audacious manner of a 1930s screwball comedy: between Ball and Arnaz; between both of them and their three favorite writers, Madelyn Pugh (Alia Shawkat), Bob Carroll Jr. (Jake Lacy) and Jess Oppenheimer (Tony Hale); and between all five of them and the CBS suits (Clark Gregg, Nelson Franklin and Dan Sachoff) and Phillip Morris representative (Jeff Holman) who question, nitpick, challenge and argue over any line or act that might be considered controversial, risqué or offensive to American TV viewers.
It’s a revelation, to be reminded of the jaw-droppingly insane restrictions placed on TV shows, back in the day … and the long-suffering patience required of the stars, writers and directors who had to put up with such nonsense.
Alan Baumgarten’s editing, throughout, is as tight and quick as the rat-a-tat dialogue.
Sorkin also reveals the comic genius that prompts Ball to fine-tune a scene, or even a single line of dialogue: an insistence on perfection that often puts her at odds with her three writers … although they’re inevitably forced to admit that her instinct is solid.
Kidman is marvelous during such moments, as Ball thoughtfully stares at a given stage set, ideas rapidly percolating: also when she insistently stands her ground on what seems a trivial matter. Kidman never slides into irritation; that isn’t Ball’s way. She simply cajoles, with an irresistible blend of infallible logic and persuasive body language.
During quieter, more intimate scenes with Barden, Kidman’s manner shifts; Ball vacillates between anger and sorrow. She clearly loves and respects Arnaz, but grieves over the flaw — infidelity — that he refuses to acknowledge. Their whirlwind 1940 courtship notwithstanding — while shooting the big-screen adaptation of the hit Rodgers and Hart Broadway musical, Too Many Girls — she knows, deep down, that he’s a better business partner than husband.
Many of these intimate moments are quietly heartbreaking. It’s hard to watch two people who clearly connect in so many ways, but not on a deeply personal level: a marital tragedy deftly conveyed by Kidman, Bardem and Sorkin’s spot-on dialogue.
Bardem’s impersonation of Arnaz is close enough to be spooky at times. His public face is jovial, enthusiastic and energized by the Cuban music he loves to perform. But that side of Arnaz vanishes during production meetings, where Arnaz spars ruthlessly with anybody — notably the network execs and Phillip Morris sponsor — who threatens his vision of their TV show. Arnaz knows that a No. 1 hit show gives him power, and he’s not afraid to use it.
And his delivery of Ricky Ricardo’s signature line — “Oh Looooceeeeee!” — is to die for.
J.K. Simmons and Nina Arianda are a stitch as I Love Lucy co-stars William Frawley and Vivian Vance. At first blush, they seem to loathe each other; Frawley constantly puts Vance down, belittles her appearance, and undercuts her suggestions. For quite some time, in fact, he’s a cranky old poop.
But Simmons’ performance is quite nuanced, which becomes clear as the story progresses. He’s wise and pragmatic: a sounding-board Ball can trust. On top of which, the cantankerous affectations may be partly a façade; when push comes to shove, he’s protective of everybody in this closely knit quartet of performers.
Arianda’s feisty Vance gives as good as she gets, but that’s also surface behavior. During calmer moments, she’s quite vulnerable, particularly about her weight and appearance; Arianda’s expression turns troubled and uncertain. Friendship and mutual respect aside, the artistic pecking order is inviolable … and sometimes harsh.
Shawkat’s Madelyn Pugh is a fascinating character. Female writers were unusual in 1950s TV production; she’s also younger than her two male colleagues. Sorkin focuses on that perspective; Pugh becomes the subtle but persistent voice of expanded consciousness.
Shawkat is warm and persuasive when Pugh advocates for a more enlightened female perspective — much to the annoyance of Carroll and Oppenheimer — and encourages Ball to understand the importance of her on-camera presence, and of showing Lucy as an equal partner to husband Ricky, rather than a second-class “wife.”
Borrowing a leaf from Warren Beatty’s approach to 1981’s Reds, Sorkin intercuts faux “interviews” with the three writers’ older selves — played by, respectively, Linda Lavin, Ronny Cox and John Rubinstein — who discuss some of these events years after the fact. It lends a sly bit of documentary-style verisimilitude.
Brief re-created clips from I Love Lucy also are a hoot, notably the grape-stomping sequence from “Lucy’s Italian Movie” (which Ball always acknowledged as her personal favorite episode).
Although this film’s tone is primarily light and frothy, there’s no denying the undercurrent of sorrow that develops as Sorkin slides into his third act. That makes the final line of text, after the screen fades to black, unexpectedly sad.
It has long been said that comedy is born from pain, and Sorkin certainly makes a persuasive case for Lucille Ball, Desi Arnaz and I Love Lucy.
No comments:
Post a Comment