The Story of Jean Carter (1957)

D. John W. Harries
Colour


Whenever one is trying to give a harrowing story a sense of gloss, a sign that the redemptive arc will swing into action at some point, the focus should be soft. A Hollywood actress may die of cancer on the big screen, but there’s no way the audience can actually be shown the ravages of the big C. A starlet may find herself on junk in this year’s weepie, but she’ll be a still sexy junkie. And your Oscar winner to be may succumb to consumption in the period epic, but she’ll still look lovely. That’s fine, it’s understandable. This is the dream factory after all, the selling of a fantasy, and fantasies should be pleasant.


It does mean though that as the years move on and films become (somewhat) more accepting of the realities of life, then those movies shot in soft focus in the fifties/sixties now look fluffy dreams of the imagination, like ‘The Wizard of Oz’ with a brain tumour.


Here we get Marilyn Monroe at the eponymous Jean Carter. Outwardly happy, with a doting husband (Richard Widmark) and a young son, Jean is having problems. A back ache from a childhood injury means she is popping too many pills; a supportive network of friends allows her to palm off her son so she can drink to hide her misery; she is compulsively stealing from local stores; and what’s more she is considering an affair with her handsome young neighbour, George Peppard. It’s hard being Jean Carter. Eventually the dam bursts and she has a wild breakdown, ending up in a sanatorium. There are tears and cries for forgiveness, but eventually her addictions are taken in hand, her would-be lover is revealed to be a cad and her husband forgives her, leading to a happy family hug.


So, what’s interesting about this film? What differentiates it from other sub-Douglas Sirk knock offs? Well, the direction is workmanlike and most of the actors are clearly thinking of nothing but their paycheques. Widmark phones in his performance from a whole other state or maybe even a different country, to be fair though, his entire character is pitched on the wide spectrum between ‘supportive’ and ‘reliable’, so it’s not like he has much to work with. Peppard fails to smoulder in a role which calls for youthful sexuality. Yes he has a certain cock-suredness, but he seems totally in love with himself. It’s very odd for a man to appear in love scenes with Marilyn Monroe and look like he’d rather engage in a bout of onanism with someone he really fancies.


No, the reason to check out this film the next time it appears on Channel 4 on a wet Wednesday afternoon is the leading lady, as Marilyn Monroe is surprisingly good as the drunken, pill-popping, kleptomaniac, depressive, would-be adulterer. Okay, she is never allowed to look particularly bad, or particularly drunk, or particularly smashed out of her gord on pills – but her eyes do capture the sadness of her character. There’s an element that she is still Marilyn Monroe, but to use a hackneyed phrase, it’s a Marilyn Monroe we haven’t seen before – wearing stolen garments which will be returned to the stores by the end.