How Now, Voyager?
“Proper” Bostonians on Film
Certain cliches characterize the depiction of the “Proper Bostonian” in
Hollywood films: a curious mid-Atlantic accent with its signature broad “a” and
dropped “r”, stiffness of demeanor, correct dress, unvarying habits, unflappable
rectitude, and proud provincialism are usually showcased, to the extent that they
are now encoded culturally. Sometimes, the veneer of puritan pride is scratched
away to reveal personal or spiritual corruption.
This paper will discuss performances ranging from Bette Davis versus
Gladys Cooper in Now, Voyager (1942), Basil Rathbone versus Spencer Tracy
in The Last Hurrah (1958), Ryan O’Neill against Ray Milland in Love Story
(1970) to Paul Newman versus James Mason in The Verdict (1982). We will
conclude though, with one Proper Bostonian who emerges immaculate from the
harrowing of the hell that is the world beyond Boston. (With the exception of
The Last Hurrah, each of these films has a crucial sequence that takes place far
from Beacon Hill.) The conclusion will also note the almost de Certeauvian
tactical triumph of one Proper Bostonian.
Though it may be misunderstood or despised by outsiders, the Proper
Bostonian code is occasionally challenged from within, as we see in John P.
Marquand’s satires. Marquand’s mild sarcasm via the merely befuddled
characters in The Late George Apley is diluted into blandness by the film, and
the harsher critique offered by the anguish of H.M. Pulham Esq.'s title
protagonist, has its major punch pulled by the demands of the Hollywood
Production Code. The film excises the decade-long affair between Pulham’s
wife and his best friend, an affair that Pulham neither acknowledges nor seems
to even suspect. The conflict between Boston and New York City is dramatized
by a youthful Pulham’s sojourn as an advertising executive in New York. He
falls in love with a free spirited colleague, and for a moment seems ready to
leave Back Bay behind. Though the film deletes even a hint of adultery, it
retains Pulham’s shrugging betrothal to “the right girl.” The screenplay mainly
treats Robert Young’s regret that he let Heddy Lamarr slip from his grasp when
he failed to remain in Manhattan with her and answered his father’s importuning
that he return where he belonged. From the perspective of pure cinema, King
Vidor’s opening sequence is a perfect example of cutting to establish context—
indeed it is textbook Pudovkin. We see Robert Young as Pulham fussing over
every detail of his wardrobe and household trappings, then he makes sure his
terrier is properly accoutered for their walk, and we observe how this is part of
an unvarying routine, which we will see played out again to reconfirm Pulham’s
complacence. Contrast these richly textured sequences with the flat
presentations in the Apley film; Colman’s constitutionals are plot functions, not
character revelations. He might as well have described them in dialogue; they