To see Cary Grant‘s films from 1937 and on, you might assume that Cary Grant always exuded the sophistication and confidence for which he is legendary.
His lengthy career—72 films in all—showcases his talents in diverse roles, but through it all, he gives all his characters (e.g., cat burglars, artists, brain surgeons, and spies) a touch of class that is his alone. No, he didn’t play every role the same way. The ‘wronged’ Devlin‘s icy dismissiveness in “Notorious” is the flip side of David Huxley‘s abrupt, screwball-y hyperactivity in “Bringing Up Baby.” In “Holiday” (1938), Cary, as Johnny Case, delights with his breezy attractiveness, regular-guyness, and an offbeat sense of humor. Just a year later, he’s a quiet, tough boss and pilot of a South American mail carrier business in “Only Angels Have Wings.”
As whatever character he is playing, Cary Grant (in 1937 and after) shines. And every character he plays has a special imprint, a touch that no one else can give the character.
But that legendary style isn’t something that he just had from the moment he walked on screen. In fact, early Cary Grant is downright hokey and almost embarrassing to watch. He seems more Archibald Leach (his birth name) than Cary Grant (his stage name).
As part of my Cary Grant Project, I’ve had to endure the early films of an actor who had not found himself just yet. The playfulness that he let shine through his characters in films in 1937 (and after) is not evident in 1934. For example, in the wretchedly overdone “Kiss and Make Up,” he is a Parisian plastic surgeon who is one-dimensional and awkward. His swaggering confidence is feigned, and it shows. (Plus, he launches into song completely out of nowhere.) And in the idiotic “Wings in the Dark” (1935), he shows a glimmer of the darkness that Alfred Hitchcock would later tap for his films, but that’s it. His role is more of a caricature than character.
To see his early work, you’d think he’d be reduced to eye candy in every subsequent film. You wouldn’t know that he’d find his voice (literally), his style, his very Cary Grant-iness, just a few short years later.
After almost 30 films, Cary Grant finally becomes the Cary Grant. The gloriously good-looking man finds his footing and becomes more than just the best man to ever wear a suit on the silver screen. In the screwball comedy, “The Awful Truth,” Cary Grant’s breakout role is the rascally Jerry Warriner, who is sneaky, sexy, funny, musical, acrobatic, and ridiculously lovable. It’s as if he finally decided to have fun with this role, and the stifling self-consciousness of his early work seems to be gone.
From this point on, Cary Grant just owns Hollywood. In the late 1930s and 1940s, he was almost always the first choice for the male lead in any film. The actresses of his era seemed to be funnier, sexier, and just all-around better when in a Cary Grant film.
So, why am I mentioning Cary Grant on a writing blog? (I mean, besides the obvious.)
Cary Grant’s long career is a good example for creative people, for it shows the various stages of a creative life.
Happy birthday, Cary.