classic movies | Veronica Maria Jarski

"Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House" (1948)

In “Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House,” Jim Blandings (Cary Grant) is an advertising writer who can no longer stand the cramped quarters of his New York apartment and decides, for the sake of his family, to build the ultimate sprawling manor in the country.

What I found most interesting in an otherwise meh movie is the subplot: Jim has a deadline to write a slogan for Wham Ham. The slogan doesn’t come easily to him (nothing in this film does), and the viewer gets to go through the emotions of a hard case of writer’s block along with him.

1. He can’t believe his assignment. When Jim walks into the office, he sees a cheesy poster for the Wham Ham product line, and he’s delighted that he’s not working on the campaign. In two beats, he finds himself on it. Relief becomes disbelief. He would rather not do the work, but he must do what pays the bills.

2. He knows he’ll do a great job! Jim decides that he isn’t worried about the assignment after all. He goes about his life, heads to the office, does the research. In knowing everything about the product, he assumes that the slogan will practically write itself. He feels fairly confident that, yes, by gum, he’ll be able to write that slogan. Sure, the deadline is fast approaching, but he’ll be fine. Really.

3. He knows he’ll do a horrible job. He tries so hard to come up with something new, but all his ideas have been done before. He comes up with a slogan that he likes. It’s a rip-off of another account’s slogan. He grows restless and fusses with his tie, wanders around the room, talks to his secretary. He is desperate for inspiration. He hates not being able to come up with something. Jim’s mind is just blank.

4. He gets distracted. Forget the stupid slogan and campaign. Jim wants to be home with his wife, curled by the fire in the rain, enjoying life in the country.

5. He gives up. Wham Ham is stupid. And worse, so is he. He is the world’s worst ad writer. Being fired is inevitable. He feels enormous pity for himself and feels like a big fat loser. No one understands. Writing sucks.

6. He finds inspiration around him. After all hope is lost, Jim focuses on other aspects of his life, especially his wife. And in the last moments of the film, Jim hears someone make a comment about Wham Ham that suddenly sounds like the best slogan ever.

7. He immediately gets the writing done. Once he hears the line that works, he doesn’t waste time. Jim knows it will be perfect for this campaign, and he rushes to the office to tell them all about it.

Despite the ending being a bit too neat and the fact that Jim’s writing block isn’t quite as nightmarish as it can be (he didn’t want to throw his typewriter out the window, burst into tears, or jump from the nearest ledge unlike, ah, other people I know), Jim shows the most important trait of a true writer: perseverance.

Jim pushes through writer’s block. Even after he quits and declares that all hope is lost, he remains vigilant for when inspiration decides to send him a gift. And when it does, in the form of a helpful person in his life, Jim is ready to receive it.

He is a writer, and professional writers are always vigilant—even when it feels like everything he’s writing is lousy. It’s writing through all those bad slogans and crummy lines that allows for the brilliance to finally shine forth.

How do you navigate through writer’s block?

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).

The Early Versions of Cary Grant

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.

The Breakthrough Role

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.

Finding One’s Voice

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.

The struggle to find one’s voice
He had a strange accent that blended both sides of the pond, acted in regrettable films, but he worked and he worked hard. True artists are always working and growing.
The triumph of finding one’s style
The hard work pays off eventually. A true artist improves with each project.
The redefining one’s style
Despite being known now mostly for his romantic films, he seemed to go through phases. When the screwball comedies stopped being produced, he played up his romantic hero side. Later, he did some military films. And some of his best work was with Alfred Hitchcock, who allowed the darker, edgier side of Cary to emerge.

If you haven’t seen a Cary Grant movie, today’s the perfect opportunity to do so. Turner Classic Movies (TCM) is running a Cary Grant marathon. Check your local listings for details.