I’ve been to Carvel, USA and come back to tell the tale.

Maybe it was the L-tryptophane semi-coma induced by Tom Turkey on Thanksgiving Day. Or perhaps it was the desultory feeling induced by that “day-after-a-holiday” fog that colored my judgment, but something led me to check out a few of the 16 Andy Hardy movies aired by TCM last week. I thought that these movies lost their allure for me about the time that I stopped reading about the adventures of Archie and Jughead in comic books—but the Hardy series, along with the Henry Aldrich, Nancy Drew and others marked the emergence of adolescence in the 1930s as a commercial and social force in America. These films still have some effective moments, despite the distance between us and the era when they were made.

Is it possible that even in the 21st century, the simple, wholesome power of that small-town America composed of families with deep, almost spiritual ties, still beckons, if only for the running time of the movie, to that surprisingly durable hope for “wholeness” that perches in the human heart? When the little B movie, A Family Affair was made in 1937, it was intended to ride the coat tails of a previous MGM successful adaptation of Eugene O’Neill’s Ah, Wilderness transformed into a gentle valentine to an idealized home life on screen by Clarence Brown. At the time when the highly successful series Hardy series began at the studio, the Munich Pact, The Spanish Civil War and the Nanking Massacre were big news. After the Roosevelt administration tried to reinvigorate the American market for several years, the economy took an unexpected nosedive in 1937, leading to a jump in unemployment from 14.3% in 1937 to 19.0% in 1938. Historians will tell us that several of the “isms” that have bedeviled us in the last 200 years, from romanticism, and communism to fascism were partly due to a desire for human beings to find a way of coping with the nearly constant, often overwhelming change of the average person’s life in this period.

Fortunately for us in some ways, I suppose, the response in this country to our problems was often to escape into the movies. After all, according to the Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA), the average movie ticket price by 1929 had risen to an unheard of 35¢, but one good thing about the Depression was that it brought that ticket to dream down to a much more sensible 25¢ once again.

A shrewd businessman and a dreamer, I suspect that studio head Louis B. Mayer understood that there might be a profit in making movies that gave Americans a brief glimpse of an imagined ideal life. Mayer’s observant descendant, Daniel Selznick, once said that his grandfather saw the films that he produced “as artifacts of Americana and really saw them as shaping the taste of the country—[he] consciously hoped that they would shape the taste of the country.”

Frankly, I thought that I had very little interest in Andy Hardy himself, as embodied in an unfettered Mickey Rooney, though I was always interested in the other actors who popped up throughout the series and the settings the movies created for the audience. As it turned out, I couldn’t possibly bear to watch the entire Hardy Family “canon” over the two days, but my family and I found ourselves leaving the movies running in the background as a sort of video wallpaper in the background of the usual hubbub of the Thanksgiving holiday. As a result, even my glib assessment of the remarkable Mr. Rooney shifted a bit.

Billy Wilder once recalled the time in the late ’30s when he and his writing partner Charles Brackett were working on a script at MGM for Ernst Lubitsch for the movie Ninotchka. Reportedly, their office “windows gave onto a little bridge which connects this old building with the new Thalberg Building. We looked out the window because there was screaming going on, and Louis B. Mayer held Mickey Rooney by the lapel. He says ‘You’re Andy Hardy! You’re the United States! You’re the Stars and Stripes. Behave yourself! You’re a symbol!’”

Clearly, if Wilder‘s memory is to be believed, on this occasion the flesh and blood “symbol”, (who was only, after all, a highly paid, extremely talented, greatly indulged teenage boy working very hard at the time), had done something that contradicted the wholesome vision of the studio’s driving force and upset Mr. Mayer‘s dream of America. While I’m as likely as anyone to dismiss the Andy Hardy films as a “confected rather than a reflected” reality about America, I was reminded recently—after several years of avoiding viewing any Andy Hardy movies—that, like it or not, I can still get caught up in the small tragedies and triumphs of the Hardys.

Though I often shared Mr. Mayer‘s urge to throttle the hypekinetic Mr. Rooney as Andy Hardy on occasion, my regard for his real artistry in his non-Andy roles in National Velvet, The Human Comedy, The Comedian, Requiem for a Heavyweight and The Black Stallion has deepened considerably over time, so I thought I might try to see if my perception of Andy Hardy had also changed.

Alas, a little of the Mickster powerhouse still goes a long way in most of the Hardy movies, especially when a movie script starts to flag a bit. Perusing Rooney’s official website to verify a factoid for this article, I was amused to see that one of the quotes chosen to include there was one from comedian Dana Carvey, who appeared in a sitcom with Rooney several years ago. Carvey, whose riff about the showbiz legend has been a very funny staple of his comedy routine in the past, has mentioned the actor’s amusing flair for profanity in between asking God to bless the same people he’d just cursed, is quoted on Rooney‘s website as saying:
“Mickey Rooney was a real colorful character, told us great stories. He used to walk around and say, ‘I was the No. 1 star in the world, hear me? The world!’ And that’s when he was alone in his dressing cubicle.”

I have to like a man who can see the humor in that affectionate jibe at his own legendary status! Based on the Robert Osborne one-on-one interview with Mr. Rooney, he is a man whose tumultuous life leaves him apparently able to forgive and forget much, especially his own and others foibles, and he does so in such a good natured, technicolored way. I’ve read that Rooney, while genial, is reticent with most interviewers and biographers when discussing his career and the people he’s known, in part because he has written his own memoir, which supposedly will someday be published. I like to think that it might also be because he might be following a path of “never complain, never explain” in this, his ninth decade.

It is easy to mock but underneath the impossible idealistic view of life in Rooney‘s Hardy movies is an undeniable pull. That tug may not be toward any supposed upper middle class reality that once was—most kids could only dream of owning a car as Andy did and even finishing high school was beyond the reach of many moviegoers, not to mention going to college. Having seen more Hardy movies than I’ve ever seen or can stand to see again over the last week, I think it’s not just the wish fulfillment that the Andy Hardy movies offered audiences, but a shared sense of longing that runs through the series that gives it some continued power.

Still, the wiseacre in me had several questions that popped into my head during the 2 day Hardy-a-thon, that I feel compelled to ask:

Do you think George Seitz, the journeyman director of most of the Hardy films, whose credits went back to The Perils of Pauline (1914), ever mentioned the idea of “Less is More” to Mickey?

If Judge Hardy and Emily (Mother) met as freshmen in college, how come Lewis Stone seems ancient compared to his wife?

If Emily (Mother) Hardy (Fay Holden) went to college, what could she possibly have majored in? Domestic Science? Quantum Physics? Cake decorating?
Could Mrs. Hardy’s real problem be that she is having an identity crisis due to the fact that she has so many titles and so few people address her by her actual name of Emily?

She’s “mother” to both her children and her husband, and only occasionally is called by her real name by either her sister or her husband, much less anyone else!

Have they ever considered having Mrs. Hardy evaluated for an arterial flow problem since she tends to speak in non sequiturs, i.e. in Andy Hardy Comes Home, her sister Milly asks Emmie if she’s ever dreamed about a trip around the world. Emmie’s vague reply: “Oh no. I’d like to go somewhere else.” I’m telling you, this lady’s elevator doesn’t go to the top floor.

What’s the backstory of Aunt Milly (played most memorably by Sara Haden)?

If she’s an English teacher with her own income, does she have to live with the Hardys?

Have you ever noticed that when the more self-absorbed members of the Hardy family are—as usual—ignoring some important news that the Judge is dying to share with his loved ones, she is the person who asks him gently to explain what he’s getting at? Is there a bit of romantic tension between the Judge and his sister-in-law? Is it possible she’s pining for Jim Hardy (Lewis Stone)?

Has anyone ever written a master’s thesis on the evolution of the Andy Hardy figure from the personification of a quasi-rural, Jeffersonian America to the Cold Warrior Salesman he appears to be in the last and saddest Hardy movie, Andy Hardy Comes Home (1958)? Well, I’m hardly equipped to write such a thesis, but, as Mrs. Lowman said in that Arthur Miller play about another sort of salesman, attention must be paid—and for a few pages, perhaps it might be paid to a few aspects of the Hardy series.

Like that fatal potato chip prior to the Thanksgiving feast, after I started to watch the first Hardy family movie, A Family Affair (1937), however, the decision to stop watching was a bit harder. Though not initially planned as a series but simply as a B movie featuring some engaging A players such as Lionel Barrymore and Spring Byington as Judge and Mrs. Hardy, this first movie has a more voluble Judge Hardy and a more vibrant Emily (Mother) Hardy because of the leads’ personalities. Lionel, like all the Barrymores, remains a fascinating figure for me, even when the material is rather thin and Byington, though given little to do but fuss, was an endearing presence.

After literally and figuratively digesting the contents of the films and the day’s celebration, it finally dawned on me that there were two primary reasons why I felt compelled to turn back to the Hardy films for two days. One was, as I attempted to explain above, surprisingly, Mr. Rooney, and the other was Lewis Stone.

The actor most closely identified with the Judge, Lewis Stone, who began playing the part in the next film in the series, You’re Only Young Once (1937) remains an intriguing figure. Btw, according to legend, Lionel Barrymore and Lewis Stone are the only two actors who managed to remain on the MGM payroll long enough to be fully vested to receive a pension from the studio, (though neither would live long enough to enjoy much of that pension).

Lewis Stone (1879-1953), who always looked more grandfatherly than fatherly as Judge Hardy, (he was about 59 when he began the role), had reportedly turned gray by the time he was 20. His pensive, slow-moving, sometimes dour manner in this part makes him occasionally seem crotchety, but as the moral fulcrum of the story, his magisterial words and actions seem to help set the world right by the time The End appears. More importantly, in dramatic terms, Stone‘s quiet, deliberative nature contrasts well with his screen son’s nervous energy. Stone does seem to embody an older, slower America too, while Rooney is clearly meant to personify the unbridled, sometimes foolishly optimistic spirit of America in the 20th century. Both characters seem to learn from one another throughout the series.One aspect of the arc of the series that surprised me, was that despite his calm appearance, it’s interesting how much trouble the ol’ Adjudicator, Judge Hardy, finds himself in during several of the Hardy’s adventures.

In the earlier Hardy films in which he appears, made as the Depression dragged on in America, Stone‘s character shows some very poor judgement, being hoodwinked by con men, almost removed from the bench and investigated for his finances and decisions on more than one occasion. Despite the upper middle class trappings of the Hardy home and the esteem that is publicly expressed toward the judge’s honor and perception, Judge Hardy inevitably faces ruin of some sort in these early entries, such as Judge Hardy’s Children (1938), The Hardy’s Ride High (1938), and Judge Hardy and Son (1939)—sometimes due in part to the mischief of his dunder-headed offspring, but often due to the judge’s own flawed insight into human nature. Surely, this aspect of the early plots helped to endear the fallible Judge to often hard-pressed audiences, even though it made me wonder about his ABA rating.

The part of Judge Hardy has come to overshadow Lewis Stone‘s earlier roles, but the contemplative part was more of an anomaly in the actor’s remarkably long career than one might realize. His parts on stage and in earlier films were more often men of the world, and in some roles, Mr. Stone–believe it or not–was positively dashing.

Becoming an actor after leaving college to serve in the Spanish-American War, Stone became a popular and romantic stage actor, originating the role of the white explorer-hero in the stage play of Bird of Paradise on Broadway in 1912 opposite a very young Laurette Taylor as the doomed South Seas native girl. This story, which was later filmed twice in the sound era in 1932 and 1951, was described by a contemporary review in the New York Times as colorful and romantic as well as ground breaking in its treatment of intermarriage among the races.

Making his successful debut in film by 1915, Stone soon became one of the most courtly figures on the silent screen, even with a mid-career interruption due to his service in World War One.

Back on screen after the war, he appeared in the dual role of the Ruritanian prince and his cousin in The Prisoner of Zenda (1922), (shown at right). Some critics felt that Lewis Stone‘s characterization provided the elegant blueprint for Ronald Colman‘s ’30s version. The following year Mr. Stone’s appearance in Scaramouche (1923) cemented his reputation for filling courtly roles with a brio that Hardy viewers might find startling. Both films have appeared occasionally on TCM Silent Sundays and may again prove interesting viewing.

One adventurous role that looks as though it might have been quite a show was Stone’s appearance in director Alexander Korda’s second film in Britain, The Private Life of Helen of Troy (1927). A comic take on the Helen of Troy story, Lewis played Menelaus in the First National production opposite in the title role. Miss Corda, a star in Korda‘s native Hungary, and Mr. Stone were both cited by Variety for their nimble acting. Unfortunately, as with so many silent films, only about 27 minutes of this movie is said to exist in the vaults of the British Film Institute and are currently too fragile to be projected. Still, as we can imagine, based on the Korda reputation and the elaborate costume and sets seen in this still on the left, Mr. S. cut quite a figure.

Stone‘s raffish side had further workout in the six films in which he played opposite Greta Garbo at her most mysterious in A Woman of Affairs (1928), Wild Orchids (1929), and Romance (1930). Stone usually plays a man of the world who may be Garbo‘s rich older “benefactor” who eventually evolves into an adviser or a stumbling block in her quest toward romantic self-fulfillment in these flicks, as he did very effectively in the early talkie, Mata Hari (1931), pictured below.

By the time that Garbo appeared in Queen Christina (1933), Stone, and his roles had matured into that of a trusted attendant to the star. However, there were still some interesting parts awaiting the actor at Metro. Strictly Dishonorable (1931), based on a hit Broadway play by Preston Sturges, gave the actor a nice foreshadowing of his later part as a very playful, amusingly philosophical alcoholic judge in an ensemble cast led by Paul Lukas. The sophisticated film casts a tolerant eye on the denizens of a speakeasy where the sober Judge Hardy would never be seen.

One other pre-Hardy part that Lewis Stone played is, in my opinion, among his very best, blending the actor’s skill for projecting an introspective nature with some lively Western action. Directed by Richard Boleslawski, (a pioneering influence in introducing Stanislawski‘s acting principles to this country), Three Godfathers (1936) is the second of at least three remakes of a Peter Kyne novel about a band of robbers who find themselves wandering in the desert, like the Magi at the first Christmas, though these bandits find themselves toting a newborn baby. The far more well known 1948 remake by John Ford, (who also directed a silent version in 1919 called Marked Men), stars John Wayne, Pedro Armendariz and Harry (Dobie) Carey, Jr. Given Ford’s painterly gifts, it is a magnificent desert tableau to look at, though, perhaps the material receives too sentimental a treatment by the director. Yet for those who’ve seen the grittier, low budget 1936 version, which airs on Dec. 25th at 6AM ET on TCM and stars Chester Morris, Walter Brennan and Stone, there may be no contest in choosing a favorite version for some of us.

The ’30s version, photographed by one of the masters, Joseph Ruttenberg, is able to communicate the bleakness of the setting in a straight forward manner. This is perfect for the Depression era, tougher treatment giving the basic storyline a sharper edge with fewer sentimental frills. Chester Morris is outstanding in the leading part of the villain with the darkest nature of the three, both charming, brusque and dangerous. Brennan’s rather sad, illiterate cowpoke is also touching and real, especially in his wonderful scenes with Lewis Stone, who plays an educated man who, finding himself at a dead end in the desert, still turns to Schopenhauer and Shakespeare for some hoped-for perspective. Mulling over the path that led him to throw his life away as the bleakness of their circumstances becomes clearer, Stone‘s legacy to a hapless Brennan and a cold Morris is to remind them that they are still human. Encountering this previously unknown film (to me at least), a couple of years ago on TCM, I’ve never forgotten its power and the subtle, forgotten performance by Lewis Stone, who clearly, was more than Judge Hardy.

Sources:
Eyman, Scott, The Lion of Hollywood: The Life and Legend of Louis B. Mayer. Simon & Schuster. 2005.
Gabler, Neal, An Empire of Their Own: How the Jews Invented Hollywood. Doubleday, 1988.
Thomson, David, The New Biographical Dictionary of Film. Alfred A. Knopf, 2002.