I have a secret: I am a Doris Day fan. I know, I know: gay gay gay gay gay. Still. She’s one of the greatest voices of the century (k.d. lang would probably sound different without Day’s influence). And there’s a vague Marilyn Monroe, Greta Garbo vibe: she retired in her prime, and has steadfastly refused all offers for a comeback. Plus, there’s the subversive feminism of some of her biggest movies. Sure, she was the “professional virgin,” who created the mythos of the “delayed fuck.” Her trademark movie role has her rebuffing the advances of a throbby bachelor until just before the credits roll, when she gives in and gives it up. Marriage, that is. But what’s subversive about this stuff is that, in all those movies, Doris Day always had the upper hand. She was not a bimbo who was eventually manipulated into marriage just for the sake of sex. She’s doing the manipulating. She’s the one who finally succeeds in playing the poor fish skillfully enough that HE comes around, in the end, and puts out with the house, the kids, the security. He never makes her HIS prisoner; he finally offers himself up to her, in unconditional surrender.
Anyway, except for this one time? I just watched The Tunnel of Love, 1958, on TCM. A “comedy” starring Day and Richard Widmark, who I’ll confirm was NOT cut out for comedies. In this not very funny movie directed by Gene (???) Kelly, Day and Widmark are a childless couple living in the wilds of Connecticut, in one of those sprawling Connecticut houses with exposed timbers, half doors, and flagstoned patios. (Remember when Lucy and Ricky moved to Connecticut? Remember when Cary Grant and Baby went to Connecticut to go gay all of a sudden? One of those houses.) First off, the frankness with which the issue of childishness becomes the central plot device is a bit weirding for a Doris Day, Production-Code-Era movie. The plot sets up that the “young” couple has applied to an adoption agency—oh, spoilers coming, if you care—but they’re also working closely with their doctor in their continuing attempts to have a child “of their own.” There are a few eye popping exchanges on that subject: Richard comes home from an exhausting summer commute from The City, and remarks to his neighbor buddy Gig Young that all he wants to do is “take a cold shower and go to bed.” Doris dashes in from shopping and runs upstairs to take her temperature. She dashes back down the stairs, calls the doctor’s office to tell them to expect her within a half hour, and excitedly tells Richard that “it’s up,” while holding the thermometer at a very suggestive angle. Richard, as dictated by the plot if not by believability, says, “Honey, all I want to do is take a cold shower and go to—all I want to do is take a cold shower.” He strenuously argues that he can’t expect to be “on tap” (!!!) any old time, and she calls the doctor and cancels. Then, she apologizes to her husband! I mean, !!!, right? He’s being an asshole. From a modern perspective, I’d say he’s acting out some kind of passive-aggressive need to exert some macho control over the situation, as well as possibly some fear of actually being a father when it comes down to it. But is any of this explored, or even acknowledged? No! We’re clearly expected to be on his side here!
Next item on the plot agenda. They’ve been told to expect an investigator from the adoption agency. Guess what happens? Richard, still on his way to the shower, is wearing a button down shirt and boxers, and carrying a towel. He sees a mouse. He swats at the mouse all over the room with the towel. The doorbell rings. Richard sarongs the towel and answers, to see . . . a beautiful woman with a French accent. (Seriously, I couldn’t make this stuff up.) He invites her in, assuming from her cryptic screenwriter’s hints that she’s collecting for charity. He offers her a drink, then whips of the towel to go tearing around after the mouse some more. Meanwhile, he’s had a couple drinks. She asks him pointed questions. “They say that people drink to escape. What are you trying to escape, Mr. Widmark? [or whatever]” He twinkles, “The ravages of alcohol.” She asks him what ages of a child’s life are the most important, developmentally. “Five to seven,” he says, “because that’s the cocktail hour!” Seriously. Then right on cue, Gig comes in. Richard steps out, I forget why, at which point Gig, who’s been put down as the prospective parents’ character reference, tries to pick up the smokin’ French dame. The wives come in, the deception is revealed, the French dame leaves, tears and anger and feigned innocence all around. The wives retreat to next door, the husbands commiserate. Gig convinces Richard that he needs to relax: that if he weren’t so uptight these kinds of things wouldn’t happen. If he chased tail like Gig did, then he’d probably even be relaxed enough to finally get his wife pregnant! Seriously, !!! So Gig leaves, leaving behind a gift of tranquilizer tablets—“You need em more than I do!” Richard has another drink, and the doorbell rings again.
Still not making this up.
You know who’s at the door, right? Oui. Coming back to apologize for her hasty judgment. Offering to reconsider if they find another character reference. And then she goes, “I’ll take that drink now.” !!! Do I even have to go on?
Richard takes Gig’s advice and, long story not quite so long, wakes up in a motel with no memory of the previous evening, and a note thanking him for a lovely evening, written in a French accent. (Could that have been a veiled reference to a “French letter”? Nah.)
Cut to. A while later, Richard comes to Gig with a problem. The French broad has written him, needing his help. She’s pregnant. !!! (This is still being played for laughs, by the way, which is a source of great cognitive dissonance to me.) Richard borrows $1,000 from Gig to pay off the pregnant French chick; he’s to meet her at a church that afternoon. Cut to the backyard, a barbecue going on. Everyone’s there but Richard, who’s still at the church, presumably. Enter the French chick. Doris is thrilled to see her, of course, imagining she’s there on adoption agency business. In fact, she says, she knows of a prospective baby! They should be patient, but she might have good news for them in about 5 months. Richard, who’s shown up in the meantime, does a little math with his eyes, then goes pale. French chick tells the others that she has some followup questions of a personal nature for Richard, and takes him aside (“You were supposed to meet me at the church!” “Zere ahr four shurshes in ze village!”) to collect the check. She promises to pay it back; he insists he doesn’t want it back.
Still a comedy.
Five months later, Doris has discovered the missing $1000, and knows that her husband is lying about it, but doesn’t know why. Now the baby arrives. Doris grows suspicious when everyone points out the remarkable resemblance between the baby and his adoptive father. Richard grows a mustache to cover his guilt. Doris gets a baby picture from Richard’s mother which confirms her fears, confronts him, and he caves. She packs to leave (still a comedy). He begs, he pleads, the doorbell rings. No, really. Frenchie comes in, hands over a check for $1000, and just as Doris is about to rip out her throat, explains that she and her baby daughter are finally able to go join her husband, and Sank you so vehry mush for ze loan. It wasn’t his baby after all! The resemblance really WAS a coincidence! Everybody laughs through the fade.
Now, on how many levels was this movie just so very, very wrong?
