By Philip Schweier
Recently while trolling Netflix, I stumbled across a handful
of movies to watch the next time I had the opportunity. And since Mrs. Wife
went out of town for the weekend, it made sense to start with the Billy Wilder
classic, The Seven Year Itch,
starring Marilyn Monroe and Tom Ewell. Monroe gets top billing, no doubt
because she was the more bankable star, but it’s Ewell’s character who is the
focus of the story. Or lack thereof, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
The movie begins with the explanation that since the days of
the Indians, women would leave the island of Manhattan in summer, journeying
upstream to escape the heat and humidity. This leaves the male of species free
to indulge in several weeks of bachelor freedom. Richard Sherman (Ewell) sees
his wife Helen, and son Ricky, off at Penn Station, committed to respecting the
ideals of matrimony, rather than revert to caveman-like behavior, driven by
baser instincts like his fellows.
Sherman is a book editor, and that evening, he sits down to
work on a manuscript in which a noted psychiatrist claims that a significant
proportion of men have extramarital affairs in the seventh year of marriage.
Sherman’s imagination proceeds to run wild, as his wife Helen (Evelyn Keyes)
appears to him in spectral form and he tells her of missed opportunities in
which he was irresistible to women, but she ain’t buying it. Even in her
ghostly form, she knows his imagination at work when she hears it.
Enter The Girl, played by Marilyn Monroe. She’s sub-let the
apartment above, and while Sherman is clearly charmed by her (it’s Marilyn
Monroe, fercrissakes!), he remains steadfast in his resolve. But fueled by the
analysis of the manuscript, and the constant temptation of his boss (Donald
MacBride), it appears it’s only a matter of time before Sherman succumbs to
temptation.
In the original play by George Axelrod, Sherman does give
in, but in order to be adapted for the screen, much of the sexual content had
to be written out. This leads to a much more innocent relationship between the
fumbling, over-imaginative Sherman (channeling his inner MacLean Stevenson) and
the clueless Girl. As a result, the plot really doesn’t go anywhere.
Convinced his wife may have taken up with a writer, Tom
McKenzie (Sonny Tufts), Sherman almost feels justified in his flirtations with
The Girl. But when McKenzie arrives to pick up the kayak paddle little Ricky
left behind, Sherman is once more convinced of his wife’s fidelity and rushes
off to Maine to join her. The End.
But not before giving McKenzie a punch in the nose, one he
deserves. Blame Tuft’s pathetic acting; or Wilder’s directing (unlikely); or
perhaps Wilder and Axelrod’s scripting the scene without the sexual innuendos
of the original play.
The film has become a classic, but less so for its
craftsmanship and more for its iconic imagery. This is the film in which Monroe
so famously stood over the subway grate, her dress blowing up over her legs.
Marilyn is in full bloom here, with her breathy delivery and naïve charm,
blissfully unaware of her sex appeal
The original play on which it is based may have had more
meat on its bones, but due to standards of the day, what is left is a
paper-thin puritan narrative. It’s worth watching if you’ve never seen it, but
despite its pedigree, its entertainment value has fallen victim to the 50+
years since it was originally released.
Perhaps if it were remade today, it might follow its source
material more closely. But on second thought, that seems impossible. The
character of The Girl would have to be either a complete air-head or a
conniving seductress. Either way, it seems unlikely she would end up in bed
with whatever stammering but charming doofus she’s paired with.
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