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Nelson Pressley’s Fonda on Film: The Political Movies of Jane Fonda is a meticulously researched and insightful examination of a performer who, despite decades of respect and awards for the quality of her work as an actress and filmmaker, her films were still too often eclipsed in the public eye by her political activism. While the book, per the subtitle, centers on the “message” films she made about Vietnam, gender and race equality, and the environment, always with a focus on the underpaid and underappreciated, it is a comprehensive look at her entire career.
Those films reflected and influenced her eras. She began as a virginal ingenue, then moved to ’60s sex comedies, French sex fantasies, dramas based on books and plays, and comedies with pointed commentary, working with some of the biggest stars and most talented directors in Hollywood history. And it’s a delight to read, with historical context, behind-the-scenes details, and thoughtful observations. In an interview with rogerebert.com, Pressley talked about Fonda’s approach to roles, her best collaborations, and the Fonda movies everyone should see.
Early in the book, you describe Jane Fonda as having “colossal malleability and never-ending controversy.” How do you think those two elements show up in her performances?
The arc of the career certainly shows it. Just how quick is the transition from “Barbarella,” you know, where she’s this intergalactic love being, and the utter despair of “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?” And at that point, she’s about a decade into her career. It’s just a tremendous amount of experience, even in that first decade of the ’60s.
I mean, you talk about malleability, you go from being an ingenue on campus, toppling over on your bicycle and falling in love, looking for a tall guy to marry in the “The Tall Story” with Anthony Perkins, and then within a few short years, you’re acting in French-made thrillers, these very arty thriller things, or romantic intrigues. So the malleability comes across really quickly, and it serves her extremely well.
Then we get to these very, very coolly, very professionally made things that she does politically in the late ’70s. That’s part of the story of the book: how she was forged in controversy, how she gradually sought out activism, and then became a flashpoint with the Hanoi Jane incident and the Vietnam protests. The other side of the malleability is how quickly she learned from that mistake, which she’d labeled as a mistake for years and years, but pivoted and was very careful to make sure the pro-soldier aspect of her message got through. It’s very clear in “Coming Home.”
You have her story about a conversation with Katharine Hepburn, who asked her about how she presented herself. Jane Fonda said she was still lacking consciousness about her persona.
She told that story in her autobiography, My Life So Far, so that’s her grappling with that very fact. Is that a weakness or is that a strength? I think in her case, she’s parlayed it into a strength. Early on, as I was looking through material about her, I came across the 1962 documentary “Jane.” The uncertainty is really striking, but you can also see her grappling with it. It’s like, “Okay, what’s going on here? What’s not working? How do I make it work?”
Her preparation for roles varies by era and part. With “Klute,” she met with women who were working as call girls and prostitutes, so she had firsthand knowledge, and she really tried to absorb that. With “Coming Home,” she spoke to military spouses, trying to take on board firsthand information. With a lot of those later movies in the ’70s, she’s having a hand in shaping the scripts, too.
She played Kimberly Wells, the reporter in “The China Syndrome.” That script went through many iterations. Originally, it was thought that the reporter would be a man, so when she became involved, she helped actually shape the character. She insisted that her character’s therapist be a woman in “Klute.” But for something like a Neil Simon character in “Barefoot in the Park” or “California Suite,” which is more traditional, the script is set, and she is a super acute analyst.
One of the keys to her strength is how comfortable she became as a performer. And again, I think a lot of that work was done in the ’60s, how comfortable she became in a lot of different modes. There’s such strength in that. And I think she derives a lot of authority just from skill and dedication and being able to bear down and, again, pivot from “Barbarella” to “Shoot Horses.”
It’s a spin to go from those ingenue ’60s roles like “Sunday in New York” to “Barbarella.”
Yes, but do you know what else? The whole country did. The whole world was doing it right then.
Which director do you think understood her the best?
You might want to say Alan Pakula, because he made three movies, but they ended with “Rollover,” which I think is so admirable in terms of trying to make a movie and attracting people’s attention, but it doesn’t naturally come to mind when you’re thinking about what to see on a Friday night in 1981. Oh, yeah, Fred Zinnemann did amazing work in “Julia.” I still think that that’s an astonishing piece of moviemaking and movie acting on her part. That cast is so perfect with Jason Robards and Vanessa Redgrave around her. And she just holds that screen in such a classical way that it becomes kind of an archetype for the next five to six years, even though the movie is set in the ’30s.
You know, as she pivots towards her own era, a lot of those fingerprints are still there. So Zimmermann. And then there’s Hal Ashby, for “Coming Home.” That was not her story specifically, but she needed that Vietnam story. And Ashby is the perfect director for that project because he has such a feel for the era. A hippie himself, so he’s gentle with people and super aware of the time for the country, you know?
Which of her co-stars brought out the best in her?
Her final scene with Redgrave in “Julia” is just shimmering. It’s remarkable. And Redford, of course. Even in “Our Souls at Night,” they are both so supple and so fabulous together. And Lily Tomlin! In “Moving On” and “Grace and Frankie.”
I was surprised when you pointed out how many times Jane Fonda played a journalist. Why do you think she was so drawn to those roles?
Reporters ask questions about the world and try to get the clues. The closing scene in “The China Syndrome”—to me, these are almost her defining moments on film. She grows into the reporter she needs to be and the one the story needs her to be, as this crisis, this tragedy, and this scandal play out. And the truth is not going to be squarely into the light without that reporter doing her work.
In her message movies, what we can call her message movies, including “The China Syndrome,” “Rollover,” and “9 to 5,” or in “Coming Home” too, she tends to cast herself as a naïve… somebody who has not interrogated the world very much and who grows and learns about that.
Is there a less well-remembered movie of all the ones that you looked at that you really want to urge people to watch?
I think “Joy House” with Alain Delon is just a cool movie, and she’s very good in it. It’s not a change-your-life sort of experience, but I admire so much about it. I admire a lot of the moviemaking in “Walk on the Wild Side,” and she’s still so young there. But you can see her confidence kind of really beginning to brim, and she’s with terrific people there, Barbara Stanwyck and Laurence Harvey. And “The Chase.” It’s a big, fat, huge mess, but at the same time, it’s a good mirror on 1966–1967 America. The story went through many hands, from Horton Foote to Lillian Hellman, but it’s fascinating to watch because you’ve got Marlon Brando in the middle of it, and it’s a great movie on kind of mob rule, ultimately. It’s Redford and Fonda, so it’s worth it.
from Roger Ebert https://ift.tt/O4QUd5r
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