As a work of art, there is not much here - a poor cousin to "My Man Godfrey." As a "teaching moment," however, this film is a zinger. It tries to entertain but also to deliver a social message. It does so, so maladroitly that it ends up a perfect mirror of a mixed-up society, an almost-post-Depression society that was itself badly muddled and conflicted.
We are presented with a thoroughly obnoxious set of idle, moneyed, entitled, frivolous and uncaring young people. So much for a caricature of the upper classes. Ah, but then there is the heartwarming contrast with the poor but honest working-class heroine (Lana Turner - not a bad performance, but not quite convincing). So much for the clichéd social conflict. What lesson are we, the almost-post-Depression theater audience, intended to draw from this? Of course, the lesson is that we are all one. Even the obnoxious rich are not so bad. They will see the light. The rich boy and poor girl will marry. But do they? Not really. The rich kid loses his fortune. Not until then does he accept his love for the dime-a-dance girl. The once-rich-but-now-in-reduced-circumstances girl marries the poor student who must work his way through college. No one steps out of his or her economic sphere. The rest of the rich kids go off to continue their obnoxious, parasitic life-style. All is right with the world. No one is really bad. Smile. It is indeed extraordinary that the uber-rich kid's father is found to be a criminal. He has defrauded perhaps thousands of investors (probably including many poor investors) in his hedge-fund or Ponzi scheme; he's a veritable Bernie Madoff. Yet we are not expected to blame him or even to dislike him. "Thanks, dad, for having given me a good start in life," says his non-reproachful son. Capitalism is a tough business, not for the faint-hearted. It's all OK. The poor are virtuous. The rich are irritating but ultimately sympathetic. That is the lesson of "Glamour Girls." It's a message Hollywood was eager to deliver in 1939, and America was happy to receive. Maybe Hollywood was right. As the 19th century humorist Josh Billings, a friend of Mark Twain, put it, defining the American spirit: "Wealth won't make a man virtuous, but there ain't anybody who wants to be poor just for the purpose of being good."
As a social document, a relic of its time, the movie is revealing. As a film, a work of art, it is less than captivating - with one exception. That exception makes the whole thing worth seeing: the performance of Marsha Hunt. Her character, Martha, is the only one with depth. Her acting is the only one with profundity. Just watch her suicide scene. Watch her face as she drives toward her fatal moment. She registers nearly a dozen shifting emotions, all razor sharp and all without speaking a word, all in the space of a minute of screen time. First we see desperation as she speeds the car unheeding toward nowhere; then sadness; then surprise as she spots the train alongside; then a look of realization as the idea of what she can do strikes her; then happiness as it sinks in; then literal glee as she contemplates it; then fierce determination as she hits the accelerator; fear takes over as she reaches the crossing, fear as she nervously, fumblingly, lights a last cigarette; then glee again, a look of triumph as she stares at the sleeping drunken frat boy beside her - he will go down too. It is extraordinary acting. Marsha Hunt - I've seen her interviewed - said she didn't care to be a star. She wanted to be a character actress. She became one of the best. One year later she played the gawky, tone-deaf sister in "Pride and Prejudice." After that she played the heroic but devastated victim of Nazi oppression in "None Shall Return." She portrayed a nasty, conniving home-wrecker in "Smash-Up," then a gentle, conflicted lover in "Raw Deal." If nothing else, "Glamour Girls" gives us one sublime actress at her peak.
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