Pygmalion

“With a little bit of luck,” I will “get me to the church on time,” and see the famous way that “the rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain.” Ah! My Fair Lady! I am not sure there is anyone left out there who hasn’t seen the play or 1964 big screen musical (starring the delightful Rex Harrison and the acceptable Audrey Hepburn), or even had the pleasure to participate in a production of this extravaganza.

However, it really is too bad that the lush Technicolor 1960s American version should so replace the play as written, and, in turn, the lovely and muted 1938 British version.

Because at least one of these versions (stage, screen, or literary) is known to almost everybody on earth (or at least the English speaking portions), either through tenth grade English class or idle Easter Sunday channel surfing, the plot should be well known to all. Inspired by the Greek myth of a sculptor, Pygmalion, who becomes so enamoured by his beautiful ivory creation, Galatea, that he forsakes all real women and prays for his creation to come to life. In sum, in an opposite image of Frankenstein, the artist/maker becomes obsessed with the perfect creation of his own hand.

George Bernard Shaw’s play “Pygmalion” has become far more famous than its original Greek predecessor. In his version, which successfully seeks to stress not only the inter-personal dynamics of such a pairing, but also the class gulfs that were inherent in Victorian England, the Pygmalion is Professor Henry Higgins, a wool-draped misanthropist phonetics specialist. His “work of art,” found and undertaken on account of a bet with his admirable and well-meaning associate Colonial Pickering, is a common flower gel from Convent Gardens, Eliza. The bet is that, within 6 months, the linguistic maestro can “pass this guttersnipe off as a duchess.” The artist’s relationship with his creation is one that he finds he cannot ignore, despite his insistence that he can do without her or anyone, but the ending(s) of the versions go in several directions. Do they, like Pygmalion and Galatea, fall in love and find their greatest desires fulfilled? Do watch and find out.

Pygmalion (1938) stars Leslie Howard, one of the most adorable and likeable male stars of his generation. It also introduces the striking and unique Wendy Hiller, who makes a believable and hearty Eliza Doolittle. Further, the supporting cast, in particular the dashing Scott Sunderland (Pickering) and the unsettling yet appealing Wilfrid Lawson (Alfred Doolittle), make dimensional subjects with which this Victorian world is peopled.

Pages upon pages ("sheets and sheets") could be wasted weighing the respective merits of the two major film versions, but really it largely comes down to opinions not only on whether a movie needs musical numbers, but also on casting choices. I hope to encourage viewers to see these films in concert, as both have unique charms and assets.

I adore both Rex Harrison and Leslie Howard, and I find them equally suited to this role (although Howard is, perhaps, in light of his younger age and paler complexion, a bit more believable). I prefer the performance of the young and tomboyish Wendy Hiller, who brings a certain roughness to the role of Eliza that was absent in the lovely and patrician Audrey Hepburn, thus making the 1938 Eliza’s emotional reactions that much more touching and significant. Both of the Alfreds (Lawson in 1938, and the remarkable Stanley Holloway in 1964), a character upon which the entirety of the play’s moral and philosophical explorations are centered, are wonderful in their own ways, with Lawson being the most serious and thought provoking of the two. Both Mrs. Pearces do their jobs, as do both Mrs. Higgins.


The greatest difference between the two versions in terms of characters, is in the casting and execution of Colonial Pickering. In the 1964 version, you may recall, the role was embodied in the sweet, but doddering, Wilfrid Hyde-White, an older, white-haired upper-class twit (albeit a gentle one). The 1938 version, however, has seen fit to provide Higgins with a rival for the romantic lead of 27A Wimpole Street.

Scott Sunderland, seemingly a non-actor who was 55 when this picture was made (but looked nowhere past 45), is a culmination of all that is attractive in traditional British masculinity – good looks, smooth manners, charming smile, immaculate dress, and the air of one born to enough wealth to be extremely comfortable in the world over which he is a lord and master. A powerful, powerful combination. In this detail, while Sunderland is delightful and magnetic, one wonders if an older, less sexually appealing man may have worked out better. In the 1938 version, completely unlike the 1964 version, we are left wondering why Eliza doesn’t ditch both her sniveling swain Freddie and the petulant Higgins, and make for the Colonel. This dilemma, enhanced by an odd and palatable chemistry between Hiller and Sunderland in the final ensemble scene at the home of Mrs. Higgins, serves to confuse and frustrate the audience, and damages the main goal of the film, which is to get Higgins and Eliza together.

Still, since this flaw is caused by the force of Sunderland’s charms, and by the wholly realistic stature of his performance, it can only be a minor quibble against what is a high quality production of an enjoyable story.

It is the acting in this non-musical version, as well as the cracker-jack script (vetted personally by G.B. himself, work for which he unwillingly received the 1938 writing Oscar), that makes this version a classic and a pleasure, and I hope that it can take a more equal place beside its 1964 cousin as pure pleasure for lovers of romantic comedy. Further, it should take a higher place for students of class consciousness, for this is a facet largely excised from the later version, and I would recommend this version without reservation for teachers and students who want to see a more faithful rendering of the original play.

The 1938 Pygmalion should be available for rent or purchase from quality stores, and in well stocked libraries, and is available in both VHS and DVD formats.