Since Jezebel and especially Gone with the Wind had demonstrated that the Dixie film, set in the South before or after the Civil War, worked well in an America facing another war, even a small studio on the edge of Poverty Row such as Republic Pictures went in search of its Scarlett O’Hara. They found her in Joan Blondell, a chorus girl or intrepid young woman in many comedies between the 1930s and 1940s, and one of the many unsuccessful candidates for the role of the one and only Scarlett. And in fact, with ironic intertextual consistency, Blondell here is not a Scarlett, she aspires to become one. When we meet her, she is proficiently managing the Memphis Belle, a riverboat casino where some gamble (the house always wins) and some cheerfully show off their legs. But what the girl longs for is high society, status, respectability; and so, by forgiving his debts, she succeeds in getting married to the heir of an old family with no old money left. The mansion she enters is called The Shadows, an allusion to the dilapidation of its inhabitants and their world, and Republic valiantly strives to create its miniature Tara.
And John Wayne? After Stagecoach, he hadn’t stopped for a moment: even though it’s already clear that the Confederate jacket, the Marine uniform or the Stetson suit him better than a tailcoat, he sometimes happens to slip into the costume of turn-of-the-century gentlemen between California and Louisiana. In this case, as a local politician of tall stature, low profile, great powers and tender feelings, he is simply adorable. (Not to be missed: the natural awkwardness with which he bows his head to avoid hitting the too-low doors of the floating establishment).
Now, given the fuss that cancel culture has raised against Gone with the Wind, there is a risk here that the fuss could become an uproar. Lady for a Night is a mardi gras of stereotypes: a corpulent and sharp-tongued mammy (but she knows the meaning of “emancipation”), slow-witted butlers, labourers swinging sleepily in hammocks, bulging eyes, wide-toothed grins, raucous dances, all seasoned with a touch of spicy voodoo sauce. The difference is that any nostalgic feeling seems to have definitely gone with the wind: Blondell, unjustly put on trial, unleashes a great political tirade against “all of you, trash who sit around waiting for slavery to come back, living dead who haven’t the decency to lay down and stay buried”. Moreover, it’s a small forgotten film, directed by a filmmaker without much history, so we can sit back and enjoy it, restored, in peace.

Paola Cristalli