The book by Frances Hodgson Burnett was published in the 1880s and carried a simple message: humanitarianism is better than arrogance. This is William James' distinction between the tough minded and the tender minded. I must be one of the former because I found it a nonpareil of sentimental and inelegant pap. Pardon me while I light an expensive cigar and stomp the cat.
Sheesh, how triumph follows tragedy and vice versa. Freddy Bartholomew is a nine-year-old boy living in genteel poverty with his loving mother ("Dearest") in a crummy neighborhood in Brooklyn. But not the real Brooklyn of the 1880s. This is a fairyland Brooklyn where there is no garbage or horse manure on the streets, and where Freddy's pal, Mickey Rooney, only betrays his lack of breeding by saying "erl" instead of "oil" and never busts Freddy in the snot locker. Freddy loves his pals, who include the greengrocer, and everybody loves Freddy, just as love loves to love love.
I almost burst into sobs when a lawyer arrives from England and informs Freddy that, since he is the only surviving grandson of the Earl of Dorincourt, he's invited to come to England, join his grandfather in the family mansion, and be inculcated into the aristoi. The present Earl is a bilious and bushy old man who knows no pity except for himself. He hates Freddy's mother and she must live elsewhere, not in the mansion. He treats his tenant farmers the way they treat their dirt.
Freddy, though, is a winsome little lad, naive and generous. To a fault, one might say. And before you know it, Freddy has the crotchety old curmudgeon learning how to be generous and kind -- in an old fashioned way, of course. He's not going to give the family silverware to the poor. He's just not going to berate the servants quite as much.
Then tragedy strikes, and just when it seems things are going so well. Another woman shows up with a lollipop-sucking son who is older than Freddy, and SHE claims to be the first wife of the son of the current Earl. And, believe me, this babe is a real wasp. She laughs and taunts the white-haired old man who has grown to love Freddy, just as everyone else loves Freddy.
Do things turn out all right? Is there a happy ending? Doesn't it prompt you to weep when you hear "Auld Lang Syne" played adagio? On a solo violin? Well, Freddy Bartholomew is unquestionably cute in appearance, speech, and demeanor although, to be sure, a little fist fight in the schoolyard might have done him a power of good. Actually, the illustrations in Hodgson's book started a sartorial fad and kids began to dress like Little Lord Fauntleroy in outfits that resembled little sailor suits with lace collars. The fad lasted for years. I believe there's a photo of young Ernest Hemingway floating around out there somewhere in the ether.
The character of Little Lord Fauntleroy is winning, precisely because it's so improbable. The whole movie is as fantastic as The Wizard of Oz. C. Aubrey Smith is great as the grumbling old Earl, only reluctantly won over by his new grandson. Dolores Costello as "Dearest" always looks as if she's wearing a brave smile to keep from breaking into sobs of some sort, grief or gratitude -- it doesn't matter.
Like so much sentimental material it has its charm. But that's about all it has, sentiment and charm. There's not a laugh in it, and there's no edginess to it. We know at once that the mistaken people will realize their errors, that the bad people will be punished or thwarted, and that the good people will be rewarded. A bit of edge might not have hurt. Have Freddy sneak a few puffs on a corn silk cigarette or something.
Sheesh, how triumph follows tragedy and vice versa. Freddy Bartholomew is a nine-year-old boy living in genteel poverty with his loving mother ("Dearest") in a crummy neighborhood in Brooklyn. But not the real Brooklyn of the 1880s. This is a fairyland Brooklyn where there is no garbage or horse manure on the streets, and where Freddy's pal, Mickey Rooney, only betrays his lack of breeding by saying "erl" instead of "oil" and never busts Freddy in the snot locker. Freddy loves his pals, who include the greengrocer, and everybody loves Freddy, just as love loves to love love.
I almost burst into sobs when a lawyer arrives from England and informs Freddy that, since he is the only surviving grandson of the Earl of Dorincourt, he's invited to come to England, join his grandfather in the family mansion, and be inculcated into the aristoi. The present Earl is a bilious and bushy old man who knows no pity except for himself. He hates Freddy's mother and she must live elsewhere, not in the mansion. He treats his tenant farmers the way they treat their dirt.
Freddy, though, is a winsome little lad, naive and generous. To a fault, one might say. And before you know it, Freddy has the crotchety old curmudgeon learning how to be generous and kind -- in an old fashioned way, of course. He's not going to give the family silverware to the poor. He's just not going to berate the servants quite as much.
Then tragedy strikes, and just when it seems things are going so well. Another woman shows up with a lollipop-sucking son who is older than Freddy, and SHE claims to be the first wife of the son of the current Earl. And, believe me, this babe is a real wasp. She laughs and taunts the white-haired old man who has grown to love Freddy, just as everyone else loves Freddy.
Do things turn out all right? Is there a happy ending? Doesn't it prompt you to weep when you hear "Auld Lang Syne" played adagio? On a solo violin? Well, Freddy Bartholomew is unquestionably cute in appearance, speech, and demeanor although, to be sure, a little fist fight in the schoolyard might have done him a power of good. Actually, the illustrations in Hodgson's book started a sartorial fad and kids began to dress like Little Lord Fauntleroy in outfits that resembled little sailor suits with lace collars. The fad lasted for years. I believe there's a photo of young Ernest Hemingway floating around out there somewhere in the ether.
The character of Little Lord Fauntleroy is winning, precisely because it's so improbable. The whole movie is as fantastic as The Wizard of Oz. C. Aubrey Smith is great as the grumbling old Earl, only reluctantly won over by his new grandson. Dolores Costello as "Dearest" always looks as if she's wearing a brave smile to keep from breaking into sobs of some sort, grief or gratitude -- it doesn't matter.
Like so much sentimental material it has its charm. But that's about all it has, sentiment and charm. There's not a laugh in it, and there's no edginess to it. We know at once that the mistaken people will realize their errors, that the bad people will be punished or thwarted, and that the good people will be rewarded. A bit of edge might not have hurt. Have Freddy sneak a few puffs on a corn silk cigarette or something.