The King Lear reference is obvious, and too apt to ignore in describing "Hobson's Choice." The 1954 comedy has more than a bit of truth in it, plus the kind of bawdy dialog that Shakespeare would have admired. David Lean's direction is pitch-perfect, as is Jack Hildyard's photography of the dark, grim, wet north of England, and Peter Taylor's fluid editing. Four years later, all three won Oscars collaborating on a dramatically different movie-- one of the spectacles Lean is known for, "The Bridge on the River Kwai."
Our hero, Henry Horatio Hobson, is played with all the gusto and inventiveness we expect from Charles Laughton. He is the carefree widowed father of three grown daughters, whom he freely insults ("You have the kind of waist that's natural in wasps but unnatural in women"). As a patriarch, he's all pomp and no circumstance. The daughters see to his every need, managing his boot shop, which is also their home, and indulging his dogged alcoholism. He's a hilarious drunk, make no mistake, and Laughton delivers at least two of the greatest drunk scenes ever put on film in this performance. We first meet him staggering home from the pub and into his shop, where his eldest daughter, Maggie (Brenda de Banzie), leads him to his bedroom, which is on the second floor. That's when Laughton kicks into high gear, swinging his arms at the bottom of the stairs to get up momentum, then hurling himself up the steps, arms whirling like propellers, finally landing at the top with his last ounce of energy, beaming with pride. When Maggie lights the way into the bedroom with a lantern, he raises her arm, transforming her into the Statue of Liberty, then falls into bed, a heap of self-congratulatory giggles.
After that intro, there's no sin Hobson can commit -- and he commits plenty-- that can't be forgiven. He snorts at Maggie's plan to find a husband, saying, "She's a bit on the ripe side for marrying, is our Maggie." But Maggie ultimately lives up to her statuesque pose by liberating herself: she marries his most talented cobbler, the timid Willie Mossop (John Mills in a marvelously versatile performance), and they set up business in competition. A betrayal of her father? Yes, but who can blame her? The other two daughters find husbands as well, of course, in spite of the fact that Hobson refuses to pay "settlements" (dowry).
I was so thoroughly enjoying Hobson's Choice that when Mossop and Maggie tied the knot and retreated, with no pomp but plenty of circumstance, into their bedroom, I sadly concluded that the movie was nearly over. But then the light of day broke on the next scene, and I felt as satisfied as-- well, not as the bride and groom, but still. The final sequence with Hobson involves a lawyer ("You bloodsucking, money-grabbing...") and a doctor, who diagnoses "chronic alcoholism, a serious case." The happily married Mrs. Mossop comes to his rescue, solving all problems with amusing resourcefulness, including the gentle urging of her mousy husband toward self-confidence and eventual prosperity. They corner the freshly sober Hobson into a new enterprise: Mossop & Hobson. Not that he had much choice at that point. Hobson's choices all happened along the way toward this conclusion, he chose wrong every time, and in the end he sits down to the consequences of the game he played, as do we all.
Laughton's performance is so masterful (as usual) that I can't picture anyone else as Hobson. It would be like trying to recast my drunk uncle Ambrose. Nobody can play him, he's Ambrose. I can imagine other British actors suited to the role-- Alistair Sim, Peter Ustinov, Robert Newton-- but Laughton brings such vigorous, shameless abandon to Hobson that it's hard to even think of his performance as superbly disciplined craft. He's Hobson. In such a flamboyant, boozy role, it's all too easy to chew the scenery (e.g., Lee Marvin as Kid Shaleen or Peter O'Toole as Alan Swann). Not Laughton. He has a naturalism that seems to actually repel artifice. In fact, when it comes to playing comic drunks-- and I don't mean tipsy, I mean falling down drunk-- I can't even think who would come in second after him in a contest that includes Richard E. Grant as Withnail, Dudley Moore as Arthur, even David Wayne as E.H. Hess or as Digger Barnes. That's sky-high praise for the pretend high.
Our hero, Henry Horatio Hobson, is played with all the gusto and inventiveness we expect from Charles Laughton. He is the carefree widowed father of three grown daughters, whom he freely insults ("You have the kind of waist that's natural in wasps but unnatural in women"). As a patriarch, he's all pomp and no circumstance. The daughters see to his every need, managing his boot shop, which is also their home, and indulging his dogged alcoholism. He's a hilarious drunk, make no mistake, and Laughton delivers at least two of the greatest drunk scenes ever put on film in this performance. We first meet him staggering home from the pub and into his shop, where his eldest daughter, Maggie (Brenda de Banzie), leads him to his bedroom, which is on the second floor. That's when Laughton kicks into high gear, swinging his arms at the bottom of the stairs to get up momentum, then hurling himself up the steps, arms whirling like propellers, finally landing at the top with his last ounce of energy, beaming with pride. When Maggie lights the way into the bedroom with a lantern, he raises her arm, transforming her into the Statue of Liberty, then falls into bed, a heap of self-congratulatory giggles.
After that intro, there's no sin Hobson can commit -- and he commits plenty-- that can't be forgiven. He snorts at Maggie's plan to find a husband, saying, "She's a bit on the ripe side for marrying, is our Maggie." But Maggie ultimately lives up to her statuesque pose by liberating herself: she marries his most talented cobbler, the timid Willie Mossop (John Mills in a marvelously versatile performance), and they set up business in competition. A betrayal of her father? Yes, but who can blame her? The other two daughters find husbands as well, of course, in spite of the fact that Hobson refuses to pay "settlements" (dowry).
I was so thoroughly enjoying Hobson's Choice that when Mossop and Maggie tied the knot and retreated, with no pomp but plenty of circumstance, into their bedroom, I sadly concluded that the movie was nearly over. But then the light of day broke on the next scene, and I felt as satisfied as-- well, not as the bride and groom, but still. The final sequence with Hobson involves a lawyer ("You bloodsucking, money-grabbing...") and a doctor, who diagnoses "chronic alcoholism, a serious case." The happily married Mrs. Mossop comes to his rescue, solving all problems with amusing resourcefulness, including the gentle urging of her mousy husband toward self-confidence and eventual prosperity. They corner the freshly sober Hobson into a new enterprise: Mossop & Hobson. Not that he had much choice at that point. Hobson's choices all happened along the way toward this conclusion, he chose wrong every time, and in the end he sits down to the consequences of the game he played, as do we all.
Laughton's performance is so masterful (as usual) that I can't picture anyone else as Hobson. It would be like trying to recast my drunk uncle Ambrose. Nobody can play him, he's Ambrose. I can imagine other British actors suited to the role-- Alistair Sim, Peter Ustinov, Robert Newton-- but Laughton brings such vigorous, shameless abandon to Hobson that it's hard to even think of his performance as superbly disciplined craft. He's Hobson. In such a flamboyant, boozy role, it's all too easy to chew the scenery (e.g., Lee Marvin as Kid Shaleen or Peter O'Toole as Alan Swann). Not Laughton. He has a naturalism that seems to actually repel artifice. In fact, when it comes to playing comic drunks-- and I don't mean tipsy, I mean falling down drunk-- I can't even think who would come in second after him in a contest that includes Richard E. Grant as Withnail, Dudley Moore as Arthur, even David Wayne as E.H. Hess or as Digger Barnes. That's sky-high praise for the pretend high.