Richard Nugent, carried with Cary Grant’s unassuming swagger, wanders up to the front of the stage. A wave of applause, from a crowd suddenly enraptured by his obvious charisma, rolls across the audience. Susan (Shirley Temple) shifts in her seat, leaning forward, inching towards the stage, the planes of her face shift, stretching and crinkling as she focuses. This is the moment the rest of the story hinges on, a grounded realisation, a sudden swell of desire, made real by Shirley Temple’s full-bodied commitment.
The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer or The Bachelor Knight is the story of Margaret (Myrna Loy) and her sister Susan who must navigate Susan’s sudden infatuation with suave artist Richard Nugent. Through a series of barely comprehensible hijinks, Richard is instructed to date Susan as a way of protecting the precocious student’s mental well-being. A loosely constructed plot that is indicative of a time in Hollywood when romantic comedies were moulded around outlandish contrivances and then executed by actors and directors whose talent and intuition outpaced any illogic. Ultimately, it is this same keen eye which makes this depiction of teenage idealisation feel poignant and charged.
Fanaticism remains a version of youthful obsession entirely distilled, unnerving, unambiguous. By nature, it is unreciprocated, undiluted by any consideration for another’s complicated feelings, a shot of impersonal adoration. Over time, there has been a certain cinematic shorthand established in order to wrestle this feeling into a comprehensible shape; the groupies mid-jump and clad in underwear excitedly encircling William in Almost Famous, tears welling as the girls scream the lyrics to their favourite 4 Town song in Turning Red. Indeed 17 years after the release of The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer, teenage fanaticism would be solidified by The Beatles’ live performance on the Ed Sullivan show. Suddenly teen fandom was soundtracked by squeals and shouts, personified by nameless young women stomping and swaying, jittery and grinning. Being a fan was a loud and intoxicating burst of energy. Perhaps this is what makes Irving Reis’ depiction so wonderfully distinct, a steady crescendo, contained in the silent sparkle of desire in Temple’s eyes.
Shirley Temple, perhaps Hollywood’s most famous child actor, made her debut at the age of three. When discussing her career in a 1988 interview with Larry King she describes committing the rules of each set to physical memory, sensing when she had hit a mark: “if the light hit here and it hit my shoulder and it felt warm, I would know I was in the right place.” Her bodily relationship to acting speaks to an instinctual, deeply personal understanding of the craft, (not one often associated with this era of Hollywood,) but it is apparent in the way she embodies Susan.
Her shoulders sit uncomfortably high, her chin juts out, Susan’s self-assurance adorns her body like an armour. After his lecture, she drags Richard into a side room before demanding an interview for the school paper. Her small frame commands the hallway with a sense of superhuman purpose. Her confidence is bizarre, rooted in a sense of self that is on the precipice of change, her life will soon grow big enough to hold the desire which feels all-encompassing at 17. For those of us who lived through various iterations of young obsession, these interactions are exposing, revealing of the phases that felt like they would stretch on indefinitely.
However, her affection, while silly, is never treated dismissively. There is a reason the film opens with Bessie (Lillian Randolph) waking Susan up, effectively centring her in the story. Ironically her inflated, shifting sense of self grounds the film, making sense of the plot machinations. From an early scene with Margaret over the breakfast table, her gaze is roaming, inquisitive, bouncing but focused, exposing of someone equal parts dreamy and intent.
Later in the film, Richard strolls into their home cracking jokes and provoking family members, Margaret rises to his challenge frustratedly calling on him to behave. Reis frames the confrontation with Susan standing between the two, observing their burgeoning chemistry. Temple darts between them, mouth slightly agape and brow creased, silently calculating. As Susan watches Margaret and Richard spar, she assesses her own proximity to the relationship, resizing herself to fit the scope of the dynamic. Together Irving Reis and Shirley Temple craft a way of looking that feels specific to this time of life; taking everything in, overwhelmed and desperate to settle, to be consumed by the most intriguing thing and considered worthy of such painstaking attention. When Susan arrives at Richard’s apartment with the intention of declaring her love, she steps in, narrows her eyes and whispers determinedly “this is where he lives.” In many ways, this new obsession is her home now.
Crucially, Susan is never a romantic possibility for Richard, who spurs her advances and remains persistent in his attempts to avoid her. Grant’s mysterious charm hovers over all his roles, but he cuts through this to remind the audience of how uncomfortable he is with the setup, staunchly refusing to sexualise Susan. In the climactic dinner scene, he transforms from Margaret’s romantic dance partner to flailing opponent, haplessly over-explaining his relationship to Susan. This friction allows for a story where teenager-hood, and Susan in turn, are funny but never the joke.
Shirley Temple successfully positions herself between the ridiculousness and honesty, both her and Reis understand that young love is fleeting but the urgency to convince others your feelings are real is equally as true. Armed with an insight into youthful longing and a sharp take on this specific character, The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer contains a pertinent snapshot of teenager-hood, one that allows the protagonist to fill the story and screen with her all-consuming desire.
