Category Archives: 1940s

George Sanders: The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, Ivanhoe

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We’ve been doing a rather casual retrospective on the films of George Sanders and as part of the series, we thought it would be fitting to highlight three more of his performances. They run the gamut of literary adaptations, fantasy romances, and medieval yarns. Sanders remains his incorrigible self through them all, and we wouldn’t have him any other way.

Picture of Dorian Gray (1945)

“Lead us not into temptation, forgive us our sins, wash away our iniquities”

Whether you say he cornered the market or simply got pigeonholed, George Sanders could always be called upon to play snooty Brits bubbling with wry wit and aristocracy. His Lord Henry Wotton is certainly wanton — an incorrigible influence on many a man — and his latest acquaintance becomes Dorian Gray.

Hurd Hatfield is the picture of handsome youthfulness, dark and aloof, though his piano playing leaves much to be desired.  His reputation must precede him and perhaps an actor with greater gravitas could have done more with the part. Hatfield feels generally inert and uninteresting. Over time, it’s hard to confuse his distance with inscrutable mystery.

The primary object of his desire begins with Angela Lansbury, an entrancing tavern singer with an equally gorgeous voice to go with it. Lansbury and then Donna Reed (his second flame) both deserved better, at least in their romantic lead if not the roles they were given.

It’s a quite loquacious film thanks in part to Sanders, who always has a cynical word for every situation and thus lays the groundwork for Dorian’s total immersion into hedonism.

The movie must work in mood and tone because there isn’t much in the realm of intemperate drama, and for some reason I found myself crying out for something more substantive than elliptical filmmaking. Whether it was merely to assuage the production codes or not, so much takes place outside the frame, which can be done artfully, and yet the distance doesn’t always help here.

The impartial narrator discloses Gray’s internal psychology to the audience as he’s perplexed by his evolving portrait — the lips now more prominently cruel than before. The ideas are intriguing in novel form in the hands of Oscar Wilde. Here it’s all rather tepid and not overtly cinematic watching a man traipse around his home tormented by his own inner demons.

It’s easy to contrast them, for their exploration of warring psyches and the duality of man’s morality, but this is not Jekyll and Hyde. However, on a fundamental level, I must consider my own criticisms because this is a story about pride, narcissism, and the selfish roots of evil in the human heart. They can be unnerving as we consider the portrait that might be staring back at us.

I find it a drolling, monotone movie other than the inserted shots of color that shock us into some knee-jerk reaction. It’s made obvious there’s a moral leprosy eating away at Dorian and the ending showcases much the same, doing just enough to hammer home the core themes of the story in a rousing fashion. Though your sins be as scarlet, I will wash them white as snow. It’s possible for the portrait to be remedied, though not without consequence.

3.5/5 Stars

The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (1947)

“Haunted. How perfectly fascinating!”

If you don’t love Gene Tierney before The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, surely you must adore her afterward. She’s totally her own person; strong but not unpleasant thanks to her ever-congenial manner. She has immaculate poise and knows precisely what she wants.

Even in her mourner’s outfit in honor of her late husband, she has a regality drawn about her, vowing to leave his family and take her daughter (Natalie Wood) and their housekeeper Martha (Edna Best) to carve out a life of their own.

The film has a score from Bernard Herrmann post-Citizen Kane and pre-Vertigo that’s warm, majestic, jaunty, and frantic all at the precise moment to counterpoint Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s rather peculiar take on a romance film.

I realized an appeal for the picture I had never considered before. I find old haunted house movies, aside from those played for comedic effect, mostly overwrought and uninteresting. And yet even this early on in the lineage, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir effectively subverts the expected conventions.

Instead of merely being frightened off by the specters in an old seaside haunt of a deceased sea captain (Rex Harrison), it becomes her pet project. She’s intent on making it her home because she’s an obstinate woman — a descriptor she takes as the highest of compliments.

It’s pleasant how their immediate distaste and ill-will soften into something vaguely like friendship (and affection). They take on a literary voyage of their own as she helps transcribe his memoirs and vows to get them published for him.

George Sanders — always the opportunistic ladies’ man — shows up with his brand of leering, if generally good-natured impudence. In this case, he’s living a double life under the beloved pen name of Children’s book author Uncle Neddy. If his introduction seems sudden, its purposes quickly become evident. He is a real man of flesh and blood. It only seems right that Mrs. Muir makes a life for herself with him…

It’s curious how both men evaporate around the same time: one out of sacrifice, seeing her happy in reality, and not wanting to complicate her life more. The other’s gone because, well, he’s a cad. For those fond of Rex Harrison, it’s rather a shame he is absent from much of the picture, but this is by design because it is his very absence — this perceptible passage of time developed within the movie — that allows for such a meaningful conclusion.

It’s what the entire film builds to and between the rapturous scoring of Hermann and the simple but efficient special effects, it allows them to walk out together arm in arm as they were always meant to be. If they are apparitions, then at the very least they are together again no longer separated by chemistry, mortality, or anything else. These themes have been melded together innumerable times before but rarely have they coalesced so agreeably.

4/5 Stars

Ivanhoe (1952)

As a child, Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe always lived in the shadow of Robin Hood. The same might be said of this movie and The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood from years prior. By now Ivanhoe is both a feared and beloved mountebank and although late-period Robert Taylor is a bit old for the part and removed from his matinee idol days, it’s easy enough to dismiss.

Taylor and Errol Flynn were both heartthrobs around the same time. Now a generation later he looks a little weathered and threadbare for his tunic though he proves stout-hearted enough. Joan Fontaine also effectively replaces her own sister as the guiltless romantic interest.

However, there are some other intriguing elements I would have not expected of the film. It becomes a fairly robust dialogue on anti-Semitism and the relationship between the Jews and the Gentiles. We always think of British history or this particular period as a war merely between the Saxons and the Normans. Here we are met with a bit more complication.

Ivanhoe must play the rebel in the absence of his beloved King Richard, but he is also called upon to be a friend to the downtrodden even those of a different religious faith. In the moments where he’s called upon, he’s an unadulterated hero, and it’s all good fun watching him bowl over his rival knights like a row of five bowling pins. However, this is pretty much expected. It gets far better when he’s faced with mortal wounds in the wake of a duel (with George Sanders of all people).

Both Elizabeth Taylor and Joan Fontaine stand by ready to dote over him. The ambush by the Normans sets up a rousing finale every lad dreams about. Because my old friend Robin of Locksley comes to their aid prepared to lay siege to the enemy’s castle. Meanwhile, Ivanhoe leads a rebellion on the inside, freeing his friends and stoking a fire to smoke them out into the open.

Watching the choreographed craziness full of arrows and swords, shields, and utter chaos, I couldn’t help relishing the moment because we feel the magnitude of it all being done up for our own amusement. And it is a blast. Regardless, of the romantic outcomes, it’s a fairly satiating treat; I do miss the age of Medieval potboilers.

3.5/5 Stars

This Land is Mine (1943): Renoir, Laughton, and O’Hara Take on The Nazis

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This Land in Mine initiates itself as a memorial to WWI. We see a statue with a crouching soldier. It’s inscribed with the following message: “In memory of those who died to bring peace to the world.” In the foreground, the Nazi juggernaut rolls into town. Peace did not last thanks to Hitler’s voracious appetite for “Lebensraum.”

The juxtaposition is key, and it says everything Renoir wants us to know without putting words to it. A newspaper is strewn on the ground with a very prominent headline featuring Hitler’s latest invasion. We’re seeing it firsthand.

There is only the very beginning, and it suggests something elegant about Renoir’s critique of the Nazis. In his case, it doesn’t come in the guise of a thriller like we might see with Fritz Lang or Hitchcock — this fit their own proclivities and doubled as pulse-pounding entertainment.

For Renoir, the story is a drama of a different sort. The local school is run by only a handful of teachers who must do their best to keep the school of rowdy adolescents afloat even with so many outside distractions. Suddenly Plato’s Republic and Voltaire’s writings are deemed dangerous by the new administration.

The school’s beloved Professor Sorrel (Philip Merivale) muses what the Nazis have before them is a delicate operation — cutting out the heart without killing the patient. Put in such terms, it sounds tenuous at best if not doomed to fail. Something must give way and perish.

The movie’s not about force or sheer strength, but the resoluteness and free reign of ideas. Because this is what brings people together and allows them to think for themselves about the true tenants of good and evil.

The two primary teachers are the middle-aged, ever-reticent Albert Lorry (Charles Laughton), who still lives with his mother, and the fiery soon-to-be-engaged Louise Martin (Maureen O’Hara). They are tasked with “correcting” their textbooks, though Ms. Martin’s act of passive rebellion is to hold on to the miscreant pages for the day they can be pasted back in. If all this sounds harrowing and positively medieval, stinking of Fahrenheit 451, that’s because it does.

Still, we live in a modern society of self-censoring. Not of ourselves mind you, but we like to cut out all the pages of the culture and the world with ideas we don’t find palatable or don’t summarily agree with. It’s so much easier to insulate ourselves with things that are innocuous and inoffensive from our own tribe. Then, as a result, we’re left with an ill-fated and potentially disastrous conception of the world.

This is partially what allows tyrants to take over and also what allows bipartisanism to poison people, since they never see the human being sitting across from them. Does it say something that I often feel less proud of my country than ever before? It’s not so much for the historical sins, because I’ve always known them to be there, but it’s for what feels like our current failures. And not just our failures but the persistent callousness and cynicism pervading our world.

Walter Slezak was always a fine performer in a bevy of roles as diverse as they come. Here his Nazi is in the mold of military efficiency; he’s totally pragmatic — just trying to do his duty and get by. He knows from experience he wants no sabotage and no martyrs. Because this churns up emotions and will blow up like a powder keg.

Later, he preaches how the children of today are the soldiers of tomorrow. No one knows that better than the Nazis with their Hitler youth regimen and indoctrination. But with that, you have the muddied center that a man like George Sanders train station manager must contend with. He lacks the idealism of the academics, namely, his fiancee O’Hara, the principled young woman who gathers the children together to sing rousing songs in the air raid shelter while the Allied bombs fall overhead.

You have this rowdy boy’s hall out of Mr. Chips set against the backdrop of an occupied city during wartime. It makes for a strange marriage but not an inauthentic one. Because, as we’ve already suggested, it’s another crucial battleground for the hearts and minds of the next generation. These are life-altering battles to be fought on their behalf, and it’s not solely with guns and bombs.

Since it has not been mentioned already, This Land is Mine is an unofficial reunion of The Hunchback of Notre Dame and not just the same players. It’s an extension of this same sweet but painful romance as reflected by the bashful Laughton. He has feelings for his young colleague — they care for one another — but she is with another.

Mrs. Lory (Una O’Connor) is a demonstrative lady, with deep-seated opinions, but her maternal love knows no bounds, and it’s phenomenal to watch in action. Her son is imprisoned, no fault of his own. In a world of daily paranoia, he’s one of 10 innocents imprisoned in recompense for two German soldiers murdered in the streets by a saboteur. It’s a debilitating moral dilemma for those who know the perpetrator intimately. After all, it is one life weighed against ten others.

It occurs to me that the man who made Le Grande Illusion could not sell his characters short in time of war. The generation changed and brought with it a new enemy — and we’ve toiled with history to make Hitler and his ilk a different kind of evil — but that almost makes it too easy. We can keep them at arm’s length with a clear conscience.

George Sanders says something telling as he commiserates with the town’s mayor. They are both in undesirable positions of power where they either compromise with the powers that be or fall under fiercer tyranny. Their acquiescing is deemed to be spineless. Sanders retorts:

“It’s easy for people in free countries to call us names, but you wait to see how they behave when the Germans march in. They’ll shake hands. Make the best of it.” A lesser film would have made them mere stooges and collaborators. I made the mistake of believing this was all they were. However, although the moral gradient is quite nuanced, it doesn’t mean Renoir doesn’t have a clear preference.

It comes in the form of Albert, a seemingly diffident man who nevertheless evolves when challenges are thrust upon him. Laughton has every opportunity to save himself quite easily, and yet he resolves to stand for an idea with his fallen friends.

When Laughton gets on the stand and talks about the Nazis’ assault on working-class people, making them into slaves pitted against a middle-class afraid of chaos and disorder, it’s very plainly Renoir’s point of view aided by scribe Dudley Nichols. Truth under any form cannot be allowed to live under the occupation. This is what Laughton stands up for because it is far too precious to go down without a fight.

There’s a lot of rousing defiance in the final act, good for stirring up the patriots, but what did it for me was Laughton’s exit. He gets his kiss and is unceremoniously shoved out of his classroom. But he’s a new man pushing the guards away, hands in pockets, perfectly at peace with the moment. His newfound courage is evident to all.

After watching the film, I had to ask myself the question: If this land is mine — the land I call home — why don’t I start acting like it? It’s so easy to cast aspersions on others and quite another thing to take personal responsibility.

4/5 Stars

Swamp Water (1941): Jean Renoir in Okefenokee

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A place with a name like Okefenokee feels immanently American and this is an inherently American story though expatriate Jean Renoir feels sympathetic to these types of folks. He wasn’t a working-class filmmaker but in movies from his home country like Toni or La Bete Humaine, you see his concern for people in this station of life. They work in the fields, on the trains, making a good honest living, and sometimes their existence gets disrupted.

Granted, it’s early in his career trajectory, but it flabbergasted me that Dana Andrews is billed fourth. His Ben Ragan is our most obvious protagonist as an obdurate young man aiming to get his lost bloodhound back from the nearby quagmire of Okefenokee swamp, a cesspool of gators and crosses mounted with skulls. Worse still, it’s said to be the hiding place of wanted mankiller: Tom Keefer (Walter Brennan).

Ben’s father is an ornery old cuss named Thursday (Walter Huston), who remarried a younger woman. She’s a sign that he can be an affectionate man; he just has a difficult time showing it to his son.

Given these origins in a real place, I’m thoroughly intrigued by the world especially because it wasn’t completely fabricated on a studio backlot but was shot on location. This level of mimesis blends actors we know from all the Classic Hollywood projects with something that lends itself to greater authenticity. It’s not stark realism, but it adds a layer of tangible reality to the picture aside from some unfortunate back projections.

When Ben goes in search of “Old Trouble,” he sounds his horn like the Israelites marching around Jericho. Instead, he finds Walter Brennan who comes off like a fugitive mountain man with almost shamanistic qualities. Nothing can bring him down; not even a cottonmouth. But he also carries the film’s core dilemma with his fate. The town wants to string him up for killing a man; he pleads his own innocence, and Ben must for the time being keep his secret.

Swamp Water doesn’t get much press and The Southerner is usually touted as Renoir’s best American offering, but the link between the two pictures seems increasingly evident. The film has some of the same pleasant surprises. Some people are a whole lot better than you think they are and some are a whole lot worse.

The mercantile where Ben sells his furs is full of a gang of actors you relish seeing in these old Hollywood productions. Their prevalence is only surpassed by their instant recognizable character types. I’m talking about the Ward Bonds, Eugene Palletes, and Guinn ‘Big Boy’ Williams.

Whether John Ford got it from Renoir or Renoir got it from Ford, they both seem to have this enchanting preoccupation with dance even if it’s merely on a subconscious level. With The Grapes of Wrath and Swamp Water or The Southerner and Wagon Master we see firsthand how these communal events engender personal connections between the masses.

Except in a small outpost like this, they also bring all the local feuds and all sources of gossip to the surface. Ben’s flirtatious beau (Virginia Gilmore), comes off a bit like a blonde Jane Greer, albeit with a lightweight spitefulness. In contrast, Anne Baxter owns a curious role as a near-mute social pariah thanks to the notoriety of her fugitive father.

Rebuffed by his own girl, Ben vows to bring the ostracized (Baxter), now gussied up and quite presentable, to the gathering. It’s a bustling dance floor of dosey-does which is just as easily replaced by fisticuffs. It doesn’t help that Mr. Ragan is intent on searching out the man who accosted his wife, and he’s not squeamish about making a scene.

But beyond this, the Ford and Renoir connection can be seen in the stable of actors shared between Ford’s usual company and this 20th Century Production. It’s easy to say most of this falls to coincidence. This might be true, but in men like Walter Brennan, Ward Bond, and John Carradine, there’s something intangible we might attribute to the characters at the forefront of both these directors’ works.

When I look at these faces, they do not look the part of movie stars, but they are iconic faces like Jean Gabin or even John Wayne. They can carry the weight of drama, and yet when you look at them, it seems like they’ve already been through drama enough in life. And so when we watch them, we appreciate their struggles and every wrinkle and whisker on their face. Because it’s these things that put them on our level as an audience. They are our fellow human beings.

If the legend holds, I can’t understand how Daryl Zanuck wouldn’t let John Ford remake Le Grand Illusion for fear he would ruin it, and then Zanuck turned right around and meddled in Renoir’s picture. It’s something I would like to learn more about, although it’s possible only the unspoken annals of history can tell us now.

What we have as a mud-caked monument is Swamp Water: A vastly interesting curio imbued with the fractured imprint of Jean Renoir. It proves you don’t have to be born in America to tell a profoundly American story. I’m not surprised Renoir was a naturalized citizen by 1946. If his cinema is any indication, we would gladly consider him one of our brethren because movies know no bounds.

4/5 Stars

Man Hunt (1941): Fritz Lang vs. The Nazis

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I feel like few filmmakers understood the menace of the Nazis as well as Fritz Lang. Perhaps it’s because he had firsthand experience, and he knew their schemes and what they were capable of — at least to a degree. But he does not make them total fools nor distant adversaries. They are cold, calculating purveyors of evil.

We open in a forest laden with the footprints of a hunter. Walter Pidgeon is the man stalking his very contentious prey. You see, he’s looking to assassinate Hilter! As he gets the Fuhrer in his sights, we’re almost willing him to succeed. But of course, this is not an alternate history. Hitler survives and we are led on an entirely different narrative train wrapped-up with a far more treacherous arc.

Captain Thorndike, a famed big game hunter, is foiled in bagging his target and dragged back to the offices of a local Nazi grunt, Major Quive-Smith (George Sanders).

It’s a compromising position to be in and the Englishman tries to plead his case. It was all part of a “sporting stalk.” He never planned to pull the trigger; it was all part of a game because he’s no nationalist and England’s yet to be embroiled in war. Times were very different and yet Thorndike is still taken in as a killer. There’s no recourse to see him as such and torture him until he confesses to his crimes.

This undercurrent of big game hunting humans can’t help but bring comparisons to The Most Dangerous Game and as Thorndike makes his own escape from the German hounds, we are caught up in his primal instincts of fight or flight. Lang is gifting us entertainment that feels like Saturday morning serials pitting the decadence of the English against the primitive barbarism of the Nazis.

Like Night Train to Munich or Lang’s own Ministry of Fear, the peril doesn’t desist with a return to the homeland. Instead, it increases by the hour as he’s trailed back to England and tracked from a cargo boat into the foggy streets. Roddy McDowall is a charmingly precocious ally and even in a small role, you remember why the plucky lad became such a fine star at such a young age.

Joan Bennett is a personal favorite although Man Hunt does her few favors. Jerry is a spunky lass who injects a level of almost screwball levity into the equation thanks to the mish-mashing of social class. Between a shadowy meet-cute and her grating cockney, there’s quite an outcome.

She’s not exactly a creature of breeding and when Thorndike pays a visit to his hotsie-totsie relatives, it’s quite the meeting of the minds: he must share his adventures and his uncle gives him some urgent news from abroad. He leaves Jerry with a token of his appreciation: a straight-arrow hatpin and she bawls her eyes out in the sniveling kid part that feels mostly unbecoming of Bennet. It’s her schoolgirl infatuation setting in.

John Carradine, ever-adaptable to any part he’s called upon to play, sits behind newspapers, sends off homing pigeons, and colludes with other murky agents infiltrating the country all while speaking German freely on the streets. In Lang’s submerged world, heroes and villains alike must skulk around in shadowy interior sets half-hidden by the London mist. It’s as much movie atmosphere as anything else.

Some of the best chase sequences take them through the Underground. We feel this lingering peril afoot as Thorndike is forced to disappear down deserted tunnels and winds up embroiled in the tube murder mystery slapped on the tabloid sheets the following day.

If the threat of Man Hunt eventually burns off, then perhaps it comes with a lessening of the pace and then purpose. We also ditch the darkened tones of lonely, shadowy evenings for Throndike’s hideaway in the country, which feels positively idyllic in comparison.

Although we swap out one German forest in the beginning for a British one in the end, what we really seem to lose out on is the metaphor of a man stalking his prey because the whole picture has become a reversal of that opening image. Except Thorndike spends a great deal of it stuck in the Nazi huntsman’s trap. There’s tension, but it doesn’t make for the most thrilling visual exploration.

The off-kilter moralizing at the end is not unexpected, but it hinders the drama as Pigeon gains his senses and sees Hitler for who he really is. We’re also bludgeoned over the head with a raucous montage superimposing current events and Joan Bennett’s doe-eyed face. The fight must continue!

But taken in the cultural landscape of the time, no matter its theatrical shortcomings, Man Hunt still bears the mark of a prescient picture that dared decry the merciless evil of Hitler and his Nazis when America was still disengaged from what was going on across the world. Appeasement and isolationism seemed like the easiest roads; not necessarily the right ones. That’s a lot easier to affirm in hindsight. In the moment, it was bold.

What’s more, Fritz Lang would follow up Man Hunt with more pictures like Hangmen Also Die and Ministry of Fear as if to make certain no one could ever mistake Nazis for innocuous patriots or forget how destructive they actually were. It’s a propaganda picture, but it doesn’t totally lose sight of good old-fashioned entertainment value even if it’s unsustained.

3.5/5 Stars

Never Give a Sucker an Even Break (1941): W.C. Fields and Gloria Jean

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“Do you think he drinks?”

“He didn’t get that nose from playing ping pong.”

Self-reflexive metanarratives have the capacity of dissecting celebrity and playing with personas. Such a context is ripe with possibility and so when we find ourselves on a studio lot with W.C. Fields eyeing the a big billboard for The Bank Dick, we know we just might be in for something. It came out the year prior, a critical darling and a commercial flop. He’s looking to pitch the follow-up to his producer.

He is under employment at Esoteric Pictures. His niece in the picture, real-life songstress Gloria Jean, plays a young ingenue out of the cut of Garland or Durbin. They are the film’s affable nucleus.

W.C. Fields is a picture of his usual self with his protruding proboscis and that straw hat of his as battered as ever. There’s the way he casually mumbles away at dialogue. It falls offhand and unrehearsed. You can almost lose it. Some of the garbled gook he gets out only makes it to your ears after he’s said it, and your mind has time enough to catch up.

Meanwhile, a typically huffy Franklin Pangborn with his stringy hair tries to command the unremittent chaos of the studio sets to get Gloria Jean to perfect her latest song, one of those high-pitched operatic numbers out of yesteryear. He’s already in a unstable mood when Fields pays him a call.

The script Fields is pitching becomes the premise for the movie itself as he darts in and out of scenes that might as well have no relation to one another aside from featuring Fields and Gloria Jean.

They start on an airplane together to some unknown destination. They might as well be waiting for Godot. He goes free-falling through space in pursuit of a bottle of spirits only to end up trampolining into the stratosphere of a pretty maiden from an oblivious world. Margaret Dumont is her imperious mother Mrs. Hemoglobin leading a great dane by the leash like some bleak Amazonian woman.

Fields, who penned the script under one of his many aliases, pushes the boundaries farther than he’s ever gone before, and it’s spectacular and surreal if this is what creative control looks like. It’s not as out and out funny as some other Fields movies, but it’s giving itself over in its totality to this absurd rhythm which is quite extraordinary to watch. He throws himself over a cliff in a basket only for Pangborn to loudly protest. The story lacks continuity! It’s an insult to human intelligence!

Is it too obvious to read it as a commentary on a career of movies and studios and such? I think not. Because W.C. Fields films were never the most tensely plotted, tightly constructed gems. He built his career out of ad-libs and performance, not so much the written word. Not that he didn’t come alive with verbal wit of his own accord and this was his gift.

never give a sucker an even break bank dick billboard

But he was never made for the strictures of the industry, and so it’s fascinating to watch him when the restraints come flying off, and he’s got his run of the candy store so to speak. In fact, he rebels against conventional plot to the point of totally pulling it apart in front of us and tossing it away as collateral damage.

There is absolutely no pretense here. It’s even less about fast and free gags and bits being assembled together. It’s given itself over fully to surrealist feats of cinematic fancy. It might leave some befuddled now as it did then, but one can gather some sense of the performer. It suggest so much about him implicitly that still needs to be parsed through.

With the real-life context, it shows the decline of W.C. Fields who was quietly ditched for other more agreeable talent, especially because Never Give a Sucker… was hardly going to woo the audiences. Not in 1941. It was of that rarefied breed we often far too easily label “Ahead of its Time.” Here it seems pertinent.

The final set piece is an eye-popping death defying car chase to the maternity hospital. It feels like a flashback to the heyday of Keaton or Lloyd. It’s the most purely comedic slapdash moment in the picture, and does it fit with the rest of the movie? Not by a long shot, but somehow it remains a capstone for something that is totally of its own form and function. It’s almost obligatory. Here the career of W.C. Fields quietly came to an end. This was his final opus to hang his reputation on for future generations.

Doing a bit of perfunctory research, Fields was game to make another such picture with Gloria Jean and some of his favorite stock players. The studio wasn’t about to have it, and his own health was at the detriment of his drinking habit, lampooned as it might have been. W.C. Fields is one of the more irascible classic comedians to be able to pin down. But his comedy at its core does seem to get at a central human longing. It was always him against the world. He took it as well as dishing it out.

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Maybe it’s only a small reward and too little too late, but I think even Fields understood the significance of Gloria Jean being in his corner unreservedly. Yes, it’s mawkish in the kind of Hollywood tripe sort of way, but secretly it also feels like a healing balm to the Fields character.

At last he can have some kind of peace. At last there is someone who will accept him unconditionally for who he is. My hope is that Fields experienced some of that in life as he did in his final major screen role. That’s not for me to know. All I know is that we all crave love; we all crave relief.

Fields wanted the film to be titled “The Great Man.” We can read it as jest or a bit of self-congratulatory pomp. But I think this is inside all of us veiled by insecurities. For people to see past our flaws. We want kids to look up to us and see us as what we aspire to be and not as the damaged goods we actually are. Gloria Jean extends her uncle such an honor as she smiles into the camera one last time. He is known and loved. To her he is a great man.

3.5/5 Stars

The Bank Dick (1940): Egbert Sousé and Lompoc, California

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When W.C. Fields goes and names his protagonist Egbert Sousé it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to get the joke, although he does spend much of the movie explaining the correct pronunciation. The other half he spends drinking at his favorite bar: The Black Pussy Cat Cafe.

His hometown is none other than Lompoc, California. Aside from being a memorable name in its own right, the town had the illustrious title of being a dry zone with a long history of temperance. What better way for W.C. Fields to thumb his nose at them, than by setting up shop right in their fair city, albeit in his own made-up cinematic universe?

If it’s not becoming obvious already, I think the reason The Bank Dick is often touted as the finest example of his style is because it totally digs into his stereotypical persona whole hog. He’s an irreparable drunkard, a lier, and a braggart prone to any number of human vices. There’s no attempt to varnish them either. He’s a bona fide reprobate.

Nor is he particularly fond of his wife, daughter, mother-in-law, or the little kid who shows up in the bank. His daughter is bent on throwing rocks at him, and he about strangles a little boy who’s armed with a toy pistol. Does it even need to be said? He’s never a likable figure.

However, beyond mere character flaws, it is Field’s delivery that sets him apart from the crowd — the way he mumbles or draws out a line of dialogue. Again, it’s like an afterthought. He’s saying all the unfiltered comments he would say if he thought no one else is listening. Either he’s too dumb to know he’s being overheard or he plainly doesn’t care. At least that’s part of the shtick.

If he has anything close to a friend, it would probably be his bartender (Shemp Howard). He would follow the man to the end of the earth and back again, mostly because the man spells booze. It’s not all bad though since he makes another acquaintance over drinks.

After reminiscing about the good ol’ days giving a passing mention to Mack Sennett, Chaplin, Keaton, and Fatty Arbuckle — all the lads — he finds himself being pulled onto a 36-hour movie set in desperate need of a stabilizing force.

Souse’s tall tales nab him the job, and he certainly acts the part: Dishing out stage directions and convening with the script girl, between trips of being carried around like ancient royalty on a litter. His family’s far from impressed by his hamming.

What’s more, we drop this scenario almost as soon as it begins. It’s like Fields was bored with the narrative strands and decided to table it until his next go around. He has other priorities. His film, after all, is called The Bank Dick and so there has to be some scenario for this to come into being.

So, a bank robbery happens. He’s going to the saloon (where else would he go?). Alas, it’s closed, but sitting on a bench, with his nose in his paper, he ends up in the right place at the right time and gladly takes the mantle of a hero as a criminal is apprehended — no thanks to him.

As recompense, he’s bestowed a low-grade job as a bank dick that’s somehow tied to his home, which they might foreclose on if he doesn’t keep the position. It’s a dubious scenario, but also the kind of underhanded deal Fields probably more than deserves if we can say it. Tit for tat as they say. After all, it’s only a movie and this obliviousness underscores his very identity.

Next, he’s talking his future son-in-law into buying some useless mining stock, and pretty soon they’re embezzling from the bank for a dead-end deal. So of course the bank examiner, a snooty Franklin Pangborn, has to show up right on cue to throw a perilous wrench into their plans.

All Fields’ attempts at cordiality and voluntary sabotage fail, but the entertainment comes with each and every one of his ploys. I won’t try and spoil them here, but Pangborn was born to be his hapless target and Fields obliges with all sorts of shenanigans. Again, to no avail.

the bank dick

Of course, none of this matters. Not the embezzlement. Not the bank robbery. Not any of it. Because their mine is actually a bountiful lode, and they strike it rich as only W.C. Fields can. It’s an instantaneous, convenient reversal of fortune, but then again, Fields’ pictures always defy conventional logic. It’s in their very nature to shirk the normal rhythm for whatever behooves them at any given moment.

In this way, The Bank Dick synthesizes many of his prevailing themes — some of those mentioned already — capped off by an outrageously decadent happy ending. It also joins the ranks of Never Give a Sucker… in his line of raucous car chases, and it’s not a coincidence he’s working with Cline who partnered with Keaton on Sherlock Jr. Similar stunts abound here. It’s a bit of comic nostalgia even in 1940.

W.C. Fields isn’t for everyone. The Bank Dick is not always entertaining. But you come to appreciate his personal penchant for comedy as each performer of the era cultivated a very particular image. He’s little different and seeing as he wrote this number as well as starred in it, he’s giving himself over to the comedy and doing it the way he sees fit. If nothing else, it probably most closely aligns with his proclivities as an entertainer.

His films were never meant to be cohesive. They were never even really meant to be films at all. As with many comedians, it feels like the best dashes of serendipity occur in those suspended spaces in between. Where there’s a throwaway gag, an off-handed zinger, or just something resolutely out of left field.

Every person is different as are their audiences. They don’t always carry our interest every waking second. Sometimes all they have to do is bless us with little bits and pieces of time. It’s often enough for us to remember them so that they remain in the cultural consciousness. This is how I feel about Fields. He is an indelible figure for the persona he built, straw hat, big nose, flaws and all.

3.5/5 Stars

The Clay Pigeon (1949) and The Japanese-American Experience

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The Clay Pigeon is a film that I have spent several years trying to track down, and I’ve finally been able to see it. From the outside, it feels like fairly run-of-the-mill post-war noir fare. It’s directed by an up-and-coming workhorse in Richard Fleischer and stars real-life couple Barbara Hale and Bill Williams.

It’s one of those amnesia plots steeped in the residual post-traumatic stress of WWII reminiscent of Somewhere in The Night, Act of Violence or even a later entry like Time Limit. It’s this kind of narrative device that injects instant ambiguity into our story since G.I. Jim Fletcher (Williams) doesn’t know why he is currently in a hospital, and he seems to be implicated in some far more dubious crimes. Richard Quine also turns up, and he still has a couple years to go before his prolific career behind the camera.

Williams feels like a bit of an innocuous leading man without the gravelly charisma of a Van Heflin though he works in a pinch. Barbara Hale is a fond friend from Perry Mason so it’s easy enough to take her even if she transforms fairly quickly from victimized hostage to loyal female companion.

Because during the war her deceased husband was compatriots with Williams and Quine in a notorious Japanese prisoner of war camp. This clouded mystery of how their buddy was snitched on drives the movie with dubious implications in their own backyard.

Screenwriter Carl Foreman (known for High Noon) spins a swift tale that incorporates some real-life history that’s too farfetched to be fiction. It came out of an incident where a former POW walked into a department store only to see the unmistakable face of his former tormentor, a notorious prison guard nicknamed “The Meatball.” What a nightmare scenario.

Tomoya Kawaita was an American-born Japanese, going to Japan for university, but he got stuck overseas as the war heated up and ultimately became a notorious prison guard who would speak to his captors in English. After the war, he returned to States to attend USC. He was ultimately tried for treason and eventually got deported, spending the remainder of his days in Japan living in obscurity.

We usually think of the idyllic serenity of returning home from war albeit with growing pains. Warzones and  home are mutually exclusive spaces. But here these scenes collide. The movie ties all of these details into a widespread conspiracy with broader implications and still it pales in comparison to the facts.

Richard Loo becomes “The Weasel” and the fateful encounter happens at a Chinese restaurant called “The White Lotus.” It’s possible that the movie conflates the Japanese and Chinese cultures, but regardless, it’s rather striking to even have this space acknowledged at all.

Loo purportedly relished the opportunity to put the Japanese in such a bad light, and he was often called upon to play such demented roles for WWII propaganda. The Clay Pigeon was no different in how it called on his wartime persona. It’s a bit of a holdover of the earlier sentiments.

However, there is one obvious difference. The movie does actually provide some nuance or at least an alternate depiction of the Japanese. This is the other reason I’ve searched so earnestly for this otherwise unassuming movie.

During a chase where Fletcher’s trying to flee his pursuers and clear his name with the Naval authorities, he rushes into an open door seeking asylum. The woman (Marya Marco) calmly doing her laundry looks him over and allows him to hide as she answers the door.

Once the danger passes, they share another moment. It’s an interaction that the tiny film, barely over an hour long, didn’t require, but whether it was screenwriter Carl Foreman or someone else, he takes time to honor this lady and her people. You see she has a young son, but also her husband was a Nisei who died during the war. His commendation and photo are displayed proudly for all to see.

When Fletcher sees it, it changes his whole demeanor because the 442nd carries a certain cachet. They paid for it with their lives and through their bravery. That’s something that anyone fighting in the armed forces can accept. It’s a badge of honor.

The movie rumbles to its inevitable conclusion, and it’s a nice bit of meta narrative to watch Hale and Williams embrace right outside the doors with all the loose ends wrapped up neat and tidy and our hero vindicated.

But for me, I already got what I came for with this one solitary interaction as an emblematic remembrance memorialized for all time. In the face of so much discrimination and wartime paranoia, the Japanese-Americans proved themselves to be fearless, fiercely loyal, and just as profoundly American as anyone else.

3/5 Stars

La Otra (1946): Dolores Del Rio and Her Doppelganger

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Recently some coworkers were waxing about what they would do if they won the power ball. How they would spend the money, where they would go, and also the drawbacks that come in the wake of what seems like a purely golden opportunity.

I’ve never much thought about it, but I do admit for those who are trapped in life (or at least with active imaginations), it’s easy to make the mental leap. I couldn’t get these conversations out of my head while watching Roberto Gavaldón’s La Otra.

It is a movie about a manicurist. Her work is menial and she takes no joy in it, doting over cosseted businessmen with lecherous intentions. It’s a way to survive though her prospects feel like a dead-end apart from her burgeoning romance with an earnest policeman. All throughout the workday before she runs off to spend an evening with her man (José Baviera), the garish lights above her workspace blare with the National lottery: 5 million! Almost as if to taunt her.

La Otra is built out of a premise not unfamiliar to noir. If you read production notes, it sounds like the picture was potentially slated for an English-language release with Bette Davis, though it was deemed too similar to one of her other recent projects. She would end up remaking it a generation later as Dead Ringers.

Because La Otra actually opens with a funeral. María Méndez rushes onto the scene late, and public perception is one of contempt. How improper of her to show up late to a funeral while her twin sister, Magdalena mourns the death of her husband. Although the widow is masked by her veil, we learn soon enough, Dolores Del Rio stars in both roles. Hence, La Otra.

The doppelganger is not a new phenomenon used in all sorts of mistaken identity comedies and certainly in melodrama. Here it feels like it serves a utility to the story, but there’s also something else. The movie plays with the dichotomy and preconceived notions between Mary, the Madonna, and Mary Magdalene, a sinful woman. The movie casts Del Rio in both of these rolls, and they continually shift and evolve over this muddied canvas of morality.

Tension (1949) with Richard Basehart worked the doppelganger angle thanks to hard contact lenses and Del Rio pulls it off by wearing glasses to play her manicurist self. Still, these are only the visual features. It does not consider personality changes.

Meanwhile, we realize in the wake of her husband’s death, Magdalena has come into a great sum of money. She chides her sister while she walks into her lavish closet, “You haven’t learned to face the world with the same weapons it uses.” Namely, cunning, cynicism, hypocrisy…crime.

Soon enough, María does learn what it takes to get ahead in noir, although she must also live with the consequences. Passages of the film feel quite literally like a silent movie, and then with dialogue the scenes come alive played against the otherworldly whirring modulations of the theremin.

La Otra hits its stride with its first twist cut against the chaotic pinata-infused celebration in the city square. María has the opportunity to take over her sister’s life and commandeers it using all the aforementioned weapons at her disposal. Going so far as to scald herself so her signature won’t be disputed.

Still, she is trapped in a life she was not expecting. Because her rash decision only considered the upside — not the tragedy hanging over her head. Instantly, she gains wealth and repute, leaving her life of destitution behind, but she also must give up her man lest she implicate herself in the new life she takes up in its stead.

But also a dashing suitor (Víctor Junco) slinks back into her life — a mysterious man from her sister’s own shrouded past. She’s more implicated than even she realized, and the film is imbued with this sense of Catholic penance. We watched men like James Cagney be sent to the electric chair for their sins, and this woman is resigned to her own fate…

What’s fascinating to me is how this film could have been made in Hollywood — with Bette Davis no less. However, it was made in Mexico and as a result Dolores Del Rio was given unadulterated star treatment. The way she’s dressed, lit, and given full reign over the movie, augments her regality but also her abilities as a screen personality. She owns the movie both in its moments of drama and pathos.

And although it was shot below the border in Mexico City with many actors we aren’t aware of, it functions like a stunning system in parallel with Hollywood. There’s a technical prowess and a commitment to classical storytelling. There’s gorgeous light and shadow, a commitment to the semiotic nature of visual narrative, and also a daring sense of invention.

It feels alive and emotive like all the greatest classic melodramas. Analogous endings could be cropped out of other movies, but as a dutiful policeman, now disaffected in his duties, wanders off into the night, the woman stares back at him through the bars confining her. Her face settles in such a way, first, we see the luminous contours of her eyes before she drops down and they are enveloped in an abyss of shadow.

These are the kind of moments that not necessary for telling a story, and yet somehow it feels elegant and imperative because this final image articulates so much of the journey of this movie and so much of the duality in many of these great melodramas of old. I never tire of them, and it’s always a pleasure to find a new addition to the canon regardless of where it originates from.

4/5 Stars

Peter Lorre: Stranger on The Third Floor, Mask of Dimitrios, The Verdict

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Stranger on The Third Floor (1940)

Although it’s not a highly touted picture, Stranger on The Third Floor feels like an important enough footnote to aficionados of film noir because it embodies a few of the earliest definable features of the movement. It’s not an entirely new concept per se, but it feels like it’s reaching a new market taking the influences of European Émigré cinema to the American public.

The influence of German Expressionism on ensuing generations cannot be underappreciated, and there’s this very practical suffusing of these techniques into Hollywood because many of these writers and technicians were physically transplanted to the west coast thanks to the scourge of Hitler. He unwittingly injected American cinema with some of its foremost talents.

Although he was an immigrant from Italy, Nicholas Musuraca would soon prove himself to be one of the foremost figures in noir cinematography thanks to his run at RKO Studios, which hardly had the budget and personnel to pull off the lavish A-list productions of MGM and other bigger studios. This necessitated a different niche and an ongoing visual ingenuity.

It becomes evident early on in the film thanks to severe shadows and a patchwork of light and dark. The story itself is incredibly contrived but the movie is saturated in voiceover and fatalistic dread thanks to a man (John McGuire) being sent up for murder.

The tenets of what would become noir are plainly evident. Still, there’s something organic about it. This is not premeditated; it simply happened with the confluence of talents and a bit of happenstance.

It’s fitting that while The Maltese Falcon feels like the most high profile distillation of noir as an American breed, Stranger on The Third Floor uses two of its primary culprits. By this I’m referring first to Peter Lorre.  He’s called upon to do an import of his psychotic killer in M complete with his gaunt hand crawling up an apartment door frame. He’s hardly as slimy and therefore as conflicted and interesting as Joel Cairo; it’s his slinking foreignness that conjures up menace in the eye of the viewer.

However, there’s also Elisha Cook Jr. who plays one of his more reticent types a bit different than his blustering henchman Wilmer. However, they would both become integral figures to the movement even if it were only for their association with that individual film.

Although the movie’s a quickie, it still finds time for mini flashbacks as the inevitable noose of noir gets tied ever tighter around our hapless hero’s neck. The finest moments are when he’s overtaken by the nightmare of his conscience with men in bowlers chomping cigars start to cross examine him, and he falls apart inside his own head. As such, it’s probably more intriguing for its place in film history than as an undisputed piece of art.

3/5 Stars

The Mask of Dimitrios (1944)

The Mask of Dimitrios feels like an old world adventure story centered around a phantom figure who becomes the picture’s version of a MacGuffin. Zachary Scott turns up mostly in people’s recollections as a precursor to Harry Lime, the man everyone wants to find.

Although the movies could hardly be made today, there’s something about Warner Bros. and it’s aesthetic and stable of actors that was made for transporting western audiences all over map. The movie literally globetrots around the world.

It’s a pleasure to have Peter Lorre offered a bigger piece of the film’s pie at this point in his Hollywood career.  He’s allowed to be a far more genial and charismatic figure, a writer of detective fiction and a seeker of this great mystery because he has time for such whims and frivolities if only they pique his interest.

Then, Sidney Greenstreet turns up ominously both a friend and a foe. They form a tenuous alliance after the fat man all but ransacks the other man’s room. Greenstreet and Lorre feel like unlikely cinematic bedfellows as it were, and yet they feel inextricably linked for all posterity. They feel a bit like the Laurel & Hardy duo of Warner Bros. crime pictures based on physical characteristics and also their palpable rapport.

Here there’s no Bogart in the limelight and Scott, while a headliner, is mostly the enigmatic engine behind the picture so they are allowed to anchor the story. Thus, what makes the movie are the same cloak and dagger elements that make a romp out of The Maltese Falcon where characters have motives and unseemly sides, but it feels more like unadulterated fun rather than totally depressing drama. This is a testament mostly to our two worthy protagonists.

The Verdict (1946)

The Verdict feels totally indicative of the evolution of Don Siegel’s career, a road paved with many well-remembered films, and it all began right here. We’re met with a foggy London frequented by Sidney Greenstreet with every constable and upstanding gentlemen bidding him good evening. It’s a long way from Dirty Harry although the picture is equally indebted to the criminal justice system.

This comes in part because Greenstreet made a lapse in judgment by sending an innocent man to the gallows. Instead of feeling altogether remorseful, he’s seems more intent in proving the incompetence of his supercilious successor.

It feels like a chatty picture once Peter Lorre and the rest get involved, drinking and quibbling about politics and social reform. There’s a rather vindictive pretense as the two men despise one another.

Lorre, now with a bigger billing, is allowed a broader portrayal of gravitas and jocularity. He’s the picture’s most welcomed source of inspiration. He’s found casually wondering in on murder scenes and eavesdropping in closets as it seems he has nothing better to do. What’s more, he makes it look like a grand old time as everyone else is hustled and harried going through the paces of the drama.

Because there is a murder, a murder queued off by the raging score before we’re even aware that anything has happened. The newly enlisted police chief at Scotland Yard is called to solve the mystery right quick. He proceeds to question his suspects, distrusting everyone, and keeping them all under surveillance, including a nosy housekeeper and a spirited night hall singer.

The whip pans over the faces when the verdict is made feels like a dose of Don Siegel, and the kind of visual octane he would give his movies for generations to come. Although there’s a danger with all the Victorian exteriors, the picture might easily feel stuffy. However, there’s enough noir and a surprising amount of wit sprinkled throughout to give the film a shelf life.

It somehow manages to play on both Greenstreet and Lorre’s reputation as shifty villains by first casting them as our protagonists and then making us second guess their motives again and again. It’s a perplexing picture with a dose of mystery and some twists. The fact that it’s ludicrous seems beside the point because it’s the wild ride of the experience offering the most impact.

3.5/5 Stars

Vincente Minnelli’s Films (1946-1955)

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Undercurrent (1946)

Undercurrent hardly holds a substantial place in any noir conversations partially because Vincente Minnelli’s reputation in part seems antithetical to the dark style born out of chiaroscuro and German Expressionism. His background was squarely in luscious art design and stage productions.

Likewise, the combo of Katharine Hepburn and the two Roberts: Taylor and Mitchum, is not one that quickly springs to mind. However, there are some merits to it simply for the sake of it being different; not dramatically, these types of psychological women’s pictures were very much en vogue during the ’40s.

It’s the pieces assembled that feel unique if somewhat ill-suited. Still, the curious hybrid of tones and talents certainly is a historical curio more than intriguing to the invested party.

I almost have trouble buying Hepburn as a reticent, uncomfortable outsider among the D.C. elite her new husband Alan (Taylor) knows, a woman holding drinks in hand just waiting for someone to talk to. But if I don’t completely believe it, she does earn my empathy.

Mitchum, the legendary mule of RKO was simultaneously earmarked for 3 or 4 pictures at the time, and so he doesn’t show up in Undercurrent until much later. Still, he has the benefit of casting a Rebecca-like influence over the picture.

After an hour of building him up, we finally get sight of Mitchum, and we know where this story is going. Because he’s a real human being and fairly innocuous to the eye. As the presence of Mitchum begins to exert itself on the picture, the marital bliss of newlyweds grows more and more harrowing by the minute. We have a picture in the same vein as Suspicion and House on Telegraph Hill.

Despite choosing the part, the constraints of the role don’t feel totally in line with Hepburn’s talents. She isn’t a shrinking violet or the kind of timorous beauty befitting Joan Fontaine or even Ingrid Bergman. Robert Taylor is mostly adequate in the vengeful husband part. He flip-flops efficiently between these stints of gracious charm — a perfect husband and lover — then, becomes clouded by these perverse streaks of jealousy and rage.

3/5 Stars

The Pirate (1948)

It’s plain that The Pirate is born out of the traditions of the 1940s Hollywood lineage like Blood and Sand or Black Swan, even Gene Kelly’s own Three Musketeers. However, between the bright evocative staging of Vicente Minnelli and the instant performance-driven rapport of Garland and Kelly, it works quite splendidly with what it has to offer.

Today it doesn’t hold much of a reputation, and I would stop short of saying it’s a minor masterpiece. What we do have is a picture banking on the charisma of its leads and a certain pictorial opulence supplied by its primary mastermind.

Kelly, taking all the niñas of the town by storm, is full of allure and his usual magnetism as he twirls, leaps, and bounds between all the pretty girls. It’s all about the patter between the stars as he plays the foxy street performer, and Garland is the put-upon maiden who is betrothed to another man. His vocation gives the director license to use these elements of theatricality and faux drama to tell the story.

What do I mean? It could be a story of tragic, unrequited love. It might just as well be a tale of marauding pirates, and yet somehow, between the song and dance, it becomes a kind of tongue-in-cheek comedy of two lovers perfectly suited for one another being thrown together.

There are moments where Garland and Kelly seem to be playing in a separate movie, or at least they are in on the joke with the rest of us, even as they mess with each other. Trashing his apartment feels like the highest form of romantic tension only for the drama to become slightly heady again: Kelly is set to be hung as the dreaded pirate Macoco. Is it a first to have a musical number performed under a hangman’s noose? I’m not sure.

Thankfully, he gets some stellar support. While I’ll be the first to admit “Be a Clown” feels like a less funny prototype for “Make em Laugh,” if you’ve never seen the Nicholas Brothers, it’s a small recompense to see them join Gene Kelly and get some commendation in the spotlight as his momentary equals. It feels like a flawed but heartfelt apex to a picture that could be described in much the same terms.

3/5 Stars

Madame Bovary (1949)

Madame Bovary is the kind of trenchant literary work the Production Codes would go to all costs to declaw. In one manner, it’s somewhat remedied by James Mason’s framing by providing a mostly blase narrative device to enter the story.

Even as something leaner in budgeted black & white (one could hardly confuse The Pirate with Madame Bovary), it’s still the same Minnelli. The ball sequence spelling the ascension of Emma (Jennifer Jones) as a society darling, while somewhat compact, exudes an impressive opulence.

The director makes sure to follow Jones’s incandescent form as she prances and waltzes her way across the dance floor with great distinction. Her gown alone is enough to make the upper classes stand up and take note. The dashing Louis Jourdan is certainly more than aware of her. It’s totally taken up by the kind of swirling euphoria also holding a place in the oeuvre of Marcel Ophuls — Letter from an Unknown Woman and Earrings of Madame De…spring instantly to mind.

It becomes more and more of a gothic drama as things progress, overtaken by gales of wind, thunder, lightning, and an incessant downpour of rains to go with the equally tumultuous score of Miklos Roza.

However, more importantly, Emma becomes possessed by all of her own ambitions and preoccupations. She is emotionally distant from her husband (Van Heflin), absent from her child, and totally involved with other men. She entreats them to take her away from such a dreary life, constantly prone to these histrionic gestures of love and loss at the hands of her suitors and husband. They hardly know how to respond to her.

If the terminology was present at the time, she is cut out of the cloth of some kind of femme fatale, albeit born out of the annals of classic literature. Moreover, she is a woman who never seems to know what she truly wants. She sends out an array of mixed signals — living a life made up of so many contours and emotions — and never settling on anything honest.

It’s as if she’s fashioned a kind of fantasy life for herself woven out of her own personal whims though she remains self-destructive to the very last iota of her being. There’s something unnerving about her and Jones plays her as such; it’s easy to understand how society was scandalized by her because she does not live by societal norms. Mason’s concessions for her character aren’t enough to totally wipe out the harrowing impact of the performance.

3.5/5 Stars

The Cobweb (1955)

“What happens if you go into town to the movies? You start screaming or something? They’d think you’re a critic, that’s all.” – John Kerr as Steven

If it’s true you can make a screwball comedy like Easy Living (1937) about a fur coat falling from the sky, then it’s equally possible to make a portrait of psychological horror about drapes. The Cobweb busies itself with the vast array of interpersonal relationships taking place on the grounds of a psych ward. Richard Widmark does his best to aid his patients in their recoveries as he juggles familial and boardroom responsibilities. It’s no easy balancing act.

For a film that is mostly disregarded, it’s easy to clump it together with something like Executive Suite (also produced by John Houseman) with one of the most phenomenal assortments of players one could hope to cobble together during the golden era of Hollywood.

Lilian Gish is at her most ornery but lest we forget, she truly is the queen of the movies. Charles Boyer and Lauren Bacall are equally crucial touchstones of film history, playing two respective love interests as Widmark struggles to connect with his wife, Gloria Grahame. Even ’30s scream queen, Fay Wray, has a brief appearance in a picture that boasts Oscar Levant and then the up-and-coming talents of John Kerr and Susan Strasberg.

In one scene with all the various folks blocked throughout the room, it’s almost difficult to distinguish who’s a patient and who’s not, but if we are to appreciate this drama, it doesn’t half matter. Widmark falls for another woman. Grahame flaunts her charms and goes looking for love from Boyer, who is now mentally compromised. Gish is incensed about having her opinions disregarded. Some of them are petty and others are stricken with loneliness and actual psychoses.

The palette becomes such an evocative way to color the emotional undercurrent and elements of suburban life, not unlike some of Nicholas Ray‘s work or something like Strangers When We Meet. The visual world is beautiful; still, it lets loose an environment full of pain and inner turmoil. Although Minnelli handles his characters deftly, there’s no place for the film to go but toward a hysterical fever pitch.

3.5/5 Stars