The Big Sleep (1946) **

There is no doubt that Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall had oodles of chemistry, which jumped off the screen whenever they were paired together. And, they had a way of making risqué dialogue sound even more racier than it was probably intended. Yet, the fact remains that early in her career Lauren Bacall just wasn’t a very good actress.  Fortunately for her, she had two things on her side: her ability to project sexual tension with Bogart and a cool beauty that made her the perfect femme fatale. Strangely enough, however, she isn’t the most compelling femme fatale in director Howard Hawks’ The Big Sleep (1946)—that honor rests with Martha Vickers, who plays Bacall’s younger sister in the movie.  This is a rather disturbing fact when you consider that many of Vickers scenes were cut after Raymond Chandler, upon seeing the two women on-screen together, commented that Vickers unequivocally overshadowed Bacall.  This, of course, is a sad tidbit to know, since, for me at least, whenever Vickers made an appearance on the screen the movie always seemed to get better.  Perhaps if the film’s plot hadn’t been so convoluted and full of countless red herrings I could have overlooked the sidelining of Vickers in favor of Bacall, but The Big Sleep suffers acutely from an ill-conceived narrative.

Based on Raymond Chandler 1939 novel of the same name, The Big Sleep is a film noir detective story set in Los Angeles.  Private dick Philip Marlowe (Bogart) is hired by General Sternwood (Charles Waldron) to handle his youngest daughter Carmen’s (Vickers) gambling debts, which are a source of blackmail—but there’s more to the story than that.  Carmen is a drug addict and nymphomaniac (per the Hays Code, this is only alluded to) with a nasty temper who has a very bad habit of getting caught up in all kinds of jams.  These jams, unfortunately, also ensnare her older sister, Vivian (Bacall), into her sordid affairs.  Don’t get me wrong, Vivian is a piece of work, too, but while she might like to gamble and emasculate men, she’s smart enough not to pose for pornographic pictures (again, only alluded to) or have affairs with chauffeurs and errand boys—and, most importantly, Vivian isn’t the reason countless men meet their big sleep—death.  Marlowe, for his part, must navigate the endless webs of deceit spun by the Sternwood women to fully comprehend the corrupt and seedy world which controls their fate.  Along the way, he develops a hot-and-cold relationship with Vivian that is tempered by their mutual distrust of one another. In the end, he must make a fateful decision to free the Sternwood women from a hell of their own making.

First, let me say that The Big Sleep is not a bad movie. Yes, the plot is difficult to follow, but even I must admit that it is never boring—it is, however, irritating and meandering. Chandler, himself, admitted that when Hawks and screenwriters William Faulkner, Leigh Brackett, and Jules Furthman contacted him for clarity regarding the story’s narrative that even he could not explain all of the plot developments—this was a bad omen.  It also doesn’t help that the Hays Code restricted the screenwriters from telling the story as it ought to have been told. The novel is both more complex and perverse than what eventually made its way to the screen in 1946. Audiences would have to wait until Michael Winner’s 1978 film version of the novel to see the truly explicit nature of the book.

By far, the most entertaining thing about The Big Sleep is how far the screenwriters pushed the censors with their sexually charged dialogue and innuendo.  For example, early in the film Dorothy Malone makes a brief appearance as a bookstore clerk who spends an afternoon with Marlowe doing everything but discussing books.  Of course, none of this is shown, but it doesn’t need to be because it’s obvious what has occurred.  And, then there is probably one of the more risqué exchanges ever to get past the censors: the racehorse metaphor.

Vivian: Speaking of horses, I like to play them myself. But I like to see them workout a little first, see if they're front runners or come from behind, find out what their whole card is, what makes them run.

Marlowe: Find out mine?

Vivian: I think so.

Marlowe: Go ahead.

Vivian: I'd say you don't like to be rated. You like to get out in front, open up a little lead, take a little breather in the backstretch, and then come home free.

Marlowe: You don't like to be rated yourself.

Vivian: I haven't met anyone yet that can do it. Any suggestions?

Marlowe: Well, I can't tell till I've seen you over a distance of ground. You've got a touch of class, but I don't know how, how far you can go.

Vivian: A lot depends on who's in the saddle.

This exchange alone is enough to make me suffer through the film’s ever winding and unwinding plot. And, of course, then there’s also those brief moments when Vickers lights up the screen.  From her first exchange with Marlowe, “You’re not very tall are you"?”, to her would-be seduction of him, Vickers is electrifying.  It can’t be said too many times, The Big Sleep would have been a much better film with more of her in it. And, even worse, the second most interesting woman in the film isn’t even Bacall, but rather Sonia Darrin, who plays every scene she’s in with a compelling level of intensity sorely lacking on the part of Bacall.

Overall, The Big Sleep is the type of film you wish were better because it does have some redeeming qualities. Yet, it suffers from a labyrinthine plot and a less than stellar leading lady. Thankfully, the dialogue was entertainingly witty, and occasionally Vickers or Darrin popped in and made the film much more interesting.

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Notorious (1946) ****

Without a doubt, Notorious (1946) is my all-time favorite Alfred Hitchcock movie. At its core, it’s a romantic spy thriller, but there is so much more to it than Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman sneaking three second kisses one after the other while engaging in espionage against the Nazis.  Yes, it’s filled with suspense and sexual tension, but the film, at least for me, is also a surprisingly sharp analysis of human frailty and morality. As if the story weren’t enough, Notorious also has the best cinematography of any of Hitchcock’s black and white films (and some might argue, his entire oeuvre).  

Ben Hecht’s intricately orchestrated Oscar nominated screenplay tells the story of an American espionage operation in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil , where escaped Nazis are planning their next move following the Third Reich’s defeat.  The Strategic Services Unit (SSU, which eventually morphed into, along with other clandestine groups formed after the dissolution of the OSS, into the CIA) recruits Alicia Huberman (Bergman), the daughter of a convicted Nazi spy (Fred Nurney), to infiltrate the Nazis in Rio. Alicia is a high-class notorious good-time girl—simply said, she’s a drunk and a tramp who comes from money. Yet, while awaiting her orders, Alicia falls in love with her SSU handler, Devlin (Grant), a man who does not have a very high opinion of her. Their budding relationship is compromised when she is asked to gain the confidence of her former friend (and perhaps lover) Alex Sebastian (Claude Rains), a leading figure in the Nazi group living in Rio, by whatever means necessary. This, of course, means that Alicia has to use her notorious behavior to seduce Alex. When Devlin raises no objections to this plan, Alicia believes Devlin does not love her and so she sets off on her mission. She obviously does an expert job of this, because before long she is married to Alex and living in a house where Nazis regularly meet and a lot of doors are locked. One door in particular is locked by a key that only Alex has access to: the wine cellar door. Devlin and his superior, Captain Prescott (Louis Calhern), are sure this is where the Nazis are hiding something. An elaborate plan, requiring a huge party be thrown at the Sebastian house, is hatched which calls for Alicia to steal the key from Alex and then pass it onto Devlin, an invited guest. When this betrayal is discovered by Alex, he and his mother (Leopoldine Konstantin) enact a poisonous plan of revenge on Alicia.

The most important theme in Notorious is the idea of trust, which makes sense because it’s about tradecraft (spying).  Still, the way the theme is developed and carried out throughout the story is quite clever. First, Alicia and Devlin’s first meeting is based on deception, as he pretends to be a party crasher at her home. Her notorious behavior as a first class tramp makes Devlin mistrust any changes that she attempts to make in her character. Has she stopped boozing it up and making conquests?  Does she love Devlin, or is he a passing fancy?  As such, he withholds his love and trust from her, even when she begs him to do otherwise, and raises no objections when she is asked to prostitute herself to get the goods on the Nazis.  In turn, Alicia feels betrayed by the man that she loves and sets about proving to Devlin that she’s an accomplished whore.  Her manipulation of Alex’s trust in her, which he gives ever so easily and freely, only exacerbates Devlin’s mistrust in her.  Hopefully, the irony is not lost on anyone that the most trusting person in Notorious is Alex, who is an unwitting pawn in Alicia and Devlin’s twisted game of Truth or Dare. This is why Alex Sebastian is Hitchcock’s most sympathetic villain.  When he learns the truth about Alicia his world is shattered, and you can’t really blame him for wanting to kill her after what she’s done to him. Still, his stupidity, as noted by his mother, was enormous. 

The love story between Alicia and Devlin is extremely complicated and comes off as an indictment on society’s rules on morality. There’s a reason why Alicia drinks and sleeps around—it’s how she learned to cope with her father being a Nazi spy.  There is a very small scene in the film where after Alicia has learned of her father’s suicide that she says, “When he told me a few years ago what he was, everything went to pot. I didn't care what happened to me. Now I remember how nice he once was, how nice we both were. It's a very curious feeling, a feeling as if something had happened to me, not to him. You see I don't have to hate him anymore or myself.”  It is not a coincidence that Alicia attempts to mend her “wicked” ways after his death and that she allows herself to fall in love with a decent man like Devlin.  The problem is that Devlin can’t forget her past, as evidenced by this exchange:

Alicia: The time has come when you must tell me you have a wife and two adorable children and this madness between us can't go on any longer.

Devlin: Bet you've heard that line often enough.

Alicia: Right below the belt every time. That isn't fair, Dev.

Of course, the worst part is that Alicia is recruited as a spy because of her notorious reputation.  The Government has no qualms about prostituting this woman for their political aims precisely because she is a known tramp, but, for some reason, those pimping her out seem to think that it’s okay to defame her in their private conversations with one another.  Worse yet, Devlin throws her past character flaws in her face every chance he gets.  Don’t he and his colleagues bear some responsibility for her behavior?  It is precisely Alicia’s emotional frailty that drives her to seduce and manipulate Alex.  She wouldn’t have taken the assignment in the first place if, as she says to Devlin, “If you only once had said that you loved me.”  In what world does Devlin have any right to be pissed off the entire time that Alicia is risking her life to spy on the Nazis? Surely someone willing to risk imminent danger deserves a little more respect than constant reminders that she’s a whore. And, really, hadn’t Devlin used his own charms on Alicia to get her to go to Rio?  Didn’t he engage in an affair with her and then have the audacity to ask her to seduce Alex?  He could have told his superiors that they were in love and that she was out of the spy business, but he didn’t.  How was his behavior any better than hers? Yet, because she is a fallen woman she is the one who is open to ridicule and judgment. Plus, Devlin’s refusal to believe that Alicia is capable of change is ultimately almost what gets her killed (and, who really knows what happened after that car pulled away from the Sebastian mansion at the end?), as he believes she’s back to boozing when she comes to a meeting gaunt, unsteady, and clearly unwell.

Cinematically, the most striking thing about Notorious is the camerawork. This was Ted Tetzlaff’s last picture as a director of photography, and while he was never as highly regarded as Gregg Toland, Jack Cardiff, Robert Krasker, John Alton, Stanley Cortez, or probably Hitchcock’s favorite cameraman, Robert Burks, he probably shot the best black and white film Hitchcock ever made.  While there are several scenes we could discuss, three in particular stand out for me.

The first scenario is what I like to refer to as the hangover scene. The scene opens with a close-up of a glass of Alka Seltzer, with Alicia in the background, lying on a bed. The camera then zooms out and switches to what Alicia sees. Hung over and seeing things cockeyed, she sees a man, at a titled angle, standing in the shadow of the doorway. As he comes closer, and she is lying on her back in obvious pain, the camera flips upside down and we see a fuzzy, backlit Devlin.  Without a doubt, this is probably the most creatively shot hangover scene ever.

I also find the tea cup scene (yes, they were drinking coffee, but it’s looks like a tea cup), or what I call “Tea is served”, near the end of Notorious to be exceptionally well done.  By this point in the story the tea cup has become it’s own Hitchcockian motif, and the audience is aware that Alex and his mother are well on their way to killing Alicia with poison. Again, drink of some sort seems to be Alicia’s undoing. Just as the fizzing Alka Seltzer is the starting focal point in the hangover scene, the tea cup is shot in the forefront of this scene, which opens with one of the Nazis commenting about how poorly Alicia, dressed in black, looks, and then the focus of the scene shifts from the conversation to a tea set sitting in front of Mrs. Sebastian and then to a particular cup that she brings to Alicia. After a slight shift back to the conversing people, the cup is shot from an ominously low angle with Alicia in the background. When there is a mix up with the cups and Alicia realizes what’s going on, a single, innocent shot of a tea cup moves directly to a bewildered Alicia to a sweeping close-up of first her mother-in-law and then Alex. As she gathers herself up to leave the room, her two poisoners dissolve into shadow figures and seem to be guarding her from the door. Once out in the foyer, her deteriorating health, not to mention her now-altered emotional state, is echoed through the use of distorted images. She then passes out on the checkered tile, which looks a lot like a chess board. Is it just me, or do tea cups and chess boards make you think of Alice in Wonderland?  Is this an overlooked theme by film critics… Or was Alicia a sacrificed pawn in the Government’s chess game with the Nazis?

Perhaps the most famous sequence in Notorious is the infamous wine cellar key swap. Once Alicia swipes the key from Alex it becomes the focal point of the next few minutes of the film. First, Alicia’s closed hands (one containing the key) must elude Alex’s kisses. Next, Tetzlaff uses a crane to do a sweeping shot from the top of the massive staircase to the bottom of the steps where Alex and Alicia are greeting guests and to Alicia’s nervously fidgeting left hand which is gripping the key, anxiously awaiting Devlin’s arrival. When he does finally arrive, the camera focuses in on Alicia’s hand as Devlin kisses it and she passes him the key. All of these elements are seamlessly completed but done in such a way that it heightens the viewer’s anxiety. 

I could go on and on about why I’m such a fan of Notorious.  Every character was expertly cast, with no one giving a false performance.  The story was well paced and quite believable (especially when you consider how many Nazis did end up hiding in Brazil and planning a resurgence of the Reich) and, like almost every Hitchcock picture, meticulously constructed into an edge of your seat thriller, and, in this case, right down to the very last minute on screen.  All of these elements, as well as the ones discussed above, are why I am such an admirer of Notorious. Oh, and the MacGuffin is a wine cellar full of wine bottles filled with uranium…thought I’d add that for all the hardcore Hitch fans out there.

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It’s a Wonderful Life (1946) ***

It is a myth that the suicide rate increases between Thanksgiving and Christmas.  However, the “most wonderful time of the year” is not always so wonderful for everyone.  Christmas cards, crowded stores, wrapping presents, and mounting debt can weigh heavily on the psyche. And, then there are those who have lost loved ones or feel as though they haven’t any loved ones at all.  For these people, the holiday season is a torturous time, full of regrets and sorrows.  What-ifs, should-haves, and if-onlys play cruel tricks on those who carry around ghosts and faded dreams in their troubled minds.  I suspect this is the reason that It’s a Wonderful Life (1946) has endured as a Christmas tradition for more than fifty years. Everyone—yes, everyone—has a little of George Bailey running around in their subconscious.  As a wise person once told me, circumstance touches everyone—no one is immune.

I enjoy watching It’s a Wonderful Life every Christmas season because I can relate to George Bailey (James Stewart). An adventurer at heart but a duty-bound person in reality, George and I both made life-altering decisions based on the cards circumstance dealt us—even if that deck was full of jokers we played the game by the rule of responsibility; I expect many others can say the same.

For those unfamiliar with George’s story, it is a simple one. From a very young age George exceeded expectation: he saved his brother (Todd Karns) from drowning and prevented his drunken pharmacist boss (H.B. Warner) from accidentally poisoning someone. When his father (Samuel S. Hinds) died of a stroke he forwent a trip to Europe and then college to head the family’s struggling building and loan company. Instead of spending $2,000 on his honeymoon he used it to stave off a run on the bank.  He invested in a town, Bedford Falls, and a group of people that at heart he wanted nothing more to do than to escape.  Along the way he married a girl (Donna Reed) he knew worshipped him, and agreed to live in a ramshackle house filled with children that required he continue in a job he hated in a town too small for his ambition. And then a bit of ironic circumstance slapped poor George in the face: his undoing was to come at the hands of his own obedience to duty and responsibility.  This, no doubt, was the last bitter pill that George could allow himself to swallow, and so he took it believing that at least he did what was best for others.  Ah, but what would have life been like for all those who benefitted from George’s benevolence and self-sacrifice if he had never existed?  It takes an angel (Henry Travers) seeking his wings to show George that what he viewed as a failed existence was of significant importance to so many others.  

In the end, It’s a Wonderful Life, is a redemption tale. Upon release some critics found the movie too sentimental and said that it idealized an unrealistic world.  By this time just about any film from director Frank Capra was labeled as overly-sentimental by many critics (perhaps you are familiar with the term “Capra-corn”?), and so many overlooked the universal theme of circumstance—it touches everyone.  And, so this corny film that lost $525,000 in 1946, now draws millions of viewers every Christmas. I’ve heard many people say that they watch it to remind themselves that perhaps they didn’t live the life they wanted, but at least they lived the life they got.  They, like George Bailey (and myself), endure the circumstances of life. Perhaps you are not a religious person—you are the perfect candidate for this film which Capra made to combat atheism—but there is one particular Bible verse that applies to this movie. It is written in James 5:11 that “we count them happy which endure”.  Happily, the spirit of It’s a Wonderful Life continues to endure today. 

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A Matter of Life and Death (1946) ***

 

(This post was a participant of “The Archers Blogathon” hosted by The Classic Film & TV Café. To find other wonderful blog entries on this subject please visit the CMBA website.)

The Archers, Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, collaborated on eighteen films over a thirty year period (1939-72). Usually, it was Powell who did the bulk of the directing and Pressburger who came up with the story ideas and handled most of the production chores (especially when it came to editing and music). A Matter of Life and Death (1946) was the fifth film they made as the Archers, and is considered by many as their finest. While I don’t share that view (I just love those crazy nuns in Black Narcissus), I do think it is a creatively innovative production that exhibits everything that made the Archer collaboration one of the finest in all of cinema.

Initially, A Matter of Life and Death was conceived as a propaganda film to ease the hostility some Brits had toward American military personnel stationed in England during the war. There were complaints that some American soldiers were insensitive to the deprivations the British people endured as a result of rationing and bombing. I suspect if you were watching this in a British theater in 1946 you would have picked up on some of the propagandistic elements, but these were only a small part of a much bigger message about love and art.

Love at first sight is the most common device used by writers of novels and screenplays. Thankfully, the Archers weren’t common and so the lovers of this story are given their own unique love connection. David Niven plays Squadron Leader Peter Carter, a man about to be killed in a fiery airplane crash. Wanting to say goodbye both to his family and the world at large, Peter radios in to give his coordinates so someone can pick up what’s left of him after he jumps without a parachute. He makes contact with June (Kim Hunter), an American radio operator who listens sympathetically to his last words. In that brief conversation they fall in love, which only makes Peter’s coming demise even more tragic. But then there is a literal twist of fate when fog over the English Channel prevents Conductor 71 (Max Goring) from collecting Peter and ushering him into the Other World (that’s its actual name). And, so instead of making his way up a stairway to heaven (which happens to be what the film was called in America), he washes up on a beach near where June is stationed. Their love is affirmed when they meet along the road, and for the rest of the movie they must fight whatever might try to wrest away their happiness.

What I like most about A Matter of Life and Death is its distinctive artistry. Exhibiting the vastness of the universe and the smallness of human existence must have seemed a strange way to begin a film in 1946, but what an inspired way to begin a supremely unique endeavor. Whenever I watch the opening scenes, with the voiceover of the Universe, I can’t help but think how much of an influence this must have had on directors like Stanley Kubrick and Terrence Malick. Taking a page out of The Wizard of Oz (1939), the picture was shot both in Technicolor and black and white. Yet, instead of depicting everyday life in black and white and the the fantasy world as a Technicolor paradise, the Archers did something inspired—the Other World is presented in ethereal black and white while real life is shown in color. Cinematographer Jack Cardiff does an excellent job of presenting both worlds as individual realities. His panoramic shots of the Other World’s courtroom are simply masterful. I find it extremely troubling that his work (as well as every element of the film) didn’t merit an Academy Award nomination.

Alfred Junge’s set design, especially in the Other World, is brilliant. The one image most people remember is the endless escalator to heaven. Its construction was a monumental endeavor that took three months to complete, but it was well worth it. Watching Peter and Conductor 71 sitting on the steps and pondering which great mind (usually a passing statue) should represent him in his appeal is almost surreal. The backdrop of endless space is mesmerizing and actually creates a sense of peacefulness. In addition, the design of the Other World’s courtroom is eye-catching, too. The logistics of the massive amount of spectators in the gallery, as well as creating a set design that could hold all of those people, is just mind-boggling. Yet, Junge pulls it off seamlessly.

Other standout production innovations include the use of freeze-frames, the inventive transitions between Technicolor and black and white, and creatively designed perspective shots. If you’ve seen the film you know that whenever Conductor 71 meets Peter in the real world that time freezes—in his words, “time is a mere tyranny.” The most memorable instance of freeze-frame is when June is playing ping pong with Dr. Reeves (Roger Livesey) and the ball stops in midair while Peter and the conductor move about in live action. While this is an interesting scene, it is not what I consider to be the most inspired. That honor belongs to the one where the Archers place the point of perspective behind Peter’s actual eyeball when he goes under anesthesia. The viewer sees what Peter’s eye sees: the medical team, the gas mask, the closing eyelid, then blood vessels, and finally the transition into the black and white Other World. It’s just such an unusual shot design and so different from just about anything that you would see in cinema at that time.

While the overall story is entertaining, I enjoy watching A Matter of Life and Death for its artistic merits. Powell and Pressburger’s cinematic vision is a celebration of creativity and artistry.

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The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946) **

(This is my contribution to the John Garfield Blogathon.)

I have seen three film versions of James M. Cain’s 1934 novel, The Postman Always Rings Twice. Director Tay Garnett’s 1946 version is not my favorite—that honor falls to Luchino Visconti’s Ossessione (1943)—but it is still entertaining to watch.  The acting is superb, and the cinematography is classic film noir.  Still, there are pesky plot development inconsistencies that make me not appreciate this as much as others do.

John Garfield plays Frank Chambers, a drifter who sees a “Man Wanted” sign hanging in front of a hamburger stand/gas station.  In typical noir fashion, this sign has two meanings.  One, the proprietor, Nick Smith (Cecil Kellaway), needs help pumping gas and flipping burgers. Two, Nick’s much younger and way too attractive wife, Cora (Lana Turner), needs a man to sexually satisfy her.  From the moment Cora and Frank meet you know things aren’t going to end well—he plants a kiss on her within minutes of meeting her.  Eventually, they decide the only way they can be happy is to get rid of Nick. Yet, like any good noir things never turn out happy.

This was probably the best performance Lana Turner gave in her career. Often she got away with just looking pretty, but here she gives a nuanced portrayal of a complex woman.  Yes, her Cora is sexy, but she’s also a woman who wants to build a successful business. She truly look conflicted about engaging in an affair with Frank, while at the same time it’s obvious she is filled with lust.  Her character’s ethical dichotomy is often emphasized by whatever color she happens to be wearing: white or black (though white seems to be costume designer Irene’s hue of choice).  Contrasted against the dark sets and lighting, Cora in white looks as though she is emanating heat—perhaps that was the point.  Anyway, Turner does a fabulous job.

Dark and brooding parts seemed to suit Garfield. He brings a touch of unbridled sexuality and a heap of self-loathing to his role of Frank. His fire plays very well off Turner’s ice, and the end result is a whole lot of steam.  While I don’t think his role was nearly as demanding or complex as Turner’s, he does play the anti-hero well. What I always admire about Garfield is his ability to play unlikable characters in such a way that you don’t completely hate them. 

I couldn’t talk about the film’s superb acting without mentioning Hume Cronyn. He plays one of the most hard-ass shyster lawyer’s ever.  His Arthur  Keats is so smarmy and unethical that all you can do is admire his bravado.  Cronyn had a habit of taking small parts and making them memorable (think Brute Force, among many). For me, he’s the best thing about The Postman Always Rings Twice.

No noir would be a respectable noir without atmospheric cinematogrphy. Sidney Wagner (a.k.a Syd Wagner) is not as well known as Gregg Toland, but he was more than capable of expertly framing shots and working with shadows and light. His work on both Northwest Passage (1940) and Dragon Seed (1944) earned him Academy Award nominations, and his camera work on The Cross of Lorraine (1943) was stellar, too. Here he employs tight framing and harsh lighting (both dark and bright) to create an uneasy mood. 

What I don’t like about The Postman Always Rings Twice is the contrived plot developments.  For example, what old man in his right mind would suggest his hot, young wife go for a midnight swim with his hunky assistant? He deserved to die! And, wouldn’t someone plotting a murder notice that the District Attorney (Leon Ames) was following them before they decided to stage an accident? Oh, and when and how did Cora become pregnant if she and Frank were on the outs for months after her trial? I could have lived with one of these annoying questions, but all three together just pissed me off. 

Overall, The Postman Always Rings Twice is an entertaining movie with standout performances.  It is also a film that suffers from idiotic plot devices. 

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Gilda (1946) **1/2

Director Charles Vidor’s film noir, Gilda (1946), is full of sexual angst and self-loathing.  It is also not your typical noir. I won’t spoil the ending, but anyone who has seen it knows that the usual formula is not carried out to its bitter end.  That said, it’s an engaging movie with standout performances by Rita Hayworth, Glenn Ford, and George Macready.  Stylistically, it follows all the rules of a noir, and cinematographer Rudolph Maté does an excellent job of playing with shadows and light.  Still, the ending leaves me a bit cold and takes away from any ecstatic praise I might have given it.

Hayworth was given top-billing over Ford, but in reality it is he who is the main character—Gilda (Hayworth) is just his sexy catalyst into the emotional abyss of sexual and psychological obsession. Johnny Farrell (Ford) is both a gambler and a man licking his wounds over a bad romance.  When he meets Ballin Mundson (Macready), the owner of a casino in Buenos Aires, they become fast friends and business associates.  They trust one another implicitly until Ballin marries Gilda. From the very first moment they are introduced it is clear they dislike one another. There’s a reason for this: Gilda is the woman who did Johnny wrong.  What transpires from this moment on is a deadly game of emotional chicken, with scathing verbal barbs and one of the best revenge plans ever. I have to admit, when Johnny finally breaks Gilda’s will and she’s groveling at his feet I was highly satisfied.  And, then that trite ending…

I never really found Ford all that good-looking in other films, but he is full of sexual magnetism in Gilda. I’m sure it helps that he was playing opposite one of Hollywood’s greatest sexpots ever in Hayworth, but that does not diminish the fact that I can’t recall ever seeing Ford look so good—both in his appearance and in his acting.  There’s a particular scene in the film where he gives Gilda a good slap that I found exhilarating. Of course, this could be due to my extreme dislike of Gilda.

If the role of the femme fatale was made for anyone it was Hayworth.  We first meet her character when Ballin asks Gilda if she’s decent (clothed) and Hayworth does her now infamous hair flip and we know that that question, however posed, should always be answered unequivocally no. Unquestionably, she’s beautiful and sexy, but she is also cheap and petty.  Jean Louis designed Hayworth’s gowns to play on her curves and raw sexuality, but they also befit a woman of ill-repute as well. I noticed that Gilda always seems at her worse when she’s wearing some shimmering, beaded outfit.  Of course, exception must be made in the striptease scene, where she’s wearing a black gown and elbow-length gloves—I think the striptease was enough to convey her character’s cheapness.  We get to see her do a few musical numbers, where she dances provocatively and exhibits, what one can only assume is, her burlesque training. I hated Gilda, and so for that reason alone, I have to give kudos to Hayworth.  When you play your character so reprehensibly that even at the end of the film I still hate her (even after Vidor attempts to rehabilitate her), you’ve done a good job. 

Now, to appreciate Macready’s Ballin, disbelief must be suspended.  Screenwriters Jo Eisinger and Marion Parsonnet were obviously still effected by WWII propaganda when they concocted Ballin’s backstory about a tungsten cartel ruling the world (if this is so, we have another reason to fear the Chinese).  Once you get around the outrageousness of this plot development, you can enjoy watching Macready delve into his character’s borderline psychosis of jealousy.  Still, I never really believed he was insane (as Gilda liked to claim) until the end of the film when he came back to wreak revenge on his harlot wife.  Really, she wasn’t worth it. 

Maté’s cinematography adeptly plays on the mood of the story. When a character is thinking dark thoughts (which happens a lot),  Maté employs backlighting and shoots primarily from lower angles.  In scenes where characters are emotionally distant with one another, or one is trying to lure the other to whatever response they want, Maté shoots one half of the frame much darker than the other, and usually in long, full shots in rooms with an inordinate amount of space.  As noirs go, Gilda is stylistically right on.

 

 

Finally, the other thing that stands out to me is the film’s music.  When you begin your film with “Amado Mio” playing over the credits you are making a statement. Yes, it’s a love song, but it’s one of those creepy, obsessive ones. When Hayworth does her own rendition (not really, as Anita Ellis dubbed it) it is at a time when Gilda is nearing her breaking point.  And, the way that they used “Put the Blame on Mame” was ingenious.  The first time Gilda sings it (again Ellis) she’s in a position of power and it is a restrained performance.  But when she sings it near the end of the film, in the would-be striptease number, it is a hot-mess of uncontrollable emotional spite.  I think Vidor should be lauded for this clever reversal of fortune and power.  If he had only ended the film after Johnny slaps that crap out of Gilda for this burlesque act things would have been just peachy. 

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