Lizzie (1957)

Lizzie [videorecording (DVD)], a Bryna production; a Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer picture; produced by Jerry Bresler; directed by Hugo Haas. Turner Entertainment Co., Warner Bros. Entertainment, [2016]. WB Home Entertainment Group archive collection. Based on a novel by Shirley Jackson. Originally released as a motion picture in 1957. Performers: Eleanor Parker, Richard Boone, Joan Blondell, Hugo Haas. Summary: Elizabeth is beset by headaches and menacing letters from the sinister Lizzie, a brash, hedonistic woman who emerges from within, compensating for Elizabeth's shyness. A caring neighbor steers her to the psychiatrist who unlocks her disordered mind, bringing out another steadier woman named Beth.

style ***

substance ***1/2


Lizzie covers much the same territory as the better-known and more lauded Three Faces of Eve. Fascinating that both were released in the same year, and at a time when the movies’ fascination with the psychoanalytic thriller was actually fading. In any case, Lizzie beat Eve to the punch by a few months, and more important, may well be the superior work.

As the lady with three distinct personalities, Eleanor Parker gives one of her best performances in a career in which the standout turn became the norm. She was really in her element in these intense, edge-of-the-ledge roles, and this one’s a doozy. It’s to her credit that she accomplishes all with relatively little scenery chewing, relying more on subtleties of body language as well as vocal and facial expressions. Truly a tour-de-force.

Lizzie also boasts a first-rate supporting cast: director Hugo Haas does double duty as a kindly neighbor, Richard Boone nicely underplays a sympathetic psychiatrist, and best of all is Joan Blondell as Lizzie’s alcoholic floozie of an auntie. Indeed were Miss Parker’s performance not so strong, Miss Blondell might well have flat out stolen the movie from her. Also of note is Ric Roman as a smarmy womanizer.

Director Haas moves things along with a sure hand. The story is told in a flat, neutral visual style with only a few noir-like touches. It’s all very professionally done but, probably as a result of the shoestring budget, with the look and feel of a well-produced late Fifties television program. On the other hand, the minimalist, stripped down quality, in contrast to Eve’s high gloss patina, actually works to Lizzie’s advantage in presenting a bleak moral universe that parallel’s the heroine’s troubled inner life. Special mention should be made of the on-location scenes filmed at the Los Angeles County Natural History Museum, the architecture of which is used to great effect.

A couple of minor quibbles with the DVD packaging: the image is generally good but not always as clear as it might be. And one wishes for bonus features (all we get is the trailer). A film as noteworthy as Lizzie would be excellent fodder for commentary, interviews, historical documentaries, etc.

cabaretera noir: Aventurera (1950)

Aventurera [videorecording]. Producciones Calderon S.A.; argumento de Alvaro Custodio; adaptacíon de Carlos Sampelayo y Alvaro Custodio ; una pelicula de pedro y Guillermo Calderón; dirigida por Alberto Gout. Cinemateca, distributed by Facets Video, [2004]. Originally released as a motion picture in 1950. Cinematography, Alex Phillips; editor, Alfredo Rosas Priego; music, Alberto Domínguez, Antonio Díaz Conde and Agustin Lara. Performers: Ninón Sevilla, Tito Junco, Andrea Palma, Miguel Inclán. With: video introduction by Michael Donnelly.

Summary: Elena tries to make a new life for herself after her mother leaves her alone, but she is drugged, seduced, and forced to work as a dancer/call girl in a nightclub. She soon rises to stardom as a dancer, but still plots revenge and escape.

style ****

substance ***1/2

Aventurera is a primo entry in the Golden Age of Mexican cinema, and, more important, perhaps the finest exemplar of the Mexican cabaretera subgenre, which is the rough equivalent of the American films noirs of the era. The critical difference, as the name implies, is that cabaretera always uses a club or casino as the backdrop and includes a goodly amount of musical numbers, also that cabaretera was more up front in its depiction of sensuality and sordidness than its Code-inhibited American cousins.

In any case the usual cabaretera story has considerable Sturm und Drang, and to spice things up, as if we needed more, the cabaret often doubles as a front for prostitution and white slavery, with the proprietor (or proprietress) leading a double life, usually as an otherwise respectable figure in high society. And, again paralleling film noir’s leftist sentiments, Aventurera and other films of its ilk swept away the curtain and revealed the seamy side of urban economic affluence in Mexico during the post-World War II years [1]. Changing tastes and other factors doomed the cabaretera to a short life span, little more than five years, and by 1956 it had more or less disappeared.

The plot of Aventurera, such as it is, concerns the character Elena (Ninon Sevilla) and her attempts to go straight after being forced into life as a prostitute and cabaret dancer by an evil bordello madam. Plot twists proceed fast and furious and the viewer can be forgiven for having difficulty keeping up with all the goings-on. But these are smoothed out by the phantasmagoric dance numbers which feature a high-energy Ninon at her most beguiling, never more so so than in the surrealist Arabian nights number, the over-the–top glory of which would do Busby Berkeley proud.

Aventurera was re-released in the late 1990s to much acclaim, and today enjoys a considerable cult following, mostly for its camp elements. But even so, after seven decades the film holds up exceptionally well, but more to the point holds up well when considered against the American films noirs of the period. And ultimately, even with all the talent in front of and behind the camera, this is Ninon Sevilla’s film start to finish.

Echoes of cabaretera can been seen even today in our current pop culture, most prominently in the immensely popular Mexican telenovelas. There was no American equivalent of cabaretera, though the closest is probably Gilda, and, strangely, in its more tenuous way, Casablanca. One quibble: the Facets DVD includes an informative introduction by film historian Michael Connelly, but a film as significant as Aventurera seems to scream out for real-time commentary as well as other extras. Perhaps Criterion can be persuaded to release an all-the-trimmings version in the future. Still, even in its present incarnation, a wild ride, and a fun movie.

[1] Aventurera has also been cited for its proto-feminist elements. The strong-willed Elena refuses to bend to the dictates of a patriarchal system; she resists the machinations of high-handed would be masters, be they a kindly, albeit clueless, husband, or a ruthless gangster, and ultimately her independent spirit prevails. There’s also the character of Rosaura, who, despite the unsavory nature of her enterprise, is a capable and successful businesswoman.

Further reading

Las reinas del trópico: María Antonieta Pons, Meche Barba, Amalia Aguilar, Ninón Sevilla, Rosa Carmina, by Fernando Muñoz Castillo. [México, D.F.] : Grupo Azabache, 1993. "Se termino de imprimir en julio de 1993 en Offset 70, S.A. de C.V., Victor Hugo 99, Mexico,03300, D.F."

Joanne Hershfield, Mexican Cinema/Mexican Woman, 1940-1950, University of Arizona Press, 1996.

Paula Barreiro Posada, ''The Only Defense is Excess: Translating and Surpassing Hollywood's Conventions to Establish a Relevant Mexican Cinema,” Anagramas Rumbos Sentidos Comunicación, v9 n18, Jan./June 2011.
 

 

the skull that wouldn't die: The Screaming Skull (1958)

   Cult classics. Collection 2. Del Mar, CA: Genius Entertainment, c2003. 2 DVDs, ca. 318 min. [AMC Monsterfest Collection]. Contents: Dementia 13; Frozen Alive; The Screaming Skull; Jessie James Meets Frankenstein's Daughter.
   Performers (Screaming Skull): John Hudson, Peggy Webber, Russ Conway, Tony Johnson, Alex Nicol. The Screaming Skull was released by: American International Pictures, Madera Productions, USA, 1958. Summary: A newly married couple arrives at the home of the husband's late wife, where the gardens have been maintained by a gardener faithful to the dead woman's memory. Strange goings on start to happen, which lead the new wife to think she's going mad.
 

As to the merits of this ‘monsterfest’ collection, volume 2, with no disrespect to Francis Coppola on his debut directorial effort (Dementia 13) or Jesse James Meets Frankenstein’s Daughter (a favorite of mine, reviewed elsewhere on these pages), the true pick of the lot is The Screaming Skull. By the way, Frozen Alive, more a domestic melodrama/murder mystery than sci-fi, comes in a distant fourth.

   Skull is a curious amalgamation of William Castle-like showmanship (the opening scene pretty much clinches it here) and the old dark house formula, with a touch of Rebecca and a fairly heavy pinch of the Val Lewton horror films, especially in the middle third when the heroine goes meandering though the house peering into places she has no business, well, peering into, recalling the famed Val Lewton walks [1]. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

   Skull also somehow manages to suggest The Brain That Wouldn’t Die in that it has a creepy, unsympathetic husband, damaged wife [2], rural setting, B production values, and a leering, near soft-core porn quality, at least by the standards of the era (more on this below). To its credit Skull omits Brain’s luridly smoky saxophone music that accompanies the mad doctor as he cruises for babes. 

can a skull scream?

   Inasmuch as Skull takes its share of critical beatings online and elsewhere, and admittedly while the technical aspects of present print are so-so at best, for this viewer the film is an easy watch and holds up pretty well to repeated viewings. It has several especially effective sequences and the acting is generally competent if nothing spectacular. Ernest Gold’s score is creepy and intense. Also kudos to cameraman Floyd Crosby for the noirish visuals with well placed shadows. Best of all is leading lady Peggy Webber, who plays the nervous wife Jenni. She’s one of the best heroines-in-peril in the business and has a quality that makes her as likeable as hubby is instantly dislikeable.

   Moreover, Skull has an oppressive atmosphere of diseased eroticism that seeps into all the nefarious goings on: case in point, the half retarded gardener, who’s a little too attached to the deceased lady of the house, to the point of necrophilic. The gardener character incidentally is played by Skull’s director Alex Nicol. Thus, and by way of getting back to our, very much alive, leading lady, as the story progresses we get some unexpected quasi-cheesecake moments: in one, there’s an impromptu if fairly bland undressing scene as the heroine gets ready for bed. Far more alluring are the extended sequences of her slinking though the large house in the middle of the night clad only in billowing negligees [3]. Interestingly when Jenni appears during the daytime she’s still attractive but dressed rather frumpy, which I suppose is consistent with the character, who is on the timid and retiring side.

   Certainly not a masterpiece, not even a minor one, and not especially different from or superior to other low budget products of its era, The Screaming Skull is nonetheless an enjoyable, scary movie that fills its 68 minutes with enough intelligence and thrills to keep the viewer’s attention [4], at least this viewer’s. However … and for all its good qualities, Skull comes by its reputation as a guilty pleasure honestly, and is best viewed on a dark and stormy night with a fireplace crackling nearby.

Trivia: this was Tony Johnson’s first film (she only made two altogether). A pity. She has a nice screen presence and quiet charisma that lights up the, alas underwritten, role of Mrs. Snow.

[1] Especially praiseworthy in the Lewton context is the highly effective use of sounds – rattling windows, scratching tree branches, screeching peacocks – all of which suggest unseen menace.

[2] In the case of Jan (Virginia Leith) in Brain That Wouldn’t Die, there’s damaged and then there’s damaged! By the way, Brain, like Skull, is available in public domain.

[3] Though tame by today's standards, the strip scene and Jenni’s creeping around the house clad in see-through nightgowns were pretty advanced for 1958. Indeed, and R-rated optical illusions or no, in some scenes the back-lit see-through effects get perilously close to the full monty. 

[4] Recently I had the good fortune to catch Screaming Skull on the Horror Hotel television program, a very fine print at that, far superior to my grainy, scratchy, DVD version. It all gave an added gravitas to the story, but more so revealed just how visually striking the film is, especially the beautifully lit scenes at night. 

The Big Knife (1955)

The Big Knife. [Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer]. DVD. Santa Monica: MGM Home Entertainment, 2002. Produced and directed by Robert Aldrich. Originally produced and released as a motion picture by in 1955.  Based on the stage play by Clifford Odets. Adapted for the screen by James Poe.

   Performers: Jack Palance, Ida Lupino, Wendell Corey, Jean Hagen, Rod Steiger, Ilka Chase, Everett Sloane, Shelley Winters, Wesley Addy. Summary: Hollywood actor Charles Castle is pressured by his studio boss into signing a seven-year contract and participating in a criminal cover-up to protect his valuable career.

“ … ideals?  nowadays? … a lost crusade”

The Big Knife is director Robert Aldrich’s paean to the dark side of the motion picture industry, a kind of mid-Fifties coda to the films which earlier in the decade ripped back the curtain and exposed the seamy side of Hollywood and the attendant human costs it extracts, especially from those at the lower end of the power spectrum [1].

Everything about TBK is over-the-top, gloriously so: characters, acting, script, music. The one exception is the rather flat, nondescript lighting, which would undermine any case to be made that Knife is film noir. Indeed TBK is little more than a filmed play: talky, stagey, a little long perhaps, and with more than a touch of the soap opera in its aesthetic DNA. But what soap opera!

The barbed dialogue flows as effortlessly as the alcohol that everyone laps up like catnip. With some of the best lines this side of Sunset Boulevard, the script veritably drips with an acidy post-modern cynicism, and it's no surprise that Knife takes the same moral position as the earlier film and has similar archetypal characters. And not to put too fine a point on the political angle, it nonetheless has a blacklist overlay, ubiquitously lurking as heavy background. This was, after all, the ever-paranoic Fifties, when the recriminations and counter-recriminations flew fast and furious. Thus the film might be read as a Cold War parable. Then again, maybe not. Whatever its message, Knife is just juicily entertaining.

The vintage mid-century cast is a delight. The men are fine, especially a scenery-chewing Rod Steiger who plays a ruthless studio head. Kudos too to Wendell Corey in a chillingly underplayed turn as a company lawyer who’ll stoop to any means, legal or otherwise, to protect the studio. And Palance of course is wonderful in a very atypical Jack Palance type of role.

But it’s the ladies that do the real standout acting. Ida Lupino plays a virtuous wife who’s, finally, interesting and gives a little more shading to a role that usually degenerates into self-pitying caricature. And we can't forget Ilka Chase as a nasty gossip columnist. Shelly Winters is a little less effective portraying a quintessentially Shelly Winters character. Her over-acting just seems a little, well, overdone. Best of all is Jean Hagen in an all too brief appearance as a deliciously predatory femme fatale, all the better to tempt Charlie Hastings (Palance). She radiates a relentless, malevolent sex appeal that makes Barbara Stanwyck’s Phyllis Dietrichson from Double Indemnity look like a wallflower.

[1] The triumvirate of films from ca. 1950 were Sunset Blvd., The Bad and the Beautiful, and In a Lonely Place.  The trend continued, albeit somewhat more benignly, with films like Singin’ in the Rain and A Star is Born. The idea found echoes a decade or so later, in more camp fashion, in movies like Valley of the Dolls, Carpetbaggers, and The Oscar. Then the movies gave the Hollywood-at-its-dirtiest trope a rest.

 

White Hot: The Mysterious Murder of Thelma Todd (1991)

I just had the happy fortune to catch White Hot on the Escape TV channel and enjoyed it very much. White Hot is of course a made-for-tv movie version, ca. early Nineties, of 1930s actress Thelma Todd’s mysterious death, and thus might be dubbed a proverbial guilty pleasure. But guilty or no, the film has much to savor.

While the basic structure of White Hot – flashbacks and reminiscences seen through the eyes of friends and associates – recalls, of all films, Citizen Kane, the movie nonetheless is a well-made product quintessentially typical of its genre and era: high gloss, gauzy, and cattily gossipy. But White Hot manages to rise above its aesthetic pedigree by virtue of its excellent cast and especially the loving recreation of the Thirties Hollywood milieu.

It’s true Loni Anderson is a tad old for the role, and her wardrobe and hair style are more Jean Harlow than the real Thelma Todd. But no matter. Ms. Anderson does a great job in portraying, with exceptional sensitivity, the brio and energy of an appealing yet complex personality – by turns confident, insecure, streetwise and naïve.

Also worth a mention is Scott Paulin as a Philip Marlowe-esque investigator for the district attorney’s office, and Maryedith Burrell as actress and Thelma’s friend Patsy Kelly. Maybe not a masterpiece, White Hot is still lots of fun and especially a treat for old movie buffs, in its way little short of irresistible. And besides which, the whole business is just so darned mysterious. There’s nothing like an unsolved, and, in this case, probably unsolvable, mystery.

Further reading: Michelle Morgan, Ice Cream Blonde: the Whirlwind Life and Mysterious Death of Screwball Comedienne Thelma Todd, Chicago Review Press, 2015.