the forgotten superstar: Alla Nazimova

Readers of this blog may notice a preference for the 1940s RKO horror films produced by Val Lewton, who happened to be the nephew of theater and silent film sensation Alla Nazimova. It seems some of the diva’s subversive theatricality and artsy sensibilities found their way into the Lewton-produced films (his novels too), but that, as they say, is another story. In any case as an old movie buff I’d heard of Nazimova and only later learned of her connection to Lewton. In my mind’s eye I envisioned her as a dominating, Amazonian sort physically. Little did I suspect she was a wispy, even dainty figure of a woman. This is certainly the impression one gets in her most famous film role Salomé, in which a 42 year-old Nazimova convincingly impersonates a girl half her age, and even that might be an understatement. How old was Salomé anyway when she performed the most famous striptease in history? Sixteen-ish?

   Anyhow the great Nazimova had the artistic world at her feet for a time in the 1910s and early 1920s [1], until a gradual decline in fortunes both financial and aesthetic [2], largely if unintentionally self-inflicted, rendered her more or less a cultural irrelevance upon her death in 1945 at the relatively youthful (by today’s standards) age of 66. But perhaps there is a happy ending after all, a posthumous comeback, if you like. But more on this later.

   Nazimova was unabashed and unrepentant in her lesbian lifestyle in an age when doing so engendered much risk. But no matter. Her inclinations crept into some of the films she produced, directed and/or starred in, none more so than her aforementioned, ill-fated Art Nouveau magnum opus Salomé [3]. This project has been hailed as a masterpiece by some, scoffed at as an eccentric relic by others, but is possibly most notorious today for being comprised of all gay or bisexual actors, a claim not universally accepted. Artistically the film is most notable for its design qualities, a synthesis of Nouveau, surreal and Deco elements that are still impressive even today a century later. Moreover, the film combines ballet, cinema, grand opera, and, not least of all, melodrama with what might be charitably called less-than-subtle acting.  

   Salomé may indeed be the first art movie ever. Be that as it may, the silent film it most resembles, for me anyway, and mostly for the design features, is Metropolis [4]. Of course there’s also that wild dance by the evil replicant woman in Metropolis that would not be out of place in Nazimova’s epic. Salomé may also be the first camp film ever, but whether Nazimova set out to create a work of camp is debatable at best, the presence of the predominantly gay cast notwithstanding. Did the concept of camp as a legitimate form of artistic expression even exist in the early 1920s?

   At any rate the conspicuous commercial failure of Salomé brought to an end Nazimova’s status as a major player in the increasingly corporate controlled (and not so coincidentally, male dominated) film industry in the Twenties. But she wasn’t quite finished yet. She made a few more films and even continued acting well into the sound era, although by this time she was confined to bit parts. Alas many of the early films of “the founding mother of Sapphic Hollywood” and “the most notorious Hollywood lesbian actress of all” are lost to history [5].

   However . . . and in quintessentially theatrical, Nazimova-esque style, the great woman has staged something of a comeback, even though it took nearly seven decades after her death for it to come to fruition. Today there is a Nazimova society, and Nazimova tributes pepper the Internet. The film Salomé, for all its excesses – perhaps because of its excesses – has been selected for preservation in the United States National Film Registry by the Library of Congress as being "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant." In 2006, Salomé became available on DVD as a double feature with the avant-garde film Lot in Sodom (1933) by James Sibley Watson and Melville Webber. In 2013 Salomé was screened at the Ojai Music Festival with the Bad Plus performing a live improvised soundtrack. In 2018 Haley Fohr’s experimental score for Salomé was commissioned by Opera North for the Leeds International Festival, and there are even rumblings that it’s time for a mainstream biopic, though Nazimova and mainstream in the same sentence seems a bit of an oxymoron.

[1] For an idea of Nazimova’s cultural and commercial cachet at the time, in 1917 Metro Studios offered Nazimova a 5-year, $13,000 a week contract, an unheard of sum and $3,000 more than Mary Pickford, the world’s biggest movie star, was making. The contract also allowed her director, script, and leading man approval.

[2] In 1918, she moved to Hollywood, where she bought a large Spanish-style house that would later become the Garden of Allah, a hotel and apartment house where a number of Hollywood luminaries would live and where she allegedly hosted wild parties. But Nazimova had little head for business and the hotel quickly lost money. She sold the Garden of Allah in 1930 and concentrated mostly on theater work. When Nazimova moved back to Hollywood in 1938, she rented Villa 24 at the hotel and lived there until she died in 1945, destitute, in poor health, and largely forgotten.

[3] For better or worse, for better I think, Salomé is now available in public domain.

[4] There’s more than a hint of myth-invoking rapture, eminently Germanic, in Nazimova’s opus, and like Lang’s Metropolis, Salomé's production elements have a retro-futuristic vibe. Ergo, Nazimova’s Salome looks not unlike a cyborg and first cousin to the mechanical Maria of Metropolis.

[5] “founding mother…”: Diana McLellan, The Girls: Sappho Goes to Hollywood, LA Weekly Books, 2000, p. xxiii; “the most notorious lesbian…”: Patricia White, “Nazimova's Veils: Salomé at the Intersection of Film Histories,” in: A Feminist Reader in Early Cinema, editors, Jennifer Bean and Diane Negri, Duke University Press, 2002, p. 87

Further reading:

William Mann, Behind the Screen: How Gays and Lesbians Shaped Hollywood, 1910-1969, Viking, 2001, pp. 59-62.

Teresa Theophano, Film Actors: Lesbian, 2015. Glbtq archive.

a gem of a movie: Jewel Robbery (1932)

  Forbidden Hollywood, Volume 4. Burbank, CA, distributed by Warner Home Video [2012]. 4 videodiscs (267 min.): sound, black and white. Contents: Jewel Robbery; Lawyer Man; They Call It Sin; Man Wanted.

   Jewel Robbery was originally released as a motion picture in 1932 by Warner Bros. Pictures & the Vitaphone Corp. Directed by William Dieterle; screenplay by Erwin Gelsey, based on a story by Ladislaus Fodor. Performers: Kay Francis, William Powell, Alan Mowbray, Hardie Albright, André Luguet, Sheila Terry. Summary: Baroness Teri von Horhenfels lives in Vienna, Austria, with a husband who bores her. When a jewel thief victimizes her, she is intrigued by him.

prosperity is just around the corner

   There are no weak links in Warner's DVD set Forbidden Hollywood v4, but the real jewel is … Jewel Robbery, an absolute creampuff of a movie that sparkles with a sprightly plot and knowing repartee delivered at a snappy pace. The cast is boffo: Kay Francis shines in a quintessentially Kay Francis role: a high society woman who is alternately bored and oversexed. Thus she's ripe for a romance with dashing thief William Powell (oops! he prefers to be called Robber).
 
  Ironically it was this kind of effortless performance that garnered Miss Francis the reputation as a so-so actress because everything seemed so easy for her. But ultimately this is William Powell's movie as he breezes through his role as the titular character. As always he and Francis have marvelous onscreen chemistry. Kudos also to the rest of the spot on cast: Henry Kolker as Teri’s plodding husband, who nonetheless gets some of the best lines; the ever exuberant Helen Vinson (in her first film), who’s so good she almost steals the movie from the divine Miss Francis; and Lee Kohlmar as the nervously obsequious jeweler Mr. Holländer and Clarence Wilson as the clueless police shief, both of whom fall victim to those 'drugged cigarettes.'

 
   With its echt-Continental pedigree, Jewel Robbery could almost be seen as a warm-up for the even better (though not by much) Trouble in Paradise that appeared later that year [1], with Kay Francis more or less reprising the baroness role (this time as a perfume heiress) and the urbane Herbert Marshall stepping in as the suave thief. Indeed Jewel Robbery has a very Lubitsch-like Euro feel to it as director William Dieterle sustains a mostly breakneck pacing that that even the great Lubitsch would envy. The brittle dialogue is delivered so fast that most of the innuendos fly under the radar and it takes several viewings to appreciate the sly implications and mildly subversive editorial comments.

    But getting back to those funny cigarettes: among other things what makes Robbery a pre-Code cult classic is that it's quite possibly the earliest overt reference to marijuana in the movies, those thin cigarettes William Powell keeps passing out. And to make matters all the cheekier it’s done so in a comic context.

“untouched in the suburbs . . . that doesn’t intrigue me at all”

   The film’s mildly leftist subtext delivers its message subtly – and sometimes not so subtly – in sometimes contradictory ways, in any case always reflecting a certain pre-Code skepticism and street smarts. The Robber’s disdain for bankers inspires the rejoinder that he must be a communist. Quite the contrary, he explains. He much prefers predatory capitalism to egalitarian communism: even in the Depression-laden 1930s, in which the masses in the capitalist countries are mostly poor and downtrodden, there’s still plenty of well-to-do targets for a self-respecting criminal to prey upon.

   As Powell explains, what could he steal in a communist world? Grain elevators? Tractors? And much like the two confidence artists in Trouble in Paradise, Powell’s gentleman thief only fleeces the eminently deserving: wealthy scions, idle heiresses, bankers, government bureaucrats, in other words, the corrupt rich.

   The Francis and Powell characters are appealing, the most sympathetic in the entire film actually. Consequently we root for their, however improbable, romantic success. Indeed, they’re about the only characters in the story worth rooting for. Paradoxically, despite their good looks, fine clothes and breezy charm neither is very admirable. Teri, by her own admission, is superficial, self-centered, materialistic and uninteresting, and the robber, for all his surface gloss, is still a methodical, calculating criminal. Yet like them we do. We must, it would seem. After all they look pretty good next to the rich trash, doofus policemen, and pompous government apparatchiks they’re surrounded by. The possible exception is the flighty, harmless Marianne (Helen Vinson), more or less a clone of Teri in her trophy wife status and thrill-seeking  vacuity.

   Note: this was Francis’s and Powell’s penultimate movie (they did six altogether). The arguably superior – and very different in tone – One Way Passage that followed later that year was their final pairing. And what a year 1932 was for Kay Francis!

    [1] As good as it is, Jewel Robbery still has a hint of the ramshackle and rough-around-the-edges that accounts for a good deal of its charm and the appeal of pre-Code movies today. By contrast Trouble in Paradise luxuriates in a generous swath of Lubitschian polish typical of Paramount’s best efforts.

who are the greatest geniuses in cinema history?

 We admire geniuses, we love them, but they discourage us. They are great concentrations of intellect and emotion, we feel that they have soaked up all the available power, monopolizing it and leaving none for us. We feel that if we cannot be as they, we can be nothing. Beside them we are so plain, so hopelessly threadbare. How they glitter, and with what an imperious way they seem to deal with circumstances, even when they are wrong.

   - Lionel Trilling, Introduction to Orwell's Homage to Catalonia


   The idea of genius, along with attempts to explain or define it, has always been a slippery slope. Greater thinkers than I have opined on the subject, at length, and there’s no shortage of commentaries on the ‘Net. But just what is genius? What are its precise boundaries? Is genius something we’re born with, or can it be learned and cultivated? Are ‘geniuses’ that different from the rest of us? Do some individuals simply have a greater flair for publicity and image? Who can say where genius ends and self-promotion begins? Are 'geniuses' really grifters in disguise?  

   Or do those we deem genius simply have more energy, determination and persistence than the rest of us? Were these the only qualities necessary then figures like Ed Wood and Harry Stephen Keeler would be right up there among the all time greats. And for all their respective cult followings, the conventional wisdom would vote against calling Wood or Keeler a genius. Obviously some qualitative factors have to enter into the equation: at minimum a true genius has to be good at his chosen artistic (or otherwise) mode of expression.

   But more to the point, how can we apply the notion of genius to the movies? [1] Does it even make sense to mention the term in connection with the movies? Interesting that other art forms – music, literature, painting, sculpture – have canons that are pretty well solidified. Accordingly, the individuals who merit the title have long been identified.

   However … (and it’s a big however), film is a unique art form. Among other things it combines several art forms in its final product, all of which makes it more difficult to arrive at parameters, much less who qualifies. The challenges, it seems, are many, but can be broken down into a few basics. First, for all the huffing and puffing of the auteur theory, film is ultimately a collaborative art, and a highly technical one at that, and the witches’ brew final product is almost always a case of the whole never quite equaling the sum of the parts. The other issue is that cinema is a quintessentially commercial art, and matters of aesthetics can never be completely separated from mass consumerism.

   Further, movies didn’t always have the highbrow cachet they enjoy today. Indeed, for the first half century or so of their very existence the movies were viewed as a commodity, and the idea that they were great art was considered folly at best. All that changed in 1952 with the U. S. Supreme Court’s decision on Joseph Burstyn, Inc. v. Wilson (also referred to as the Miracle Decision) in which the court held that cinema was indeed an artistic medium and among other things entitled to First Amendment protection.

   For our deliberations here, however, it’s the aforementioned collaborative nature of cinema that’s the monkey wrench. To wit, and for better or worse, in the context of cinema we use the term ‘genius’ almost solely in connection with directors [2]. Occasionally screenwriters, cinematographers, and performers get a mention, and, very occasionally, producers. But this reveals a decided prejudice for the creative side and diminishes those active in the, arguably equally important, technical, management and promotional areas. In the technical and -like areas, along with the obvious candidates of editors and cinematographers, do we include wardrobe designers, art directors, set designers, special effects wizards, makeup artists, hairdressers, film restoration specialists, titles designers?

   If we define genius as someone who made a signal impact and influence on the art, we’d have to give serious consideration to the much maligned movie moguls, especially those of the Golden Age, the Harry Cohns and Louis Mayers of this world, alongside the more aesthetically correct auteur producers like Val Lewton, Irving Thalberg and Daryl Zanuck. But if we include studio executives, how about the powers behind the throne like Ida Koverman at MGM during Mayer’s reign? And while we’re talking management, should agents figure into the mix? In the technical department, a case might be made for Technicolor guru Natie Kalmus.

   Whatever the parameters, be they aesthetic, commercial or technical, is a consistent body of high level work over a long period of time sufficient? Do we forgive the occasional misfire? Is one transcendent work sufficient? Do historical elements figure into the mix? Are the works of Sofia Coppola and Kathryn Bigelow less significant because they appeared a century after those of Lois Weber and Germaine Dulac?

   Here I invoke the oft-noted and self-defeating caveat that it’s meaningless to create lists like these, perhaps worse than meaningless, since tastes, perceptions, and even definitions inevitably change over time (translation: it’s all very subjective). And yet, and for all my long winded reservations above, I thought it might be fun to list my choices of the top ten cinematic geniuses of all time. It pained me to cut it off at ten – I was tempted to lengthen it to twenty. As a compromise I include an honorable mention section of arguably lesser lights whose contributions, while significant, and all possessing at least some spark of genius, were nonetheless in my opinion more specialized or of a lesser degree in areas like aesthetics, impact, and influence.

   I’ll admit my selections betray a certain favoritism for the offbeat, experimental, independent and subversive. There’s also an undeniable Hollywood/Euro bias, along with a preference for the artistic side over the technical or managerial. Still, perspicacious readers may find themselves scratching their heads at the absence of some pretty big names. Indeed, a few of the entries, especially the honorable mentions, may well be cringe inducing to some tastes. And no, in case you wondered, Ed Wood doesn’t make the cut, though the thought did occur to me. Nonetheless, and echoing the sentiment above, some of the all-time greats are conspicuously absent. They are familiar and we needn’t mention them by name. In one sense these greats of cinema, and here I refer mostly to directors, made the same film over and over, and did so very well within the confines of budget, studio, genre and era. The stories, performers and techniques may have varied, but the underlying philosophic and aesthetic vision was always the same, most of the time anyway. Such individuals were expert at creating expert films, films that were supremely well made but lacking that special something – dare I say, genius – that characterizes the work of perhaps less proficient artists who nonetheless created films that were more compelling and exciting.

   In any event, my own bottom line: to be designated a cinematic genius, an individual had to create works that were not only of high intrinsic value, but more important, new, exciting or groundbreaking, that allowed us to experience the medium, and by extension the world, and perhaps ourselves, in fresh and unexplored ways. Helming a work, or works, that today we consider revolutionary wasn’t a requirement, but it didn’t hurt.
   I lean toward multi-taskers philosophically, and depending on how one defines these things, a majority of my top ten might be considered such, less so for the honorable mentions. In any case most of the top tier choices are hardly shocking, though a couple may raise eyebrows. It’s obvious I prefer the old over the new: the test of time has to count for something. On the other hand, as opined above, even a consistently high level of work over time in itself doesn’t qualify as genius [3]. I’ve demurred from any life’s work summaries as most of the folks on the list have had a ton written about them already. So, with drumroll, my choices are (listed more or less in chronological order):

Lois Weber
Charlie Chaplin
Fritz Lang
Irving Thalberg
Busby Berkeley
Orson Welles
Val Lewton
Bernard Herrmann
Roger Corman
tie, Federica Fellini,
   Michelangelo Antonioni

  Honorable mention: John Alton, Kenneth Anger, Fred Astaire, Ingmar Bergan, Robert Bresson, Tod Browning, Jack Cardiff, William Castle, Jean Cocteau, Joan Crawford, Maya Deren, Walt Disney, Carl Dreyer, Germaine Dulac, Rainer Werner Fassbinder, Ray Harryhausen, Erich Wolfgang Korngold, Charles Laughton, Herschell Gordon Lewis, Peter Lorre, Guy Madden, Frances Marion, Georges Méliès,  Russ Meyer, Carmen Miranda, Alla Nazimova, Mabel Normand, Leni Riefenstahl, George Romero, Mack Sennett, Andrei Tarkovsky, Gregg Toland, Dalton Trumbo, Douglas Trumbull, Edgar Ulmer, Peter Ustinov, Jean Vigo, John Waters, James Whale, Daryl Zanuck.

[1] I’ve scoured the ‘Net and other sources and have yet to find a satisfactory definition, at least one that describes genius in scientific, measurable terms. Even the most reputable sources resort to a subjective, airy vagueness. This from the Cambridge Dictionary (actually a pretty good summary, but eminently lacking in particulars): “ … very great and rare natural ability or skill, especially in a particular area such as science or art.” Similarly the venerable OED chimes in with: “ … inborn exalted intellectual power; instinctive and extraordinary imaginative, creative, or inventive capacity, frequently opposed to talent.” Actually the OED version gets subtly closer to what I look for in a work or individual to merit the label ‘genius.’
    Still, such definitions are at best a good start; the phrases used to define genius could well describe any number of bright, talented folks who aren’t geniuses. What’s lacking is that special something, that magic that separates genius from the merely talented or gifted. The same principle applies to other, non-artistic, areas like physics, chemistry, mathematics, philosophy, and medicine. Then there are the problem fields like public service, commerce, sports and history. Can a head of state, government bureaucrat, military commander, lawyer, business tycoon, chess player, football coach, political operative, or historian (or any nonfiction author ... film critic, anyone?) ever merit the mantle of genius? By the way, not a new observation, but is genius merely the flip side, the sunny side if you like, of madness?

[2] Indeed were a poll taken today to anoint the greatest cinema genius of all time, the consensus choice would probably be Chaplin, though to be sure his would be a plurality choice. At the same time august bodies routinely proclaim Hitchcock, Welles, or Ozu as the best director, though seldom Chaplin, all of which tends to illustrate just how elusive the concept can be.

[3] One might also assert that the difference between genius and the exceptionally talented craftsman is a sometimes fuzzy one, and to take it one step further, what separates the reliable professional from the dreaded moniker hack can be a precariously thin line. It’s only fair to add that history has taught us that the studios, certainly in the studio era, (almost) always preferred a reliable craftsman/hack at the helm to an erratic genius. Plus ça change …

Further reading:

Marjorie Garber, “Our Genius Problem,” Atlantic Monthly, v290n5 (Dec. 2002): 64-72.
Darrin T. McMahon, Divine Fury: A History of Genius, Basic Books, 2013.
Andrew Robinson, What Has Become of Genius?