the baroque pleasures of Mr. Arkadin

 

    The complete Mr. Arkadin a.k.a. Confidential Report (Motion picture). Janus Films; written and directed by Orsen Welles; photography, Jean Bourgoin; editor, Henzo Lucien; music, Paul Misraki. Special edition 3-disc set, fullscreen. Irvington, New York: The Criterion Collection, c2006. 3 DVDs (approximately 302 min.); booklet (35 pages, illustrations).
   Includes: "The Cornith version," originally released as a motion picture in 1955; "Confidential report;" originally released as a motion picture in 1995; "The comprehensive version," originally released as a motion picture in 2006.
    Performers: Orson Welles, Robert Arden, Akim Tamiroff, Mischa Auer, Michael Redgrave, Jack Watling, Paola Mori, Patricia Medina. Summary: American smuggler Guy van Strattan decides to investigate the mysterious Mr. Arkadin after hearing about the wealthy man from a prison cellmate, but Arkadin claims amnesia about his own life, sending van Strattan off to investigate Arkadin's past. Filming locations: Sebastiansplatz, Munich, Bavaria, Germany; Spain; Bavaria Studios, Grünwald, Bavaria, Germany; France; Germany; Italy; Sevilla Films, Madrid, Spain; Switzerland (Château de Chillon); London, England, UK.

 

    Mr. Arkadin is one of the films in the Orson Welles oeuvre that I haven’t seen, at least not all of it: until recently I’d only caught snippets via various Welles documentaries. As I don’t possess the DVD and my public library lacks a copy, I was delighted at my good fortune to stumble upon it recently on television [1]. While flipping channels I came across this strange, Bergmanesque movie that was totally fascinating. I was hooked even before I knew what the movie was, and it didn’t take me long to figure out that it was a Welles film. Best of all I came in at a point near the beginning so I was able to see the bulk of the film. Despite its reputation as a ‘problematic’ Welles product, I enjoyed it very much. Still, and while very much a Welles fan, I readily admit that Arkadin isn’t his best movie, or even close to his best, but it’s one strange movie and in its wacky way one of his most enjoyable. Moreover, the convoluted plot and visual felicities most definitely reward repeated viewings. It’s been compared to The Third Man and Citizen Kane in style and content, and some go so far as to say it’s a Third Man sequel, of a sort. Commentators also note similarities to The Trial. I can appreciate the sentiments but, with its off-kilter angles, densely packed bric-a-brac visuals, and character grotesques, including a more or less villain protagonist, among other touches, Arkadin has strong overtones of the Welles film that immediately follows, Touch of Evil [2]. In fact, Arkadin might well be considered a warm-up for Touch of Evil.  

     There's no one authoritative version of Arkadin/Confidential Report, much less a director’s cut, though the Criterion release generously gives us three versions to choose from. I leave to others to sort out all the different edits, influences, chronologies, intrigues and permutations (some sources claim there are as many as seven separate incarnations, including two Spanish versions) [3]. At the very least, as is the case with many of his films, Mr. Arkadin – in any of its iterations – probably doesn’t reflect Welles’s original, auteurist vision, whatever it might have been. By the way a great introduction (14 min.) to Arkadin by ‘Joel’ covering many aspects is available on Youtube.

    Arkadin/Confidential Report is endlessly fascinating, in almost equal measure for its near incomprehensible plot and surrealist visual style as for its labyrinthine production history. Mr. Arkadin then is the definitive Welles cult film, though hardcore Welles heads may argue the point. Whichever version we’re served up, from the three in the Criterion set, or amongst the other … four(?), as is always true for a Welles film, there’s plenty to savor. In this case not the least of the riches is the, typically Wellesian, offbeat cast: the much-maligned Robert Arden as the shady journeyman is actually pretty good, at least a good fit in the role; Katina Paxinou as a no-nonsense brothel madam who oozes cynicism; Mischa Auer who manages his flea circus; Paola Mori, Welles's to-be wife, as Raina, Arkadin’s daughter; Akim Tamiroff, the worse-for-wear Jakob Zouk; Suzanne Flon as the shady Baroness Nagel; Michael Redgrave as a fey shop owner; and best of all Patricia Medina as the dancer Milly. And of course Welles himself as the portentous title character.

   1 The Mr. Arkadin I caught on tv, appropriately late at night, is probably the public domain cut that Wellesophiles famously disapprove of, though in truth I can’t verify which Arkadin it was that I saw (even if I could tell the difference).
   2 Other than style one similarity to Touch of Evil are the many studio-imposed cuts and changes, thus both films have a bumpy narrative.
  3 The above referenced Criterion release apparently covers these and other issues pretty thoroughly. Indeed, a study of the film’s mangled evolution and resultant permutations would seem ready-made grist for the mill for an enterprising doctoral student: if a PhD thesis hasn’t already been done, I’m sure one is not far off. Be that as it may, I can’t resist recalling a couple of the myriad stories of the film’s dark, tangled past: one is the tale of Welles and his collaborators ‘liberating’ hotel furniture for one location scene; another yarn, even more bizarre, involves the film’s co-producer, one Louis Dolivet, who may well have been a KGB agent who was laundering money he’d embezzled from his Soviet masters.

enigmatic rebel: Ann Dvorak

    Rice, Christina. Ann Dvorak: Hollywood’s Forgotten Rebel. Lexington, KY, University Press of Kentucky, 2013.

     From 1930 to 1934 a group of amazing little films burst onto the motion picture scene, much to the chagrin of self-appointed moralists. These movies, which today we dub pre-Codes, presented a rawer, more realistic view of the human condition, and by implication, they were a blistering critique of American society in general. Among other qualities, pre-Code films were notable for their fast pacing, snappy dialogue, edgy stories, lean, mean set designs, and most of all, tough, worldly-wise characters who more often than not were driven by self-interest, self-indulgence, sensuality, and quick fixes, including (sometimes unpunished) crime. All was presented in just an hour or so and with an obvious theatrical pedigree. In short, the pre-Code movies just had a different look and feel about them. However, under growing public pressure and threats of boycotts, the motion picture industry initiated the Code-enforced era beginning July 1934, which insisted that movies present a more wholesome view of the world. The studios by and large obliged, and, as they say, the rest is history.
     Mirroring the era of pre-Code itself, the careers of many stars faded quickly in the mid and late Thirties. These former luminaries are little more than footnotes in cinema history, and they include once big names, today largely forgotten, like Ruth Chatterton, Miriam Hopkins, Karen Morley, Dorothy Burgess, Ann Harding, Mae Marsh, Ruth Donnelly, Glenda Farrell, David Manners, Warren William, Chester Morris, Mae Clark, and Dorothy Mackaill. Alas, for a number of reasons both personal and professional, Ann Dvorak was one of the casualties whose promise never blossomed to the extent that seemed inevitable in her peak year of 1932. Looked at objectively, her career arc is spotty at best, but devotees relish her performances in the pre-Codes, especially Scarface and Three on a Match, two of her best loved films. A fun bit of trivia is that she appeared as Della Street in an early film version of a Perry Mason mystery, The Case of the Stuttering Bishop (1937). But Ann Dvorak had a talent for self-destruction: she committed the unpardonable sin of challenging the big studios (she tussled with Warners over her contract amid rancorous legal battles). As was the norm in them days, she lost. A couple years later Warners let her go, and she was determined never to attach herself to a major studio again; she was now a free agent. But her career never fully recovered. She was an ambulance driver in London in World War II and later in the Forties was mostly relegated to B movies and bit parts. A starring role of some interest during this time was her appearance in The Private Affairs of Bel-Ami (1947), with George Sanders.
     She left movies altogether in 1951 at the age of forty. In addition to being a rebel and free spirit, Ann Dvorak was that rare bird in golden age Hollywood: a film star who was an intellectual. Her cerebral pursuits included horticulture, book collecting, writing (a pet project was a history of the world), and most improbably, bacteriology. She spent her final years in Honolulu living in obscurity and semi-poverty and died in 1979 at the – by today’s standards – relatively youthful age of sixty-eight. But due to a number of factors – the revival of interest in pre-Code movies and their exposure via TCM, DVDs and theatrical releases; a growing online presence via various tributes and posts; and not least of all, Christina Rice’s marvelous biography – Ann Dvorak’s star has brightened in recent years and she’s finally getting the recognition denied her for decades.
     Christina Rice’s Ann Dvorak: Hollywood’s Forgotten Rebel is a triumph. As the author points out tracking down information on such an under-the-radar subject was not an easy task, to say nothing of locating folks who had actually known her personally. But she persisted and her tome is veritably a model for a star biography, and especially for a biography of a once (near) major star who had faded from public view. The book then is a felicitous balance of the scholarly and the popular: reader-friendly but having the usual academic patina in the form of extensive index, notes and reading list, and a complete filmography. Especially noteworthy are the many photographs – most of them culled from the author’s private collection – of the eminently photogenic Miss Dvorak, even when she’s a bit worse-for-wear. It’s obvious Rice has a genuine affection for her subject but manages an objective view, and the sympathetic biography nicely balances professional and personal elements. As expected the big movies receive more extensive treatment but the lesser ones get respectable coverage as well. While we may infer that indeed Ann Dvorak appeared in her share of mediocre movies, even a few bad ones, she brought class and professionalism to every film she was in. The recalling of Dvorak’s attempts to challenge the big studios, mostly on contracts, reminds us of the power of the studio system in moviedom’s ‘golden age’ (the 1930s and 1940s), and the near slave-like hold the corporate giants had over its stars, both major and minor.
     For ultimately the Ann Dvorak story isn’t unique in the annals of the entertainment industry, and like other performers with unfulfilled careers, any number of wha-if type questions arise. Would things have turned out differently if she hadn’t been so headstrong and hadn’t challenged the big studios early in her career; if only she’d played the game in the usual way and remained patient and let her career develop along more conventional lines; if she had gotten the role of Sadie Thompson in Rain, rather than losing out to Joan Crawford; if she hadn’t left the movies at such a relatively young age. Alas, as in all these kinds of questions, we have that always frustrating and unsatisfying answer: we’ll never know. What we do know is what she did, and, as much as is possible, who she was. But mostly we have her best films, those handful of pre-Codes, and for that we’re the richer. 

“I think the right woman could reform you, too”

    Victor/Victoria (Motion picture). Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer presents; screenplay by Blake Edwards; produced by Blake Edwards and Tony Adams; directed by Blake Edwards. Original music, Henry Mancini; set decoration, Harry Cordwell; director of photography, Dick Bush; choreography, Paddy Stone. Burbank, CA: Warner Home Video, c[2012]. Originally released as a motion picture in 1982. Special features: feature-length audio commentary by Julie Andrews and Blake Edwards.
     Performers: Julie Andrews, James Garner, Robert Preston, Lesley Ann Warren, Alex Karras, John Rhys-Davies. Summary: a man impersonating a woman on stage? Piece of cake. But a woman whose livelihood depends on pretending to be a man who pretends to be a woman? Now you've got problems! An out-of-work singer conspires to pose as a female impersonator in order to get work on the Paris cabaret circuit.

    Viktor und Viktoria (Motion picture). UFA presents; production company, Alfred Zeisler; screenplay, Reinhold Schünzel; producer, Eduard Kubat; directed by Reinhold Schünzel. New York, NY: Kino Classics,c[2020]. 1 DVD (99 min.). Originally released as a motion picture in 1933. Special feature: audio commentary by film historian Gaylyn Studlar. Photography, Konstantin Irmen-Tschet, Werner Bohne; music, Franz Doelle. Performers: Renate Müller, Hermann Thimig, Hilde Hildebrand, Friedel Pisetta, Frtiz Odemar, Aribert Wäscher, Adolf Wohlbrück.
    Summary: a young woman, unable to find work as a music hall singer, partners with a down-and-out thespian to revamp her act. Pretending to be a man performing in drag, Victoria becomes the toast of the international stage. But she soon finds that her playful bending of genders enmeshes her personal and professional life in a tangle of unexpected complications.


    This year marks the fortieth anniversary of one of my favorite movies, Victor/Victoria [1]. Ergo some thoughts on this gender bending, and in its modest way, revolutionary work. I was lucky enough to catch it on the big screen when it was originally released, and since then a few times on DVD. As theatrical releases of VV are probably not in the offing, I suppose we must make do with the DVD for now. Thus I confess a certain disappointment at my last viewing. The content was as warm and compelling as ever, but something gets lost on a small screen, especially the glorious sounds and visuals in the big production numbers. And for all the scrumptious, extravagant look of the aforementioned set pieces I couldn’t help wondering whether the film might have been more effective in (gasp!) monochromatic black and white. It certainly would have conjured up the Depression era better and added to the hovering melancholy of the story. Indeed, for all that VV is, at least on its surface, an exuberant explosion of the joy of living, there’s something very sad, even profoundly so, about the story and its characters, though I can’t quite put my finger on it. It might be an unconscious reaction to the era, in which everyone was either struggling or, if temporarily doing okay, always on the edge of disaster. As a result there was an overriding sense of doom and futility. Perhaps it’s the opening scene of the snowfall on the ramshackle, albeit beautifully evoked, Paris streets, and especially Victoria’s sense of desperation and loneliness as she trudges on and does her best to keep a stiff upper lip.
   As for the many qualities of the film itself, our nominal leads do yeoman service: James Garner is fine as the constantly bemused King Marchand, but it’s Ms. Andrews who really shines in what might well be the performance of a career. Victor/Victoria reminds us just how talented she is: sing, dance, act, comedy, drama, slapstick. Still, and with no disrespect to our two leads, the real show stoppers of VV are the supporting players, especially Alex Karras as Squash, the tough guy bodyguard with a heart of gold; Peter Arne as the scowling cabaret manager Labisse; Lesley Ann Warren in full-on Jean Harlow mode as the squeaky voiced Norma; and best of all Robert Preston as the irrepressible, unapologetic Toddy. A little quibble, though: Toddy’s performance in drag at the end of the film didn’t really work for me, maybe because it went on a bit too long. Second, related quibble: at 133 minutes, the film comes perilously close to overstaying its welcome. In any event Henry Mancini’s score is classy as always, and for all the brassy flamboyance of the big scenes the real musical and emotional high point of the film is the song ‘Crazy World,’ which Ms. Andrews renders with true pathos. Alas the tune departs much too quickly but is brought back in instrumental guises throughout. Likewise kudos for the sets, choreography, costumes, production design, and of course the brittle script, which requires perfect timing delivery, and which it gets from the principals.
     In between all the farce and frivolity, there are some legitimate issues – what really is ‘manliness’ and ‘womanliness,’ and how much of it is surface and how much of it is ‘real.’ But these and like questions are interspersed so effortlessly, smuggled in as it were, that they’re almost gone before we know it. Ergo if you’re looking for a realistic, historically accurate depiction of gay sensibilities, gender definitions or even Paris night life ca.1934, look elsewhere, and so be it. For at heart VV is a polished, high-level Hollywood fantasy representative of the best qualities of its era. It evokes prior eras while in its limited way is ahead of its time. In a word, Victor/Victoria holds up exceptionally well. It manages the high wire act of balancing pie-in-the-face comedy, musical numbers, dance, costume, clever repartee and even a touch of wisdom with true grace, an understated panache, if you like. As an old-fashioned comedy romp with musical numbers and lots of jokes done in a supremely secure style technically, VV is arguably even more on the money today than when it first appeared in its slightly shocking glory four decades ago. Victor/Victoria then is the complete entertainment package. Considering the talent involved in all aspects of production, it really couldn’t miss, and it didn’t.

   [1] The 1982 Victor/Victoria is a remake of a German production, Viktor und Viktoria (1933), which stands on its own pretty well and actually compares favorably to its big budget namesake. Renate Müller is terrific in the title role. In fact I think she’s more convincing impersonating a man than Julie Andrews. In any case sources cite no fewer than five remakes of Viktor und Viktoria, but the number grows to seven if we add the 1934 UFA French language George and Georgette and the 1995 Broadway play. A curious bit of history is that the original 1933 VV had its premiere on 23 December 1933. It’s little short of miraculous that the film even survived, much less inspired the above-mentioned French version. The National Socialists had been in power for almost a year, and to say the least, they didn’t approve of anything even vaguely sympathetic to LGBTQ.* This initial incarnation of VV then may be seen as the last gasp, if a toned down one, of the Weimar era entertainment zeitgeist in all its exuberant, life-affirming, decadent excess, all of which was anathema to the strait-laced Nazis. As for a queer subtext in the film, the story – and characters – literally flirt with the idea a couple of times, and just as quickly abandon it. As an interesting aside, in this original take on "Victor and Victoria," many of the conversations take place in rhyme, either quasi-sung or in recitative, in the manner of Sprechstimme. This is a feature that didn’t carry over into the Hollywood redo.
    Aside: the second time I watched Viktor und Viktoria I enjoyed it even more, and was struck by how American it looks, paralleling as it does Hollywood essays on the backstage musical like 42nd St. and Footlight Parade. There's even a Busby Berkeley-lite number, that, while not as good as the genuine item, isn't bad.      

   * Then again, maybe the censors were so straight (in all senses of the word) that they simply didn't catch the (however subtly presented) gay innuendo in the story. A delicious bit of irony is the casting of Anton Walbrook (here billed as Adolf Wohlbrück). Walbrook was a gay man, but here he takes the role of Robert, the conspicuously hetero male romantic lead.