the sad pleasures of Moulin Rouge

Moulin Rouge [videorecording (DVD)]. Romulus presents; screenplay by AnthonyVeiller and John Huston; directed by John Huston. Santa Monica, CA: Metro Goldwyn Mayer Home Entertainment, 2004. Originally produced as a motion picture in 1952. From the novel by Pierre La Mure. Director of photography, Oswald Morris; music, George Auric; editor, Ralph Kemplen. Performers: Jose Ferrer, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Suzanne Flon, Claude Nollier, Katherine Kath, Muriel Smith, Mary Claire, Colette Marchand.

Cinematic treatments of the lives of composers and writers seem predestined to fail. To be fair, there are exceptions. Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky is pretty darn good, and so is, in its wacky way, Amadeus. Still, posterity has been kinder to films about painters: we have Rembrandt, The Moon and Sixpence, Lust for Life, Girl with the Pearl Earring, the two Frida movies [1], Edvard Munch, Hilma, Modigliani, Pollock, Mr. Turner, to cite only the more obvious exemplars.
   
Maybe it’s the very visual nature of painting that translates better to the big screen. But that doesn’t explain the success of films that concentrate more on the life, and not necessarily the work, of the artist. Perhaps we have a clue in one of Toulouse-Lautrec’s acidy quips, delivered with characteristic brio by José Ferrer: “One should never meet a person whose work one admires; what they do is always so much better than what they are.” Hear, hear.

And while there’s certainly something to the notion that the great artist as failed human being makes for a more interesting story than a virtuous artist, that doesn’t necessarily explain why painterly movies turn out so well – there have been plenty of examples of life failures among composers, poets and novelists. Maybe it’s all just a happy accident. Then again it could be that the above films stick pretty close to the biographical facts, while composer and writer biographies usually play fast and loose with the truth, sometimes grotesquely so (Song to Remember, anyone?).

In any case, the film Moulin Rouge, released in 1952 and directed by the redoubtable John Huston, is the proverbial embarrassment of cinematic riches, chief among them setting and milieu. Confession: I’ve always liked movies set in Paris. There are so many good ones that I won’t even begin to list them. I’m especially fond of those that capture the special magic – or in some cases darkness and sordidness (there’s both in MR) – of that at once most magical and mysterious yet tantalizingly dangerous of cities.

Truth be told, the reality of Paris ca. 1890, especially the Montmartre and -like quarters, was probably a lot earthier and rougher than even Moulin Rouge suggests. However, given the restrictions of the Production Code of the time, the film gets away with quite a bit [2].

Thus while Moulin Rouge may not be completely accurate on all the biographical details, there’s a core of truth to it, a spiritual and emotional truth, if you like. Thus, MR occupies a special niche because it transcends a conventional biopic and emphasizes the sense of place, and era. The Parisian belle epoch of the 1890s, conveyed through the film’s glorious Technicolor palette - sometimes garish, sometimes romantic, sometimes subdued - is presented in full-on cinematic glory. I can’t think of any other movie that recreates a time, and locale, quite so well.

Another overlooked plus is George Auric’s by turns raucous and haunting score. Two examples: when Toulouse-Lautrec longingly spies on Myriamme (Suzanne Flon) from the street below as she opens her window at night, presumably to prepare for bed, the music underscores his loneliness and emotional attachment to her. And in the very next scene, in which Toulouse waxes ecstatic over the Venus de Milo, Myriamme in tow, the music is, curiously, tinged with a dark undercurrent as if to suggest something isn’t quite right, and indeed something is very much not right with the relationship, if one might call it such.

For a film so awash in vibrant colors and exuberant movement, this is one of the saddest movies I know. We sense Toulouse-Lautrec’s – rarely shown – physical and psychic pain; we sense it perhaps because it is not shown, suggested rather than revealed in Ferrer’s nicely underplayed performance. When Toulouse’s bitter angst bubbles to the surface it’s done so by way of the zingy one-liners he delivers. Then he retreats just as quickly. Listen fast: the accented, rapid-fire dialogue, frequently spoken sotto voce, is sometimes difficult to make out. 

Henri’s two significant romantic connections in the film are with the volatile streetwalker Marie (Colette Marchand) and the supremely elegant haute couture model Myriamme. Both relationships are doomed to failure and the breakups are painful to watch, in no small part because Toulouse in turn rejects both women, perhaps for different reasons, but rejects them nonetheless. In a sense Marie and Myriamme might be considered doubles: they bear a vague physical resemblance, and even their names are similar. And each in her own way appeals to the dual sides of Toulouse’s complicated psychic makeup.

Otherwise Henri instinctively feels most comfortable with, and is drawn to, society’s outcasts and marginalized characters: streetwalkers, derelict alcoholics, saloonkeepers, disreputable entertainers (both current and washed-up), to whom he shows a kindness and generosity of spirit, if selectively dispensed. At the same time he’s perfectly at home amongst more polished folks, Jane Avril (Zsa Zsa Gabor) and her crowd in particular. But in these upper crust friendships one senses an edgy unease as Toulouse keeps the folks at arm’s length via his pungent witticisms and philosophical musings.

Interestingly, the Toulouse-Lautrec as portrayed in the film doesn’t get on so well with his fellow artists. Moreover, given his testy disposition, it’s no surprise that he has little patience with the public relations and business aspects of the art world; he whimsically gives away masterworks as gifts and shows up drunk at openings, where he insults the guests.

The cast of Moulin Rouge is well nigh perfect; I can’t think of any weak links. Ferrer is wonderful of course, and Zsa Zsa Gabor, terrible lip synching to the tune “It’s April Again” and all, is compelling when she’s actually given a chance to speak her lines, i.e. to act. As the icily smoldering Myriamme, Suzanne Flon conveys a frustrated calm tinged with romantic longing. But pride of place must go to relative newcomer Colette Marchand, who plays the high-strung grifter Marie with a suitably mercurial touch. In this admittedly fictional account Marie was the love of Toulouse-Lautrec‘s life [3], and this makes their eventual disintegration as a couple all the more painful. From her initial appearance Marchand steals every scene she’s in, displaying a range of emotions from off-handed coquettishness to knife-edged nervous desperation expressed through her angry diatribes. That such a young actress could hold her own against the formidable Ferrer is quite an accomplishment.

But – and with no disrespect to other elements of the production – the real star of the film is its set decoration and opulent production design (costumes, too!), all of which miraculously recreate the joie de vivre Paris of the late 1890s. If one sequence stands out for me it’s the bravura first fifteen minutes or so at the club, with the smoky atmosphere, Offenbach music, and those shrieking can-can dancers, so authentic looking they might have been plucked out of history a half century prior.

One sliver of criticism in the otherwise praiseworthy DVD release: the lack of bonus features. A film like Moulin Rouge, with so many confluences historical, aesthetic and cinematic, indeed would seem to scream out for a bevy of bonus extras. Perhaps Criterion will someday release an all-the-trimmings package. This minor quibble notwithstanding, Moulin Rouge is for me that rare cinematic double pleasure: my favorite movie about Paris and my favorite artist biography.

[1] I refer here to the well-known Frida (2002) and the earlier, much less familiar but arguably superior Frida: Naturaleza Viva (1983), with Ofelia Medina in the title role.

[2] For an unvarnished treatment of the darker side of the City of Light, focusing on criminals, the lower classes, and various other outcasts, eccentrics, and unsavory characters, see Luc Sante’s The Other Paris (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2015).

[3] Research indicates that Marie Charlet was a real person, who modeled for Toulouse-Lautrec. Thus the portrayal of  ‘Marie’ in Moulin Rouge is at least partially accurate, as there’s a scene where she does some modeling for the artist, the result being the haunting portrait that Myriamme eventually purchases and finds so fascinating. On the other hand, there’s no evidence to suggest that the real Marie Charlet was the great love of Toulous’s life. That distinction may well belong to model, painter and artist’s muse Suzanne Valadon, who, curiously, doesn’t appear in Moulin Rouge.
   As for the historical equivalent of the incredibly elegant Myriamme, information is scant. Biographers glimpse a ‘Myriame Hayem,’ a marginal character who modeled for Toulouse for a time and by all accounts was closer in spirit and personality to the Marie character of the film. Otherwise the ‘Myriamme Hayam’ in Moulin Rouge seems to be a composite of society types and well-to-do patrons the kind of which Toulouse met during his peak years in Paris.

Further reading

Julia Bloch Frey, Toulouse-Lautrec: a Life, Viking, 1994.

Emile Schaub Koch, Psychanalyse d'une Peintre Moderne, L'Édition Littéraire Internationale, 1935.

Gerstle Mack, Toulouse-Lautrec, Knopf, 1938.
David Sweetman, Explosive Acts: Toulouse-Lautrec, Oscar Wilde, Félix Fénéon and the Art & Anarchy of the Fin de Siècle, Simon & Schuster, 1999.

a surrealist masterpiece (?) : Plan 9 From Outer Space (1959)

 

   Plan 9 from outer space. [videorecording (DVD)]. Chatsworth, CA: Image Entertainment, 2000. Producer, director, writer, Edward D. Wood, Jr. Originally released as a motion picture in 1959. Director of photography, William C. Thompson; editor, Edward D. Wood., Jr.; music supervisor, Gordon Zahler. With: documentary, Flying saucers over Hollywood: the Plan 9 companion.
   Performers: Bela Lugosi, Gregory Walcott, Vampira, Tor Johnson, Conrad Brooks, Paul Marco, Norma McCarty Wood, Dudley Manlove, Bunny Breckenridge, Criswell, Lyle Talbot. Summary: Plan 9 follows the alien-led zombie invasion as the aliens attempt, for the 9th time, to take over Earth.

"Greetings, my friend. We are all interested in the future, for that is where you and I are going to spend the rest of our lives. And remember, my friend, future events such as these will affect you in the future."

 Can you prove it didn’t happen?

     

     Plan 9 From Outer Space may or may not be the worst movie of all time, but the case might  be made that its enduring classic status is due in part because so many things are right with it: atmosphere, colorful characters, good casting, humor. Say what you will about Plan 9, it's seldom dull, and not conspicuously inferior to comparable low budget fare of the era. Mostly, and for all its technical flaws, it's just a wonderfully entertaining movie and a showcase for some headliners of the day. Moreover, it's a revealing window into 1950s sensibilities.

    Plan 9’s production history and subsequent evolution from little known curiosity to its anointing as the worst film ever has been much discussed online and elsewhere, thus I’ll skip over these aspects and get right to it: is Plan 9 a masterpiece? Well, perhaps. I’m tempted to say one of the reasons Plan 9 is held in such affection is not because it’s so bad but because it’s so good. At the very least, I agree with the sentiment these days that Plan 9 is anything but the worst movie ever made. Even its bad qualities have a certain method to the madness.

     I am not an expert on surreal films, so I can’t speak with any authority, academic or otherwise. However – the jarring cuts, jumps from day to night and back again, stock footage, and not-so-special special effects, to say nothing of the creepy graveyard scenes, can only be described as surrealistic [1]. Indeed, Plan 9 has such a bizarre incongruity we have to wonder what kind of intelligence created it.

     Moreover, there’s Plan 9’s (unintentional?) subversive elements, thus the connection to surrealism and its related movements – dada, pop, beat, expressionistic, absurdist, underground, lowbrow. These are almost by definition questioning, contrarian, shocking, anti-establishment, outrageous, bizarre, and Plan 9 ticks all the boxes.


Albuquerque's a nine o'clock town

     The great irony is that Ed Wood probably never heard of surrealism in films and was totally serious in the art-for-art’s sake earnestness he brought to his work. That doesn't lessen our enjoyment of the film; it adds to it. The very appeal of a camp classic is that it doesn’t set out to be, well, campy. As has been pointed out by devotees more devoted and better informed than I, had Wood intended to make a parody or comedy, or worse, possessed the financial resources for a bloated extravaganza, Plan 9 wouldn’t have anything close to the same magic. It’s the sheer nobility and good intentions of Wood and his collaborators, not the slipshod, dodgy content of the product, that make Plan 9 and his other films so compelling.

     And though it’s not been written up so much in the literature, one of the plot threads – aliens resurrect dead humans to scare the bejeezus out of stupid earthlings – obviously anticipates the contestably surreal and much more highly regarded Night of the Living Dead of a decade later. There are even hints of Plan 9 in the cult horror classic Carnival of Souls, a film with its own surreal elements. Lest we give Plan 9 too much credit, it works both ways: there are definite antecedents in films like The Day the Earth Stood Still and Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

One of the great existential injustices is that Wood never profited from Plan 9; he sold the rights to his landlord to pay for back rent he owed. The ultimate insult was Wood’s untimely death in 1978 at the age of 54, so he couldn’t even enjoy the classic status the film would attain only a couple of years later.

     But perhaps there is some divine justice, albeit ironic and long overdue, in this universe of ours, and it seems Ed Wood, schlockmeister supreme, the worst director of all time, has gotten in the last word, appropriately enough, from beyond the grave. Much beloved by fans and even some critics, Wood is today guaranteed cinema immortality, and thus, the reputation of Plan 9 only continues to … increase over time.

     As the most unlikely of auteurs, Ed Wood serves as an inspiration for us lesser lights and would-be auteurs, regardless of artistic medium, who have the drive to create something beautiful but lack the necessary talent to do so, at least in a conventional way. But then again, whatever Ed Wood may have been, it certainly wasn’t conventional.

    For Ed Wood was, yes, a genius, even if his genius was the kind that limited itself to the B picture, exploitation film, and surrealist fantasy. Wood's sui generis talent was born out of, and thrived, if that is the word, in the peculiar environment that was 1950s America. Such was the unique alchemy of Wood's vision that it couldn't transfer to different eras and contexts, though others have tried. 

    Even if the manifestation of his genius wasn't in the elegance of the final product but rather the creative ebullience and energy that allowed him near miracles of efficiency, i.e. to produce something of value from (practically) nothing, it does not diminish its accomplishment. In a word, there will never be another Ed Wood.

    [1] I’ve not seen Wood’s other opus maximus, Glen or Glenda, only snippets of it, but I understand it has its share of surreal touches as well. And recently I had the good fortune to catch Jail Bait, Wood's only venture into film noir. It's actually pretty good, in a Woodian sort of way. 

sunglasses-chic: La Dolce Vita (1960)

La dolce vita. Directed by Federico Fellini. Originally released as a feature film in 1960. Performers: Marcello Mastroianni, Anouk Aimée, Anita Ekberg, Yvonne Furneaux, Alain Cuny, Lex Barker. Summary: Rome 1960. A jaded journalist looks for meaning among the beautiful people of Rome, but can’t find it anywhere. La Dolce Vita was the film that rocketed Federico Fellini to international mainstream success by offering a blistering critique of the culture of stardom.


style ****
substance ****



“Either a film has something to say to you or it hasn’t. If you are moved by it, you don’t need it explained to you. If not, no explanation can make you moved by it.”  
  - Federico Fellini (1920-1993) 

As we’re creeping up on the hundredth anniversary of Federico Fellini’s birth – and the sixtieth anniversary of the filming and release of La Dolce Vita – it would seem apropos to share some thoughts, focusing on the film's wardrobe design.

But first, a confession: I was never much of a Fellini buff; what I’ve seen has been mostly his later, arguably more accessible, arguably lesser, works like Amarcord, Roma and Ginger & Fred. Thus my education as a fan of classic cinema had a conspicuous gap: I’d never before seen La Dolce Vita all the way through, only snippets. Of course I was aware of its awesome repute and had seen pictures of a beautiful blonde frolicking beside some kind of waterfall. So I looked forward to watching the complete film on DVD. And I wasn’t disappointed. Indeed in my ever-shifting pantheon of all-time favorite movies, Dolce Vita is nudging for a place in the proverbial top ten.

couture as culture

La Dolce Vita-consciousness arrived just in time for the Italian couture industry, which had played second fiddle to France for more than a decade. With Christian Dior’s radically conservative New Look which burst on the scene in 1947, Paris displaced New York and Hollywood as the world’s fashion epicenter and held its lofty position through much of the 1950s. But the Italian fashion industry, with figures like Schuberth, Brioni and the Fontana sisters, gradually crept back into prominence. And with all the attendant ballyhoo surrounding the making of and release of La Dolce Vita, the Italian brand and its sleek look suddenly became the very definition of hip.

This was further reinforced by the large stage provided by the Rome Olympics of 1960: the games were an international sensation and added further momentum to Italy’s growing status as a top-tier player. Henceforth the made-in-Italy imprimatur would carry a cachet the equal of any other national brand. Glamour, cinema and city became interwoven, and Rome chic became the standard for measuring sophistication and cool.

 La Dolce Vita’s cultural repercussions and connections have extended in all sorts of directions. To mention just a couple of examples: the term paparazzi originated as the name of a tenacious celebrity photographer in the film (actually the character’s name was ‘Paparazzo’). The sunglasses and snug black dress worn by Anouk Aimée, along with her svelte physique, find an obvious counterpart in Audrey Hepburn’s Holly Golightly and her über-Sixties look in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Moreover, the collection of cocktail party types Holly ran with in Tiffany’s can be traced directly back to the beau monde who populate Dolce Vita. In fact it wouldn’t be too much of an exaggeration to see Tiffany’s as the American Dolce Vita (though not nearly as good, in this writer’s humble opinion). Perhaps the ultimate nod was given in 1995 when the echt-French fashion house Dior launched a fragrance called ‘Dolce Vita,’ complete with promotional video in the style of Fellini’s film. Even today echoes of La Dolce Vita reverberate in strikingly disparate venues: countless memoirs, documentaries, critiques, advertisements, fashion spreads, novels, parodies, blog posts and tributes have surged forth. The film’s spectacle of relentless photographers and gossip mongers who feed the public’s appetite for the sensational finds a reflection in our own media- and celebrity-obsessed times, whose manifestations are even more stunningly vulgar and would make Dolce Vita’s Marcello and his photographic entourage look like Edward R. Murrow.


those sweet sunglasses

Wardrobe designer Piero Gherardi was also Dolce Vita’s set designer and art director, and accordingly deserves much of the credit for the film’s well-heeled, high gloss look. As for the costumes, with the exception of Marcello, the women do seem to get the better of it. In any case, all the costumes in La Dolce Vita are important; the clothes not only reflect the character, in large part they are the character.

So many worthy exemplars we might cite: the bikini-clad, hat-donning bathing beauties who wave to Marcello and Paparazzo; Madame Steiner’s polka dot one-piece with white collars and white scarf which she wears as the swarming photographers descend upon her; Emma’s black dress, scarf and frumpy coat at the Madonna sighting; the recurring motif of the simple black dress throughout, the most stylish being the two black dresses worn by Maddalena; Sylvia’s demure vestmentlike dress which Gherardi borrowed from the Fontana sisters’ linea cardinale look of a few years prior; the stunning strapless dress Sylvia wears for her impromptu wade in the fountain; the Thai dancers at the night club and their strange get-ups, a good, if mild, example of Fellini-grotesque; Marcello's father’s conservative – if high quality – business suit, striped tie and old school hat which contrasts nicely with the son’s always trendy threads; and of course the impossibly cool sunglasses worn, day or night, by Marcello and Maddalena [1].

Then there's the exotic-looking woman at Steiner's party who sits on the floor strumming a guitar and singing a plaintive tune. She is adorned in toga-like one-piece that suggests ancient Roman garb, topped by gold headpiece. And of course designer Gherardi lavishes much attention on the film’s central protagonist, tabloid journalist Marcello Rubini (Marcello Mastroianni), a man who, though short on substance, has style to burn. Mastroianni fast became the embodiment of continental cool with the dark glasses, casually elegant wardrobe and diffident manner. Gherardi dressed his savoir-faire hero in sleek designer suits or snug fitting tuxedo and bow-tie. But the outfit we remember is the white suit he wears in the final scene, though curiously the garb contrasts with the generally dark tones he wears through the rest of the film.

If La Dolce Vita’s louche themes of media corruption and Old World decadence no longer have the power to shock, then its purely cinematic aspects, especially the crisp, widescreen look and brilliant editing, remain amazingly fresh [2]. Indeed viewed from six decades on the only thing about LDV that's shocking is that it's shockingly good. Moreover, there’s a case to be made that La Dolce Vita is the first modern movie, and contributing to the film’s modernist aesthetic in no small way is the wardrobe design. The clothes worn by Marcello Mastroianni, Anita Ekberg, Anouk Aimée and the other principals remain perpetually cool and radiate good taste. Far from being dated, the Dolce Vita look – classic, streamlined, understated – holds up exceptionally well. Old is always new again if we wait long enough.

[1] Interesting that Marcello doesn’t wear his sunglasses in the two scenes with his friend and mentor Steiner. It’s as though by removing the glasses he wants to absorb what he perceives to be Steiner’s genuineness of spirit and intellect. Otherwise he uses the glasses as a way to keep the world at bay, allowing him to engage socially only when he chooses to.
[2] Despite the occasional surrealistic flourishes, the visuals in La Dolce Vita are relatively restrained. But the detached visual styling doesn’t preclude an eye for detail, realized through a prowling, fluid camera that captures much but judges little: Fellini doesn’t render a verdict on the foibles of the characters he presents. Rather, and much to his credit, he simply records what he sees and lets the viewer make up his own mind.  

Further reading:

   Grace H. Carrier, La dolce vita: Fellini’s Farewell to the society of the spectacle, NYU Expository Writing Program, New York City, 2015.
   Nicola Certo, "La Dolce Vita today: fashion and media," 2017. CUNY Academic Works.
   Federico Garolla di Bard, Dolce Italia: the beautiful life of Italy in the Fifties and Sixties, Rizzoli, 2005.
   Shawn Levy, Dolce vita confidential: Fellini, Loren, Pucci, paparazzi, and the swinging high life of 1950s Rome, Norton, 2016.
   Eugenia Paulicelli, “Fashioning Rome: cinema, fashion, and the media in the postwar years,” Annali d'Italianistica 28, Capital City: Rome 1870-2010, pp257-278.
   Sonnet Stanfill (ed.), Italian style: fashion since 1945, V&A Publishing, 2014.

Rosalind!

Thirlwell, Angela. Rosalind: Shakespeare's Immortal Heroine. Pegasus Books, 2017. Summary: Rosalind: Shakespeare's Immortal Heroine is a unique biography exploring the gender bending heroine of As You Like It, seen through the eyes of the artists who have brought her to life.

Perhaps it’s for sentimental reasons that Rosalind is my favorite Shakespearean character and As You Like It my Shakespeare play of choice [1]. By explanation: while attending a conference in Britain in 1985 I was privileged to catch a Royal Shakespeare Society production of As You Like It at Stratford, with Juliet Stevenson as Rosalind, Fiona Shaw as Celia, and the late Alan Rickman, he of the darkly resonant baritone voice, as the melancholic Jaques. I now admit with some shame that, still feeling the effects of jet lag, I nodded off during at least part of the performance. Not that it mattered so much really: I was at the time so untutored in all things Shakespeare that I wasn’t able to fully appreciate the incredible artistry onstage before me.

In any event I’m still not a connoisseur by any means, but, inspired by programs like Shakespeare Uncovered and various cinematic treatments, I’ve acquired a new appreciation and, more important, curiosity about the bard’s works. And that’s a good start. But, good or no, a start is still a start. Today I count myself at most a casual fan; I’ve seen only a handful of plays either on stage, television or film. Yet another humbling reminder of intellectual lacuna on my part.

But to get back to our gender-ambiguous heroine: Rosalind is of course a rebel, a poet and wit. Accordingly she’s the woman who can’t stop talking: she has more lines than any other Shakespearean female character, outpacing even such luminaries as Juliet and Beatrice. Her message of freedom and all the many-faceted textures, shadings, and indeed contradictions, a woman – or man, for that matter – can potentially, and gloriously, possess resonates with Twenty-first century sensibilities. But, as Thirwell points out in her ever vigilant survey, Rosalind has spoken to audiences of other eras with equal vigor. Still, if a poll were taken today of the Shakespeare buff’s favorite female character, I suspect Rosalind might well take the palm, with Beatrice a close second.

Whatever the case, Thirwell’s superlative opus, a self-described ‘biography,’ is in reality a blend of perspicacious literary critique along with her personal recollections of, and sometimes interviews with, the great Rosalinds who have graced the stage – and screen [2]. There’s also a goodly amount of cultural and political history covered, along with the usual suspects that bespeak a scholarly treatment: index, source notes, extensive bibliography, etc. Thus the book is not necessarily an easy or fast read. On the other hand for the susceptible among us it’s relatively accessible, further buttressed by the many well-chosen photos. In sum, Rosalind is a must read for the true Shakespeare fan and an inspiration for the novice.

Further reading: Mark Anderson, “Shakespeare” by another name: the life of Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford, the man who was Shakespeare, Gotham, 2005; Joseph Sobran, Alias Shakespeare, Free Press, 1997

[1] By way of what’s called full disclosure these days I fess up that I fall in with the Oxford Theory crowd on the Shakespearean authorship question, i.e. that the immortal works attributed to the man from Stratford were actually ghost written by someone else, most likely Edward De Vere, 17^th Earl of Oxford. Not that I’m totally and uncritically convinced, but I find the balance of evidence, to coin a legalistic metaphor, persuasive. But … however compelling the evidence may be, it’s unlikely that the Oxford theory will ever win the argument and be accepted by the general public, much less the academic cognoscenti, within our lifetimes anyway. Orthodoxy and tradition die hard, and wholesale re-writings of history don't happen overnight.
In any event, I offer this somewhat long-winded explanation in footnote form as an apologia for my current sympathies as to the authorship question, but in present post I opt for using ‘Shakespeare’ for clarity and consistency.
[2] Update: recently I was fortunate to catch on tv the 1936 film version of As You Like It, directed by Paul Czinner and starring Laurence Olivier as Orlando and Elisabeth Bergner as Rosalind. I’d never seen the film before and while the production values are creaky by today’s standards, this interpretation veritably explodes with energy via its sprightly direction and über-British cast. Miss Bergner in particular shines as Rosalind in her memorable take on the role. The supporting cast does yeoman work and everyone seems to be having a rousing good time in this, one of the bard’s most fanciful and playful creations.

Rita resplendent : Salome (1953)

Salome. Columbia Pictures Corporation; screen play by Harry Kleiner; produced by Buddy Adler; directed by William Dieterle. 103 minutes. Directed by William Dieterle. Performers: Rita Hayworth, Stewart Granger, Charles Laughton, Judith Anderson, Sir Cedric Hardwicke, Basil Sydney, Alan Badel. Summary: the tale of Salome, the beautiful princess, daughter of Queen Herodias and step-daughter of King Herod, set during the perilous decadent days of early Rome and the events that led to the death of John the Baptist.

style ***

substance ***

In the pantheon of late Forties and early Fifties Biblical/Roman epics, Salome is usually thought of as decidedly second-tier, if it’s mentioned at all. Certainly it has more than its share of historical inaccuracies and camp elements. Moreover, the heavy-handed script, awash in somber piety, is pretty cringeworthy even by the standards of historical epics.

And yet …  even with the lapses in taste and history, Salome has aged pretty well, mostly due to the many delicious performances, over-the-top costumes (by Jean Louis), and gaudy sets which are captured in glorious technicolor.

It’s no revelation to point out that Rita Hayworth was at least ten years too old for the title role, but her footwork is as nimble as ever as she performs the most notorious exotic dance in history. True, her interpretation is somewhat tame by today’s standards, but a delight nonetheless. When Rita slinks around with such panache, who cares? Anyway in an era when so much more was suggested than depicted it’s actually a little refreshing to view today through our more jaundiced, seen-and-heard-it-all eyes.

The cast is mostly excellent. Judith Anderson exudes delicious evil in a one-note performance as Herodias and she too benefits from some splendiferous costumes. In a relatively understated turn as King Herod, Charles Laughton is effective because he underplays rather than overplays the role, thus suggesting a repressed, lecherous debauchery that’s just about to boil over.

There are a couple of exceptions to the generally primo performances. Alan Badel simply doesn’t have the dramatic heft to project John the Baptist, and as a result his interpretation mostly descends into righteous camp. Ditto for Stewart Granger as an earnest Roman centurion who becomes sympathetic to the Christian cause. He looks great but his lines and delivery are leaden.

This version of the Salome story doesn’t supplant the Oscar Wilde play and subsequent Richard Strauss opera, or even the classic Nazimova silent film version, as the grand champion, not by a long shot. Still, it’s a fun, entertaining movie, a polished studio product typical of its era and with the attendant virtues and excesses for this type of material. On balance, then, Salome is well worth a second look and especially noteworthy as a vehicle for a charismatic Rita at her alluring best. Also commendable are the widescreen technicolor look and some delectable scenery chewing from Charles Laughton and Judith Anderson. Another plus: we get a terrific epic score, not too bombastic, by George Duning.

"Who can say what magic really is?": Bell, Book and Candle (1958)

Bell, Book and Candle [DVD]. Columbia Pictures presents a Phoenix production; screen play by Daniel Taradash; produced by Julian Blaustein; directed by Richard Quine. Burbank, CA: Columbia TriStar Home Video, 1999. Performers: James Stewart, Kim Novak, Jack Lemmon, Ernie Kovacs, Hermione Gingold, Elsa Lanchester, Janice Rule. Director of photography, James Wong Howe; film editor, Charles Nelson; music, George Duning. Originally released as a motion picture in 1958. Based on the play by John Van Druten. Summary: Kim Novak plays a witch who casts a spell on a book publisher (Stewart) to make him fall in love with her. He is most unhappy when he finds out what happened.

Dating from 1958, Bell, Book and Candle, is, if you like, the happy ending sequel to the much darker Vertigo, released the same year. BB&C reunites stars James Stewart and Kim Novak, and they have the same kind of chemistry they possessed in Vertigo, possibly even more so. In a sense Vertigo and BB&C are the same movie, albeit each with a very different style and tone: a beautiful, mysterious woman bewitches, under false pretenses, a man, who later finds he’s been duped. Naturally he wants to remove the spell.

And despite Vertigo’s awesome repute, Bell, Book & Candle may be straight up the better movie (but don’t tell anyone I said so!). For all Vertigo’s incredible visual flourishes, myth-invoking associations, and great music score, the story never really holds together. Moreover, there aren’t that many characters worth rooting for, and it has its share of bumpy passages, the dream sequence in particular. And besides, Elster’s murder plan is patently absurd. 

BB&C, by contrast, has few, if any, weaknesses: its visuals are, in their different way, just as beautiful as Vertigo’s (James Wong Howe’s admittedly studio-bound photography is  … bewitching). Just about every character is appealing, even the snooty Merle (Janice Rule). Thus the crux of the matter: the fantastical story of BB&C is presented in eminently human terms and works just as well as a romantic comedy typical of the era. And Geroge Duning’s by turns whimsical and jazzy score captures just the right mood.

Draped in all those scrumptious Jean Louis dresses and capes, Kim Novak’s Gillian is the lighter, brighter version of Vertigo’s Madeline, if anything even more luscious than she was in the latter film. And Stewart is pitch perfect in projecting his bemused persona to the fullest. The appropriately languorously cat-like Gillian may be the emotional heart of the film (Novak turns in a terrific performance), but it’s the supporting cast, especially a quintessentially ditzy Elsa Lanchester as Gillian’s auntie and Ernie Kovacs as a befuddled, alcoholic writer who steal the show. Bell, Book and Candle is just one heck of a movie, the perfect warm fuzzy corrective at Christmas time (during which the film is set) just in case one is feeling down, rather like snuggling up to a plushy Siamese cat. As the man said, they don't make `em like this anymore.

Further reading: Steffen Hantke, "Bell, Book, Candle, Vertigo: The Hollywood Star System and Cinematic Intertextuality,"  Zeitschrift für Anglistik und Amerikanistik, v63 n4 (2015), pp. 447-466.