The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946) **

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Citizen Kane (1941) ***

(This is my contribution to the CMBA’s Fabulous Films of the 1940s Blogathon. For more contributions check out this link: http://clamba.blogspot.com/)

What can be said here that hasn’t already been said about director Orson Welles’ masterpiece, Citizen Kane (1941)? Probably nothing.  It is, after all, considered by countless critics to be the greatest film ever made.  As indicated by my three out of four star rating, I obviously do not share that opinion.  However, as a student of film I know that Citizen Kane is one of the most important movies ever made.  The complete destruction of narrative continuity and cinematographic “rules” demands that this film be recognized as the creator of modern cinema. 

Welles was only twenty-four when he starred in, co-wrote, and directed Citizen Kane; his first feature film. His innovative stage and radio productions with the Mercury Theatre group propelled him into the national spotlight—particularly after the infamous The War of the Worlds broadcast caused panic across America.  He was courted by Hollywood and eventually RKO landed him. Never having helmed a motion picture in his life, he was given complete and absolute freedom to make two films of his choosing for the studio.  That was a lot of power to give to such a young and inexperienced director—especially one with an ego the size of Texas.  As such, many RKO studio executives were plagued by chronic migraines throughout the entire production.

Of course, it didn’t help that the script crafted by Welles and Herman J. Mankiewicz mimicked (and some would say lampooned) the life of one of the most powerful men in America: William Randolph Hearst. Was Charles Foster Kane a thinly veiled stand-in for the real-life publishing magnate? If you believe Welles, the answer is no. He once wrote that the “only purely Hearstian element in Citizen Kane” was Kane’s publishing machinations regarding the orchestration of  the onset of the Spanish American War.  Yet, Mankiewicz had been a frequent guest at countless Hearst parties and was friends with members of the family, so he certainly had some insight into the Hearst world. And, any truly unbiased person (or one who had no fear of being sued for libel) can see many parallels between Kane and Hearst.  Surely Kane’s Xanadu was a stand-in for Hearst’s La Cuesta Encantada, and while Marion Davies was obviously more talented than Susan Alexander (Dorothy Comingore), they were nonetheless paramours who had their careers advanced by two powerful men.  If you’re interested in delving into this more, might I suggest you read John Evangelist Walsh's, Walking Shadows: Orson Welles, William Randolph Hearst, and Citizen Kane.

Whatever one might think about the Hearst/Kane debate, there is no denying that the complex narrative style used by Welles and Mankiewicz was completely original and totally reshaped the views of generations of screenwriters.  Flashback was nothing new for cinema, but Citizen Kane was told in such a non-linear style, employing both flashbacks and flashforwards as well as quick-swipe montages, that it revolutionized screenwriting.  At one moment a character is young and spry and in the next frame they are old and frail.  There is no explanation of this rapid transition—it is the viewer’s job to put the pieces together.

Which brings me to my favorite thematic element in the film: the jigsaw puzzle. From the moment Kane’s infamous last word, Rosebud, is uttered Citizen Kane becomes a mystery.  Who or what is Rosebud is what sets the story in search of those who knew Kane best, and allows Welles to employ his own unique storytelling vision. Of course, no one knows the answer.  Charles Foster Kane was a jigsaw puzzle that was missing at least one piece, and so no one could really know or solve him.  While I won’t spoil the mystery for those who haven’t seen this, I will say that I often cite this plot device to students as one of the most important in modern narrative development. 

Finally, no discussion of Citizen Kane would be complete without mentioning the brilliant cinematography of Gregg Toland and the cinematic techniques employed by Welles.  Using the Chiaroscuro method of using high-contrast lighting against backlighting, as well as low-key lighting, created an enigmatic and larger-than-life feel to the film and its main character.  High-angle and low-angle shots, along with deep focus, were used in such unique ways that countless books have been written and film seminars still study them in great depth today.  Two particular scenes are stand outs: the showdown between Kane and Leland (Joseph Cotton) after his election loss and the mirror shot at Xanadu.  Toland  had a trench built into the floor to capture his low-angle shots of the dissolution of Kane and Leland’s friendship.  And, Roger Ebert and I agree that the most evocative shot in the movie is “the shot showing an infinity of Kanes reflected in mirrors as he walks past” at Xanadu.  Those multiple reflections (with no hint of a camera anywhere) is one of the most brilliant visual images I have ever seen in a movie (this was before CGI). 

Perhaps I haven’t said anything new about Citizen Kane here; I don’t profess to have any new insights into Welles’ vision or Toland’s masterful cinematography. All I can say is this: Citizen Kane is one of the most important films ever made.  No, it didn’t win a Best Picture Oscar or rake in huge receipts at the box office (it actually took a loss), but it revolutionized the art of filmmaking—and for that it should be appreciated and watched. 

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A Clockwork Orange (1971) **

Let me start off by saying that I find director Staley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange (1971) to be full of reprehensible violence and depravity—most of it aimed at women.  That said, I cannot deny that he also made a film worth some merit.  While I detest most everything that happens in it, it does raise questions about the relationship between the state and the individual.  It is also stylishly designed and filled with great music.  Yet, after having watched this a few times before finally getting around to reviewing it, I can happily say that I plan never to watch it again.

Kubrick was not the first director to take on Anthony Burgess’ 1962 dystopian novel A Clockwork Orange. Many believed it could never be brought to the screen due to its complex and controversial themes.  Most are unaware that Andy Warhol and his Factory were the first “auteurs” to take on Alex DeLarge’s psychosis in Vinyl (1965). Simply put, it was horrible (I rue the day when I must rewatch it in order to review it here).  Thankfully, Kubrick’s film is comprised of competent actors working with an actual script and a professional production crew.

Malcolm McDowell plays Alex, the leader of a gang of “droogs” (James Marcus, Warren Clarke, and Michael Tarn) who terrorize what appears to be a post-apocalyptic English city. In between trips to a milk bar they beat, rape and murder helpless people—a little bit of the ultra-violent (which for a long time I thought was pronounced ultraviolet, which just clouded my mind even more than it already was).  After murdering a rich cat-lady (Miriam Karlin) with a gigantic phallic sculpture (no, I’m not making this up), Alex is sentenced to 14-years in prison.  Wanting to shorten his term, he volunteers for an aversion therapy that rehabilitates criminals.  He undergoes a treatment that forces him to watch graphic images while having drugs flushed through his system which make him physically ill at the sight of violence. On one particular “viewing” the video is set to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony—his particular favorite piece of music. (I only include this tidbit because it comes to be a form of both retribution and rebirth for Alex by the end of the movie.) Once released from prison, Alex is a helpless sort who cannot protect himself from anyone—those who would wish to do him harm or the state itself.

A Clockwork Orange is violent and misogynistic. People are beaten with canes and phallic sculptures (yes, that again), and there is kicking and the like.  Women are raped and debased, and the female form itself is used in some of the most unusual ways of objectification (see: milk bar).  If I had to hear Alex say “a little bit of the old in an out” one more time I thought my head might explode.  It is specifically due to these elements that I find it exceptionally hard to believe that this garnered a Best Picture Oscar nomination—ah, but it was the 1970s and people were still coming down from their 1960s acid trips I suppose.

What I liked most about the movie was its art direction and soundtrack. Once you look past the more pornographic elements, there is much to admire about Russell Hagg and Peter Sheilds’ art direction. I expect LSD enthusiasts also enjoy the outlandish colors and set pieces that demand you look at them.  I often found the sets more entertaining than what was being said—they helped me cope with ideas, words, and deeds I vehemently disliked.  The soundtrack was also a soothing agent.  I’ve already mentioned that Beethoven's 9th plays a prominent role, but Rossini’s “The Thieving Magpie” and “William Tell” and Henry Purcell’s "March from 'Funeral Music for Queen Mary'" are also featured.  In addition, Wendy Carlos’ creepy synthesized music fits perfectly with the insidious depravity of this film. 

Overall, I dislike A Clockwork Orange, but not as much as I disliked Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (which makes a cameo at the record store).  There is a plot and I never once felt as though I were drifting off to sleep—how could I with such shocking images?  Still, this movie is just too reprehensibly amoral for me. 

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Psycho (1960) ***

Hello, my name is Marion Crane (Janet Leigh), and what you’re about to read is filled with what some call “spoiler alerts”.  If you wish to hear my story, spoilers included, then continue reading.

That’s me in the poster above—the blonde wearing a brassiere. Yes, it’s rather odd that a movie poster from 1960 would prominently display a woman clothed as such. What can I say, when the director (Alfred Hitchcock) is a complete pervert things like that happen. For example, my first scene finds me wearing that exact outfit and basking in the glow of just completing the act of copulation in a no-tell motel with my half-clothed lover, Sam Loomis (John Gavin). A few scenes later, after stealing $40,000 (what the pervert refers to as a ‘MacGuffin’) from my boss (Vaughn Taylor), I am in another scene wearing a black bra.  I guess the white bra represented a cleaner state of mind—I was after all trying to end my illicit affair with Sam, who couldn’t marry me because he was paying alimony to his ex-wife and couldn’t afford a new one. Yes, I know that sounds lame, but that didn’t stop me from taking the money and thinking we could run away together. Hence, why I suspect I was wearing the black bra: dark thoughts had crept into my mind.

Anyway, after I put clothes on, I set out for Fairvale, California, to show Sam that we now had enough money to get married. We wouldn’t have to worry about his ex getting her greedy hands on any of it, as we would be on the lam. Ha! take that, bitch!  The drive from Phoenix to Fairvale was a long one, so I pulled off the side of the road and took a nap. I awoke to a creepy, sunglass-wearing cop (Mort Mills) knocking on my window.  I must have aroused his suspicions because he gave me the once over and proceeded to follow me to a used car lot, where I was trading in my car for one with California plates. Tsk, tsk, copper, I was a law-abiding person when I bought my car, so you stopped following me. Too bad…

Once back on the road and away from the prying eyes of the police I encountered a torrential downpour that prohibited my migration to Fairvale, and so I stopped off at a roadside motel called the Bates Motel.  The owner, Norman (Anthony Perkins), immediately struck me as an oddball.  He, like the pervert, had a strange fascination with birds (he stuffed them) and a proclivity for voyeurism. I should have known he was a complete Psycho (1960) when after being invited into his parlor (oh, I hate parables!) he confided in me that “a boy’s best friend is his mother.”

Yet, that conversation convinced me that I should repent my wicked ways and return to Phoenix with the money (sans $700 that I paid for my new car). Wanting to wash away my sins I decided to take a shower. Off went my clothes, which Norman got more than an eyeful of by spying through his peephole, and into the shower I went.  I really enjoyed that shower—it felt (and looked) extremely sensual. Oh, that was until violins started screeching (thanks, Bernard Herrmann) and someone decided to carve me up like a Thanksgiving turkey. There I was: slowly, sliding down the bathroom wall, watching my blood being washed away—I quite literally got to see my life go down the drain. Ah, such is life.  Later, Norman found me face-down on the bathroom floor and decided to use the shower curtain I tore down on my way to death as my burial shroud.  He then “buried” me and the $40k in the trunk of my car and placed us in a swamp behind the motel. Oddly enough, the car’s license plate read: NFB 418. I later learned that it stood for Norman Francis Bates. Coincidentally, St. Francis was the patron saint of birds (and many other animals) and my last name was Crane and I was planning on returning to Phoenix to resurrect my former innocent ways.  Now that I think of it, maybe it wasn’t such a coincidence after all.

About a week after that, my sister, Lila (Vera Miles) contacted a private detective (Martin Balsam) to find me.  They went to Fairvale and met with Sam, and once they ascertained that he knew nothing about either my theft or disappearance they began to work together.  Poor Detective Arbogast soon joined me in the swamp after he “met” Mrs. Bates.  Then, Sam and Lila came calling on Norman and his '”mother”. They soon learned the shocking truth: Norman suffered from a dual personality—he’d murdered Mrs. Bates and her lover ten years prior and kept her preserved bones in the house with him. Ah, such a perverted story could only be told by a complete master of perversion (as well as suspense).

Looking back on it all, I have to admit that it was a masterful tale of Oedipal psychological sexual repression told in a completely new and shocking way. Personally, I’d never heard of the central character (even if that bitch Lila/Vera got top-billing!) getting the axe before the story was halfway over. Oh, and the way that I got it (well, it was a knife) was just so shocking. I’m glad I can only remember it in black and white, because I’m sure it would have been much gorier in color.  And, of course, the twist at the end has inspired countless imitators (M. Night Shyamalan anyone?) over the years.  If I must forever be remembered as the first slashed horror victim, I say so be it. I had a scream doing it!

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Sullivan’s Travels (1941) **

Preston Sturges is one of my favorite Classic Hollywood directors; I am especially fond of his The Lady Eve (1941) and The Palm Beach Story (1942). His brand of sophisticated comedy is risqué and witty, just like my other favorite director from the period: Ernst Lubitsch.  What I appreciate most about Sturges’ is his ability to successfully blend sophistication into a screwball comedy—that’s why I adore The Lady Eve. And, that is also why I was somewhat let down by Sullivan’s Travels (1941). Now, I’m not saying it’s not a good film—I just found it uneven. If I were a psychiatrist I would diagnose it as manic depressive. At times it is a screwball comedy and then it turns into a drama, and then it’s a comedy and then back to a dramatic social commentary. 

John L. Sullivan, aka Sully, (Joel McCrea) is a successful Hollywood director who specializes in lightweight comedies but longs to make movies about the human condition.  No more Ants in Your Pants for Sully—he wants the studio to back his O Brother Where Art Thou?  To prove he’s capable of telling an honest and powerful story about the sufferings of everyday people in the Depression Era, Sully decides to disguise himself as a hobo and live amongst them. However, the head of the studio (Robert Warwick) wants none of this and enlists a team to follow his prized director around in a RV.  Of course, this would never work, and so Sully gets them to leave him alone after an incredibly wild, slapstick chase scene that would have made the Keystone Cops green with envy. Soon after this he meets a young Hollywood ingénue (Veronica Lake) at a diner who buys him a cup of coffee and some ham and eggs.  Down on her luck and wanting to escape the perils of the casting couch, the girl (really, she’s never given a name) becomes his traveling companion.  Even after she learns who he really is and that he’s involved in a “noble experiment” she continues on the road with him to soup kitchens and shelters.  Eventually they return to Hollywood and seem to be destined for happiness (if he can ever get a divorce from his harpy wife [Jan Buckingham]), but things go awry when Sully is mugged by a hobo and believed to be dead. 

Okay, how can you start your film off with a rip-roaring, hilarious chase scene and then about halfway into the movie launch into a heavy social commentary about the hardships of the poor?  Heck, not only is it heavy, but it’s also silent.  That’s right, the master of witty repartee made a mini-silent film around the halfway mark of this movie.  Yes, it’s quite effective in conveying the despair of the downtrodden, but I thought this was supposed to be a comedy? What the hell?  And, then it goes back to being a comedy for a few minutes and the next thing I know Sully is working on a chain gang run by the father (Alan Bridge) of the Captain from Cool Hand Luke (1967) and Jess Lee Brooks is leading a black church congregation in singing “Go Down Moses” (i.e. the classic refrain, “Let My People Go”). Double what the hell? Can you see how I found Sullivan’s Travels a tad uneven and in need of a bottle of lithium? I know Sturges was attempting to poke fun at the likes of Frank Capra and Leo McCarey, but he fell in league with them here with this script.  Perhaps this is why Sullivan’s Travels didn’t receive one single Oscar nomination.

Overall, the acting performances are quite good. McCrea is his usual even self, and I must admit, he does shine in the dramatic scenes.  Like any Sturges production, there are some stock character actors who steal several scenes. Robert Grieg and Eric Blore are delightful as Sully’s servants. They had some of the best lines in the film. I wish they’d been in more scenes—perhaps some of the ones in which Veronica Lake stood around doe-eyed and pouty.  Not long after she said, “Give him some ham and eggs,” I couldn’t get over the fact that I knew both Sturges and McCrea grew to despise her over the course of the production.  To say that her acting range was limited would be kind.

I think I would have liked Sullivan’s Travels more if it had been more Ants in Your Pants and less O Brother Where Art Thou?—of course, I don’t mean the Coen Brother’s 2000 film starring my husband, Mr. Clooney. They named their film that in honor of Sturges and this movie, though.  I agree about Sturges…a little less about Sullivan’s Travels, though. 

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Hugo (2011) ****

Every once in awhile cinema has a stellar year: 1939, 1940, 1941, 1950, 1957, 1962, 1967, 1976, and 1994 spring to mind. I now feel confident that we can add 2011 to that esteemed list, primarily because of such films as The Artist, The Descendants, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, The Help, Midnight in Paris, A Separation, In Darkness, and today’s entry: Hugo. Granted, some are better than others, but taken as a whole they serve to make 2011 one of the best years for film in almost two decades. It is my opinion that director Martin Scorsese’s Hugo is the standout production from this illustrious year.

Based on Brian Selznick’s 2007 novel, The Invention of Hugo Cabret, Hugo is about an orphaned Parisian boy (Asa Butterfield) who keeps the Paris Gare Montparnasse Railway Station’s clocks moving.  Apprenticed to his drunk, absentee uncle (Ray Winstone), Hugo is an extremely lonely boy whose only friend appears to be a broken automaton (think Metropolis) that he and his father (Jude Law) were attempting to fix before Mr. Cabret was killed in a fire. To attain parts to the automaton, Hugo steals them from the railway station’s toymaker, Georges Méliès (Ben Kingsley), who begrudgingly befriends the boy after witnessing his mechanical acumen. Hugo also become friends with Méliès goddaughter and ward, Isabelle (Chloë Grace Moretz), who happens to possess the key (quite literally) to fixing the automaton.  Once fixed, the automaton draws the now iconic symbol of the spaceship in the eye of the moon from A Trip to the Moon (1902).  The children set off to discover what the drawing means, and this adventure leads them to discover that the toymaker was once one of cinema’s greatest filmmakers. There’s much more to the story, but I won’t spoil it for those of you who haven’t seen it yet.

Scorsese, along with acclaimed cinematographer Robert Richardson (who won an Oscar for this film), shot Hugo is 3-D. My words can not do justice to the sheer beauty of what they put up on the screen.  Without a doubt this is Scorsese’s visual masterpiece, it is a shame that he didn’t win a Best Director Oscar, but obviously the Academy was in love with The Artist in 2011. From the shots of the interworking of the clocks to the spectacular railway shots, everything seems so much crisper and fluid than what I’ve seen in other 3-D films.  Hugo deservedly won five Academy Awards for its visual and audio mastery: cinematography, art direction, visual effects, sound editing, and sound mixing. The only technical award that it didn’t win was for film editing, which went to The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (I haven’t seen this yet, so I can’t make a judgment on which deserved the Oscar more).

But this movie isn’t just visually stunning, it also has an engaging and endearing story.  Watching all of the plot elements come together at the end was perhaps a bit oversentimental, but still highly enjoyable.  For a film filled with so many emotionally (and in one case, physically) broken people Hugo never becomes overburdened by melancholy. I was especially pleased with the care Scorsese and Oscar-nominated screenwriter John Logan took in developing Méliès’s backstory. Yes, they took a few historical licenses in this depiction, but for the most part they were fairly accurate. Few directors have as much reverence for the history of film as Scorsese. By inserting clips of the most important films prior to 1931 (when this story takes place) Scorsese showcases the grandeur of early cinema.  On a side note, I must thank The 1001 Book for my ability to recognize just about every film referenced in Hugo.

In addition to outstanding visuals and a moving story, Hugo is also loaded with a number of standout performances. Both Butterfield and Moretz show great range for such young actors.  Butterfield, in particular, has what is known as screen presence (of course, that could have been an added advantage to being shot in 3-D).  Not surprisingly, Kingsley is mesmerizing as Méliès.  If you’ve seen any old photos of the famed director then you know the make-up department did a fantastic job transforming Kingsley into Méliès.  The most surprising performance came from Sacha Baron Cohen as Inspector Gustave.  Who knew that the man who created such idiotic caricatures as Borat, Ali G, Bruno, and General Aladeen, could play a complete buffoon with so much restraint? I have to admit I was completely shocked by how nice of a job he did with this role.

I could go on and on about how much I liked Hugo, but I expect you are tired of reading (if you’ve made it this far), so I’ll end by saying that it is one of the best films I’ve seen in the last ten years.  It is truly a monumental piece of cinematic vision.

 

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Gilda (1946) **1/2

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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

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