Triumph of the Will (Triumph Des Willens) 1934 **

This 1934 “documentary” of the sixth Nazi Party Congress at Nuremberg by director Leni Riefenstahl is considered by many to be the most important propaganda film ever made. The director, who at one time had been a somewhat popular actress, was commissioned by the Fuhrer himself, Adolf Hitler, to film countless hours of Nazi glorification and then produce a film that would show both Germans and the world the greatness of the Nazi Party. It is both a visually stunning film and a troubling reminder of the dangers of hero-worship—especially when said “hero” was a raving racist who wanted to “cleanse” the world of undesirables and mongrels.

The film opens with the “hero” of our film riding through the clouds as Wagner’s “Die Meistersinger von Numberg” plays in the background. This image is no doubt harkening back to the glories of Valhalla and is Riefenstahl’s attempt to anoint Hitler the Messiah of the German people. One might ask here why she chose Wagner over Handel—Hitler had a penchant for loud and ostentatious German composers, such as Wagner (Hitler’s all-time fave). Whereas Handel’s more refined, and oh my goodness, Old Testament-based compositions were a tad out of line with the Nazi hatred of anything Jewish. And so this is the image the viewer is dealt from the beginning. The rest of the film is a “celebration” of the “greatness” of the Nazi Party and the adulation of its Fuhrer (which means in German, leader).

I am often shocked how few of my students know that Hitler was asked to become Chancellor of Germany in 1933. He didn’t take power or lead some grand revolution. In reality, the money people in Germany saw in him a man that could capture the interest of the people and a man that they could control—they were wrong about controlling him, but absolutely right about his power to transfix the nation. And this is what Riefenstahl focuses on: Hitler’s almost Svengali power over his people.

Literally hundreds of thousands of people are filmed by Riefenstahl adoring and saluting their leader with their echoing “Sieg Heil". Every type of German is captured here: the soldier, the worker, and most importantly to me, the young--because they are the future of the nation and to watch their unwavering adoration of such a monster is something that you never forget. Did those so young and impressionable young minds really stop loving their Fuhrer when he killed himself in May 1945 or when the Allies put them through denazification training? Just a question that I ponder every time I teach this time period in my classes…

As for the merits of the film, though it is difficult to admit, there are some. Riefenstahl had a gift for creating masterfully designed images. Once seen, no one can forget the overhead shots of the enormous crowds and marching soldiers at the rally. There is some sort of sinister symmetry to these images—like she has captured the most-ordered society known to man, but at the same time the viewer knows that the world is headed for utter disorder. I suppose watching these images that many can’t help but have mental juxtapositions of the reality Riefenstahl was trying to create against what we now know was nothing more than a monstrous mythmaking endeavor. You pair these masterful shots with extremely adept rapid editing and you have a piece of pure propagandist art.

It is too bad that a woman with such an artistic eye fell under the influences of such evil people.  When the war was over Riefenstahl found herself the guest of Allied prisons for four years and saw a once promising career as a director ruined. It should be noted that she vehemently claimed that her work was an example of cinema vertie and served as a historical record of the times.  Perhaps if she hadn’t used concentration camp prisoners as “extras” or been such a force in the Goebbels’ propaganda machine people would have been more apt to believe her.

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Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (1954) ****

 

(This article is from guest contributor Rick29 and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

The Oregon Territory in 1850 provides the setting for this high-energy, colorful musical based on a Benet short story (which, in turn, was inspired by Plutarch’s “The Abduction of the Sabine Women”). Adam Pontipee (Howard Keel) is a hard-working “mountain man” who comes to town for supplies—and a wife. After announcing his plans to a storeowner, he adds: “I’m in no hurry…I got all afternoon.” He quickly settles on Millie (Jane Powell), a comely—but sassy—lass who chops wood, cooks, and milks cows. For Millie, it’s love at first sight and the chance to take care of her own home.

The honeymoon gets off to a rocky start when Millie discovers that Adam has six brothers. “Y’all live around here?” she asks. “Not ’round. Here,” replies one of the brothers. After overcoming her initial shock, Millie grows fond of her brothers-in-law…until they listen to Adam and take extreme measures to get their own brides.
The score by Johnny Mercer and Gene de Paul is a tuneful one. “Wonderful, Wonderful Day” and “When You’re in Love” are bright, pretty love songs. But Mercer’s best lyrics are reserved for “Lonesome Polecat,” a woeful lament sung by the lovesick brothers (a sample line: “A man can’t sleep when he sleeps with sheep”).

Michael Kidd’s spectacular choreography provides a perfect complement to the music. Kidd insisted that all the dance numbers derive from what the brothers were doing. Most critics consider the barn-raising scene to be the film’s showstopper. But I favor the dance where the brothers try to outshine their rivals from the town and the aforementioned “Lonesome Polecat,” in which the brothers cut and saw wood in unison with the musical beats.

The cast is uniformly fine, with Powell and Keel generating the required chemistry as the romantic leads. Four of the brothers were accomplished dancers (I think Matt Mattox, who plays Caleb, is the best). Russ Tamblyn, who had no prior dancing experience (he was an acrobat), is quite appealing as the youngest brother. It’s hard to believe it’s the same actor who would later played a key role in the wonderfully weird TV series Twin Peaks.

I first saw Seven Brides on The CBS Late Movie in the mid-1970s. I liked it well enough then, but my fondness for it has grown significantly over the years. See a good print of it, if possible, so you can enjoy the vibrant colors. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers inspired a mediocre, short-lived TV series and a very successful Broadway play.

It has also played in a key role in a running joke between my mother-in-law and me. In one scene in Seven Brides, Jane Powell's character fixes the brothers an incredible breakfast with everything you can imagine: flapjacks, sausage, eggs, biscuits, potatoes, etc. So when visiting my's wife folks, if my mother-in-law asks if I want something to eat in the morning, I always reply: "A Jane Powell breakfast would be nice." I never get one, though. But I do get to hear a lovely laugh in response.

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The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951) ***

 

(This article is from guest contributor Rick29 and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

If there were a Hall of Fame for Timeless Movies, then one of its founding members would be The Day the Earth Stood Still. I've probably watched it at least once every decade since I first saw it on NBC's Saturday Night at the Movies in the 1960s. When I was a youngster, the film's fantastic elements--and Gort, the coolest robot on celluloid--appealed to me. When I was a teen, its stern warning about the perils of nuclear war resonated with me. With each subsequent viewing, The Day the Earth Stood Still has revealed something new: presenting itself as a Biblical analogy, an editorial on the influence of media on public opinion, a portrait of fear of the unknown, etc.

The films opens with Klaatu (Michael Rennie), a visitor from another planet, and his robot Gort making an unannounced spaceship landing in Washington, DC. When Klaatu exits from his ship and reaches into his space suit, a nervous soldier shoots him. While recovering in Walter Reed Army Hospital, Klaatu meets with the President’s secretary, Harley. The alien explains he must deliver a critical message to all the leaders of the world. Harley explains that’s impossible because of global political tensions. Klaatu confesses that he does not understand human conflict. He decides he needs to learn more about Earthlings from living among them. He escapes discreetly from the hospital and, as “Mr. Carpenter,” takes a room in a boarding house.

The success of The Day the Earth Stood Still hinges, in large part, on the casting of Klaatu. Producer Julian Blaustein and director Robert Wise originally considered Claude Rains, but his stage schedule made him unavailable. 20th Century-Fox head Darryl F. Zanuck suggested Spencer Tracy, but Blaustein worried that a well-known star would be a distraction (interestingly, that concern didn't apply to Rains). It was Zanuck who eventually "discovered" Michael Rennie, who was peforming in the British theatre. The tall, low-key Rennie brought conviction to the role, but his greatest accomplishment was making the alien visitor seem human. This is no small feat, as evidenced by a scene in which Klaatu reads the words of Lincoln and wants to meet him. This sequence could easily have come across as hokey, but Rennie makes it quietly effective and even heartfelt (since Klaatu has finally found someone who gives him hope about the human race).

With a human-like alien, it was left to the robot Gort to bring an eerie, other-worldly quality to the film. To make the robot as physically imposing as possible, the producers hired Lock Martin, a 7' 7" doorman at Grauman's Chinese Theater. To make Gort even taller, Martin wore 4-6" platform shoes. Walking in the heavy rubber suit in high heels was physically exhausting. There were two suits, one that laced on the front and the other in back. Martin changed suits depending on the camera angle, so that it looked like Gort had no "seams." In some shots, a static model of the robot was used. That Gort model was later bought by Larry Harmon, overhauled so it didn't look much like Gort, and used in Harmon's Bozo the Clown television show.

In addition to its visual impact, The Day the Earth Still even sounds other-worldly thanks to composer Bernard Herrmann's innovative use of a theremin (shown on right). One of the first electronic instruments, the theremin is "played" by moving one's hands in front of it to change sound frequencies. Its distinctive sound became almost a cliche through repeated use in other sci fi films of the 1950s. Still, Herrmann' score remains an impressive achievement today.
Loosely based on the Harry Bates story "Farewell to the Master," The Day the Earth Stood Still features strong religious undercurrents. Klaatu becomes a Carpenter (if in name only). He performs a "miracle" of global proportions. He brings a message of peace, but is largely misunderstood. And, of course, he is murdered and resurrected. Producer Blaustein credits screenwriter Edmund H. North for adding these provocative layers on top of a traditional science fiction tale.

The cast, music, and richness of themes contribute mightily to the film's timeless quality. But it's the story--along with that awesome robot Gort--that makes The Day the Earth Stood Still popular with viewers of all ages. I love to watch it with young people and tell them that they will need to memorize the film's classic phrase and repeat it at the appropriate point in the film...or the Earth will be destroyed. You'd be amazed at how many different variations I've heard of: "Klaatu barada nikto!"

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Sons of the Desert (1933) **

To some the comedic antics of Laurel and Hardy is an acquired taste.  Slapstick comedy is not highbrow and reveals nothing about the true meaning of the human condition—but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t good. Take me, for example. Some of my all-time favorite films are The English Patient, Smiles of a Summer Night, The Lovers (Louis Malle’s), The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, and The Lives of Others, just to name a few—all pretty much categorized by today’s standards as highbrow. Yet, I still enjoy watching a really good slapstick or “crude” comedy. For example, if someone asked me what the 2 best films of 2009 were (can’t do 2010 because I’m poor and can’t afford to pay $10 to see a film in a theater) I’d say The Secret in Their Eyes and The Hangover. Now, if you’ve seen these two films you know that they are in totally different class categories. Still, I cried at both: one from raw emotion (guess which one) and the other from laughing so hard. So, what am I trying to say with this exceedingly long introductory paragraph? Basically this: just because a film doesn’t delve into the human psyche or reveal some inner truth about humankind, that doesn’t mean that it lacks value. That said, let us move on to Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy’s clever 1933 film, Sons of the Desert.

This was a remake of the duo’s 1930 film Be Big and was their fourth feature length film.  In it, they are members of an all-male club called the Sons of the Desert (also the later name of the duo’s fan club) who are told by their Exalted Leader (really, that’s what he’s called) that everyone in the club must swear by oath to attend the annual convention in Chicago. Ah, but Stan and Ollie have wives who aren’t the type to allow their husbands to go off on a trip like this. Of course, Ollie thinks he’s “the king of his own castle” and Stan thinks he has to do everything his wife tells him to do. However, Ollie’s wife, Sugar, no, I mean Lottie (the always funny Mae Busch), is the true ruler of the Hardy household and she wants her husband to go to the mountains with her. Her accuracy with vases, especially towards Ollie’s head, is sharp—just like her words. When Stan's duck-hunting wife Betty (Dorothy Christy) gives Stan permission to go to the convention the boys  have to come up with a plan to get Ollie there too.

The duo hatch a plan that is fool-proof—or so these two fools believe-- with the help of an idiotic veterinarian (Lucien Littlefield) posing as a medical doctor, Ollie is diagnosed as having “canus delirous” (AKA, a nervous breakdown) and prescribed a cruise to Hawaii as a cure. Mrs. Hardy can’t go on the trip with Ollie because she suffers from sea sickness, and so that means that Stan will have to go instead.

In Chicago we see the boys having a frolicking good time—along with Charley Chase, who has many laughs at their expense with the aid of a paddle and a water-squirting flower. There are scantily clad hula dancers, so in a way Ollie has seen Hawaii in some form. It turns out that Charley is Ollie’s long-lost brother-in-law and they engage in a hilariously risqué long-distance conversation with “Sugar". I especially enjoyed when Charley calls her a great organ pumper.

Thinking their ruse has worked, the boys head back to Los Angeles unaware that the cruise ship they were supposed to be on has sunk. This sets up two very entertaining scenes. The first is with a taxi driver that is pure slapstick—Stan was always the best physical comedian of the two in my opinion, and this scene showcases this, as well as his wonderful deadpan delivery. The second scene is when the boys return home and learn of the cruise ship disaster and hide from their wives in Stan’s attic. Their plan is to hide out until the rescued cruise passengers are brought to shore and then pretend they are amongst the survivors. The problem is the wives go to the cinema to get their minds off the plight of their husbands and see a newsreel of the Sons of the Desert convention in Chicago.

At one point the boys come crashing through the ceiling and find themselves hiding on the roof during a thunderstorm. They end up being apprehended by a policeman who wants to know their addresses…wait for it…to this Ollie remarks to Stan: “Here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into.” Presented to their wives, they unknowingly continue to weave some fantastic lie about how they ship-hiked after the typhoon. Basically, it is pure Laurel and Hardy.

So what makes Laurel and Hardy work? I think it is the opposites attract thing. Stan is thin, tall, honest, and calm and Ollie is short, fat, dishonest, and anything but calm. Of course, Ollie think he’s so much smarter than Stan—the exasperated looks he gives the camera at certain points throughout their films are a trademark.  And, Stan is pretty oblivious most of the time, so Ollie might have something there. Yet, it is Stan who usually gets the last laugh, as he often proves it is better to be lucky than smart. They just work well together. It isn’t life-affirming cinema, but it is entertaining. And, even if it is closing in on being 80-years-old, it is still funny.

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Wild Strawberries (Smultronstallet) 1957 **1/2

(This article is from guest contributor Sarkoffagus and first appeared at The Classic Film & TV Cafe.  The rating in the title is my own.)

Professor Isak Borg (Victor Sjöström), an aging physician and widower, is to receive an honorary degree from his alma mater, Lund University. After having a disconcerting dream of a lonely street, a clock with no hands, and a horse-drawn carriage (transporting a coffin with the professor’s lifeless body inside), Isak leaves for the ceremony earlier than planned, much to the dismay of his sassy but nimble housekeeper, Miss Agda (Jullan Kindahl). Traveling by car, Isak begins his journey with his daughter-in-law, Marianne (Ingrid Thulin), stopping at the summer home from his childhood and encountering a trio of youngsters, including a girl who reminds him of his first love (both named Sara and both played by Bibi Andersson). Plagued by more dreams, Isak’s trip becomes a catharsis, as he must comes to terms with his apathy towards others, his estranged son, and his despondent marriage.

Swedish filmmaker Ingmar Bergman was known for his somber movies, such as The Virgin Spring (1960), Hour of the Wolf (1968), and Cries and Whispers (1973), many of them wrought with misery and tortured characters. Considering this, the director’s 1957 Wild Strawberries (original title: Smultronstället) is refreshingly optimistic. Isak’s dreams are unmistakable representations of his fears: loneliness, his impending death, and his days of elation to forever remain distant memories. Once on the road, Marianne ruthlessly informs the professor that his son hates him, reminding Isak of the cold manner in which he allowed his daughter-in-law to stay with him (insinuating that problems between the couple were not his concern) and a loan that his son is slowly paying back (Marianne believing that the wealthy professor does not need the money). Isak is also forced to remember that his deceased wife, Karin, was an unhappy woman, which she blames on the man’s detachment and passivity.

Notwithstanding the dismal dreams and recollections of a rueful life, Bergman’s film is encouraging, for the simple fact that Isak is acknowledging that his uncaring behavior is a character flaw. Furthermore, he is experiencing an emotion he has likely never previously felt: guilt. Perhaps for the first time, Isak is seeing how his dispassion has affected the people in his life. When Isak and Marianne visit his mother, the professor sees the coldness in his mother that he has shown to his wife, his son and his daughter-in-law. The elderly lady rummages through a box filled with items of the past, her memories nothing more than keepsakes. It’s a sad scene, but one in which Isak recognizes that he does not want souvenirs of his youth but rather the happiness associated with it. More importantly, he does not wish upon his son memories of sorrow and pain.

There are a number of uplifting moments in Wild Strawberries. The young Sara is not simply an expression of Isak’s carefree childhood, but, with her genuine enthusiasm over seeing the professor awarded his honorary degree, she likewise represents happiness that remains within reach. In one sequence, the group stops at a gas station, where the attendant (Max von Sydow) fondly recalls Isak, who once had an office nearby. The man so admires the professor that he refuses payment, and as he praises the man’s kindness to his wife, the typically doleful Marianne flashes a bright, honest smile.

Wild Strawberries was awarded the Golden Bear at the Berlin International Film Festival, won for Best Film and Best Actor at the Mar del Plata Film Festival, and won a Best Foreign Film Golden Globe (Samuel Goldwyn International Award), along with four other films that year. It was also nominated for an Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay.

Thulin, Andersson and von Sydow were frequent collaborators with Bergman, appearing in a number of the Swedish director’s movies. Sjöström was a prominent film director in Sweden during the silent film era and directed a number of U.S. films (under the Americanized name of Victor Seastrom). He only made a few talkies before focusing his efforts as artistic director of the production company, Svensk Filmindustri, in the 1940s and acting in theatrical productions. This was the final film for Sjöström as either actor or director. He died a little more than two years later in 1960.


Although not an official remake, Woody Allen’s film, Another Woman (1988), borrows several thematic elements from Wild Strawberries and is generally considered an homage to Bergman’s movie. Similarly, the very basic plot to Allen’s film, Deconstructing Harry (1997), resembles both Wild Strawberries and another Bergman film, Through a Glass Darkly (1961). This is typical of Allen’s movies, as he often makes what can be considered his version of an European film, including yet another Bergman movie, 1955’s Smiles of a Summer Night (Allen’s 1982 A Midsummer Night’s Sex Comedy), as well as films from Italian director Federico Fellini (e.g., Allen’s 1980 Stardust Memories being his take on Fellini’s 1963 8½).

It is abundantly clear by the film’s end that Isak wishes to make a change in his life and hopes that it will spark changes in other people’s lives as well. The interaction between Isak and Miss Agda is pleasantly droll, but the most rewarding relationship in the film is the one between the professor and his daughter-in-law. They are the two characters who develop the most throughout the film, both stubborn people who gradually find contentment, shared and personal alike. The title refers to the wild strawberries growing in a field near Isak’s childhood home, but it is not merely a hint of childhood and nostalgia. The strawberries are wild because they are free, unburdened by regret and not restrained by old-world ways and traditions or fearing what is to come. They find their peace in simple existence.

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Kiss Me Deadly (1955) **

(This article is from guest contributor Sarkoffagus and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.)

Robert Aldrich's Kiss Me Deadly (1955) opens with a woman's bare feet sprinting on an apparently deserted road. The woman, Christina (Cloris Leachman, in her film debut), stands in front of an approaching vehicle. Gumshoe Mike Hammer (Ralph Meeker) swerves his car to avoid hitting her, and he reluctantly agrees to take her to the bus station. On the way, Christina tells Mike that, should they not make their destination, he needs to do one thing for her: "Remember me," she ominously states. Suddenly, they are forced off the road, and a semi-conscious Mike later sees a congregation of feet, while hearing Christina being tortured and killed. The dazed P.I. and the woman's body are put into Mike's car and pushed down a cliff.

Mike Hammer awakens in the hospital and is subsequently questioned by the police. The private eye, who specializes in divorce cases, soon has people asking about him, following him, and idly threatening him. Cops and criminals alike think that Mike is withholding pertinent information, and after having his private investigator's license and gun permit revoked, he tells his secretary and lover, Velda (Maxine Cooper), to forget the cheating spouses so that they can focus solely on "something big." And what everyone seems to be after is indeed big, bigger than Mike could ever anticipate.

Kiss Me Deadly was based on a novel of the same name by Mikey Spillane, featuring his immensely popular character. Reportedly, screenwriter A.I. Bezzerides, who adapted the book, had such aversion for the source text that the film ultimately took a dim view to Mike Hammer, turning him into a rather vile and despicable character. When initially interrogated, Mike refuses to talk, and the cops seem disgusted by him, asking him questions and patronizing him by "answering" on his behalf. When the gumshoe leaves, one of the men vindictively states, "Open a window." This is a man who knocks someone down a long flight of steps and smirks as he watches him roll down, a vicious person who clearly takes pleasure in slamming an uncooperative man's fingers in a desk drawer. He's the definitive antihero. He drowns the world out with loud classical music and screens his phone calls.

There are so many twists and turns in this film that it feels like constant movement. The first shot of Kiss Me Deadly is, appropriately, running feet. There's a distinct impression that Mike is running from place to place, hoping to be two steps ahead of everyone but more accurately having trouble keeping up. The concept of momentum is a significant component of the movie. Mike tries to identify Christina's killers by shoes, the deceased woman is equated with her roommate, Lilly (Gaby Rodgers), as she is likewise introduced with bare feet, and when Mike is taken captive, he is knocked unconscious and dragged (on a beach, as his feet leave a trail), and he is bound by feet and hands.

Mike moves forward with the investigation, and the villains want to stop him. His first car is wrecked, and he is "given" a second car with an explosive surprise. Other people have been killed in "accidents" involving vehicles. It's fitting that one of Mike's only friends is Nick (Nick Dennis), an auto mechanic whose catchphrase is, "Va-va-voom!" He's essentially an antithesis to the villains, wanting to fix what they wish to destroy.

With this in mind, the film's title can take on multiple connotations. A superficial view would associate the "kiss" with succumbing to the affection of the opposite sex, letting down your guard and opening yourself to a lethal reciprocation. But it can also refer to what Mike himself calls "the sweet little kiss off," an acknowledgment of death or, more specifically, the very thing which kills you. This gives deeper meaning to a warning provided by Velda: "Keep away from the windows. Somebody might blow you a kiss." Most notably, however, Kiss Me Deadly is a recognition of both good and bad, that sex ultimately leads to violence, as the two go hand in hand. Perhaps the film's quintessential shot is Lilly lying in bed, adorned in a robe and pointing a gun at the door.

Aldrich's film is abundant in atmosphere and style. Furthermore it's surprisingly violent, some of it even by today's standards. The majority of the violence's impact is not from the presentation itself but rather the callous way in which Mike dishes it out. Ralph Meeker has incredible presence, making Mike Hammer the type of character who makes a viewer feel both unassailable and anxious. At one point, Mike is shadowed by a stranger. The P.I. spots him almost immediately and seems to enjoy the moments preceding the inevitable attack. When the stranger pulls a switchblade, Mike forces him to drop the knife with the greatest of ease, before knocking him around and slamming his head against a building several times. It takes an extraordinarily cruel protagonist to make an audience sympathize with a man whose intent was to literally stab someone in the back.

The thing that everyone wants -- what Velda calls "the great whatsit" -- will likely be a surprise for anyone who hasn't seen the film (and hopefully hasn't been told how the film ends). Kiss Me Deadly continues its winding plot all the way to the closing credits, creating one of the grandest and most gleefully erratic cinematic endings of all time. Interestingly, for years the film's conclusion was truncated and left a couple of characters' fates in question. More recent copies of the film (the DVD, for instance) have the original ending intact.

Kiss Me Deadly is a solid entry in the film noir genre. Mike Hammer in Mikey Spillane's novels was a driven man, taken to seeking his own brand of justice; just look at some of the titles -- I, the Jury, Vengeance is Mine, etc. But Aldrich's cinematic Hammer is much more brutally simplistic. He just wants the payoff, indifferent to the people he hurts or kills, ignoring the police's requests for information, etc. In the end, it's impossible to tell if Mike wants to solve the mystery, if he's still hoping for monetary compensation, or if he's merely going through the motions. Such an enigmatic and unlikeable character within a baffling plot makes Kiss Me Deadly a beautifully complex and highly recommended feature.

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The Lady from Shanghai (1948) **1/2

(The following review is a collaboration between guest contributors Rick29 and  Sarkoffagus and first appeared at http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/.  The rating in the title is my own.) 

After saving a beautiful woman from three would-be attackers, Michael O'Hara (Orson Welles) is offered a job by the woman, Elsa (Rita Hayworth). Although apparently disappointed that she is married to a prominent defense attorney, Arthur Bannister (Everett Sloane), Michael agrees to pilot her husband's yacht. At sea, Michael not only witnesses the rather unusual relationship between husband and wife, he also meets Bannister's law partner, George Grisby (Glenn Anders). Grisby makes a peculiar offer: the lawyer is planning on faking his death, and he wants Michael to confess to the "murder," so that Grisby can collect the insurance reimbursement. Michael agrees, because by this time, he and Elsa have started an illicit affair, and he needs the money so that they can leave together. The stage is set for various double crossings and multiple plot twists!

The Lady from Shanghai is clearly a film about control, or the lack thereof. From the beginning, it seems, Elsa is controlling Michael. She draws him in with her beauty, and although he initially appears upset that Elsa is married, Michael still accepts the job offered by Mr. Bannister. Does he need to money? Perhaps. But the audience (and Elsa) knows why he really wanted to go sailing. Elsa controls everyone, and by extension, she controls everything. Elsa manipulates all three men and has them playing against one another. For example, one could maintain that she kissed Michael knowing full well that Grisby would see them. One of the movie's best lines belongs to Elsa (when first offering the job to Michael): "I'll make it worth your while." This is the essence of Elsa. Would a man do something he didn't want to simply because she asked him to do it? Most likely, yes. And there's absolutely no question as to what she's referring, by the breathy and seductive manner in which she speaks the line.


Elsa even controls the camera. One scene in particular is a great example of her visual control. Elsa is lying on the ship's deck with Grisby sitting nearby, and Bannister is discussing money with Michael. While Bannister is talking, the shot lingers on Elsa as she hands her cigarette to Grisby and asks him to light it (for the audience, her dialogue dominates and momentarily overrides Bannister). Another shot shows Michael lighting the cigarette, and then a crane shot follows the smoldering cigarette from Grisby to Elsa, who indifferently puffs away. Michael desires Elsa, Bannister is speaking about money and happiness but seems to be alluding to his beautiful wife, and retrospectively, it's known that Grisby is planning on killing Bannister for Elsa. Three men -- three fools -- all controlled by the magnetic woman dreamily staring at the sky. Likewise, the shots of Elsa lying on the deck and posing on the rocks are seductive images. Grisby spies on her, and Michael watches her, too. The two men cannot look away.

The theme of "control" is intriguing. Welles wrote the screenplay (with a small credit for the story and novel), produced, and directed. He also famously had his wife cut and dye her trademark red hair. So while Hayworth's character was in total control on the screen, Welles wielded it behind the scenes -- until the studio took it away. Welles had trouble maintaining control of his films after Citizen Kane (1941). The Magnificent Ambersons (1942) was completely recut without his consent, as was The Lady from Shanghai. Welles' original cut was reportedly 150 minutes, so that means there's an hour of missing footage. The studio reeling Welles in was quite possibly beneficial, as it is difficult to imagine the film at two hours, let alone in excess of that. As Alfred Hitchcock once said: "The length of a film should be directly related to the endurance of the human bladder."
 
Welles' films always benefit from rich characters, and The Lady from Shanghai is no exception. Ironically, the most sympathetic character may be Bannister. He knows Elsa is bad (he starts to tell the story of how they met... but cuts it short) and know that he's under her control. He's even willing to pimp for her; isn't that what he's doing when he goes to the docks to hire Michael? He's willing to let her cheat on him, as evidenced by stating that he doesn't mind that Michael loves her (and he likely means "love" in the physical sense). All he asks is that she stay with him, which makes him sympathetic or pathetic or both?


Then again, it's a fairly sad lot of people from which to find sympathy. Bannister seems to accept things the way they are, and he deals with life as it comes along. This is in contrast to Michael, who constantly looks ahead, hoping for everything to turn out one way but knowing it'll likely go somewhere else. I think the most unsympathetic person might be Grisby. Any type of control he has or thinks he has is highly evident, because he acts in the manner of a child, especially in the scene with Michael on the boat and Elsa is on the rocks. He also sweats incessantly, so perhaps Welles wanted the audience to view him as the "greasy" character. But, at the very least, Grisby is honest with himself. Michael wants Elsa, but he has to find excuses to be with her. Elsa would lie in a blink if it meant self-preservation. Grisby is transparent: he is greedy, he is jealous of Michael, and he wants Elsa, too. He doesn't try to hide his intentions or present himself as anything other than the greasy weasel that he is.

Orson Welles was perhaps a better director than actor. While he's very good in Touch of Evil (1958), he was too exaggerated as the evil cop, and even in Citizen Kane, he hams it up. Although, he was always theatrical because of his work on radio, in which voice is the most important tool (it's similar to the theatre, where an actor has to overdo it a bit because he/she has to project the voice). Welles is sometimes too theatrical, but Michael in Shanghai is underplayed to great effect. Michael is a brooding man and an emotional punching bag. With a lack of presence, he's really only there for Elsa to unload upon. In short, he's the complete opposite of other Welles' characters, like Quinlan in Touch of Evil and Charles Foster Kane. Rita Hayworth gives a smashing, memorable performance, and she and Welles are complemented by the supporting cast, especially Sloane (who played an equally cynical employer in 1956's Patterns, scripted by Twilight Zone creator/narrator Rod Serling).

Though it's easy to see why The Lady from Shanghai is a cult film, it's undoubtedly flawed. Even at 90 minutes, it's an indulgent film, sometimes quirky just for the sake of it -- such as the over-the-top courtroom scene with Bannister cross-examining himself. Welles gives himself the best dialogue, though everyone has a memorable line or two. Technically, it alternates between shoddy (some of the rear screen shots) and dazzling (the location scenes in San Francisco, the incredible mirror hall climax). But one thing is clear: it's not an easy film to forget!

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