In a Lonely Place (1950)

All About Eve (1950) ****

Rio Grande (1950) **

For me, the best thing about director John Ford’s Rio Grande (1950) is that its small budget and huge success ensured that Republic Pictures gave Ford the money he needed to make The Quiet Man (1952). This is not to say that Rio Grande is a bad film, but it certainly isn’t a favorite of mine, either.  This, no doubt, stems from the fact that I’m not a big western fan, and that is definitely what Rio Grande is, albeit a rather soap opera-ish one. 

The first of three films that John Ford, John Wayne, and Maureen O’Hara would make together (the others being The Quiet Man and The Wings of Eagles), Rio Grande is considered the final installment in Ford’s “cavalry trilogy” (with Fort Apache and She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, all starring Wayne). Based on James Warner Bellah’s 1947 short story, “Mission with No Record”, Rio Grande tells a strange family reunion tale along the Rio Grande River.  Colonel Kirby Yorke (Wayne) is a Cavalry commander along the Mexico border who is besieged by raiding Apaches who use Mexico as a safe haven in between attacks.  Colonel Yorke’s troubles mount when his son, Trooper Jeff Yorke (Claude Jarman, Jr.), is posted under his command. Having recently flunked out of West Point, Jeff enlisted in the Army as a matter of pride and to emulate a father who he hasn’t seen in over 15 years.  Not long after Jeff’s arrival, Colonel Yorke’s very southern wife, Kathleen (Maureen O’Hara), arrives at the post to pay $100 to have Jeff released from the Army.  While it’s clear that Colonel Yorke and Kathleen still love one another they have two problems to overcome: her insistence that Jeff be released from his enlistment and her anger over Colonel Yorke’s having burnt down her family’s plantation during the siege of Shenandoah during the Civil War.  Complicating this domestic drama are pesky Indians who kidnap a wagon filled with children and a Trooper (Ben Johnson) who is wanted for manslaughter for killing a Yankee who made unwanted advances toward his sister.

While I can’t fault Bert Glennon’s cinematography, which impressively captures Monument Valley, there is no doubt that Rio Grande would have looked a lot better in color.  However, Ford was forced to shoot in black and white to save money that would be later used to capture the emerald green of Ireland in The Quiet Man. Still, the desert always looks better in color, and this film, for me, suffers from a mundane feel. The Wayne and O’Hara spark wasn’t yet on full display yet (although they definitely have their moments), as this was their very first film together, which somewhat lessens the overall effectiveness of the movie.  Of course, it doesn’t help that their son is so freaking boring, either.  Perhaps if Ben Johnson had played Jeff Yorke instead of Jarman things may have turned out differently—Johnson is a standout here.

Thankfully, Rio Grande is aided by a rather impressive supporting cast: Victor McLaglen, J. Carrol Naish, Chill Willis, and Harry Carey, Jr. While McLaglen and Carey are pigeonholed into playing clownish figures, Naish shines in his brief appearances as General Sheridan.  He looks and acts like someone with the toughest regional command in the military.  Still, the fact that he, and the audience, has to seem entertained by the fort’s serenading squad (the Sons of the Pioneers) is an unwanted nuisance which happens several times throughout the film. I will harken back to their unnecessary presence here the next time I watch The Quiet Man to see if there is anything that could have been improved by the money that was spent on them here.

Overall, Rio Grande is a moderately entertaining movie.  I expect its importance stems from it being the first collaboration between Wayne and O’Hara, as well as Wayne, O’Hara and Ford.  Yet, for me, there is nothing exceptional about it.

 

Orpheus (Orphée) 1950 **

Writer/poet, and sometimes director, Jean Cocteau was a fan of surrealism and an opium addict—this explains a lot about his own unique retelling of the Orpheus myth, Orphée (1950). For those unfamiliar with the Greek myth, Orpheus is a musician who is compelled by his love for his wife, Eurydice, to descend into the underworld to reclaim her. He so enchants the gods with his lyre playing that they allow Eurydice to return to the upper world on the condition that Orpheus not look at her on the journey out of the underworld, but he does and she dies again.  Cocteau’s Orphée is most assuredly not a classic interpretation of this myth but, rather, a surrealistic reimagining of one of the most romantic tragic myths ever composed.  Simply put, it’s an art film with cool special effects and a bizarre storyline.

Set in modern day Paris, the story begins with famed poet Orpheus (Jean Marais) witnessing an accident involving a young poet named Cégeste (Edouard Dermithe) and being told by a princess” (Maria Casares) to escort her and the body to the hospital. However, the princess is not really a princess but actually Death, and she’s come to claim Cégeste as her servant—she brings Orpheus along for the ride because she wants to enchant him with her beautiful mystique. When he is escorted home by Death’s assistant Heurtebise (François Périer) in her Rolls Royce, he is consumed by his love for Death and the messages that she has transmitted to him via her car radio, totally ignoring his pregnant wife, Eurydice (Marie Déa).  Every night when the couple goes to sleep Death emerges from a mirror in their bedroom to watch Orpheus sleep.  Wanting Orpheus for herself, she arranges an accident to befall Eurydice, knowing that Heurtebise will convince Orpheus that he must reclaim his wife from the underworld.  In an underworld that looks like the blitzkrieg has hit it, Orpheus is reunited with Death and doesn’t seem too concerned with getting Eurydice back, although he told Heurtebise that he wanted to see both women.  The judges see that Eurydice was unjustly brought to the underworld and release her on the condition that Orpheus NEVER look at her again—anywhere. Eventually he does and she returns to the underworld, and then Cocteau rewrites the myth with his own strange ending, which I will not reveal because it’s stupid and, also, because I don’t want to “ruin” it for anyone who hasn’t seen it. 

The premise for Orphée is rather inspired but that doesn’t mean that the finished product is.  The story suffers from an idiotic ancillary plot device (the Bacchante’s dislike of Orpheus) and requires too much suspended common sense on the viewer’s part—even for watching a fantasy film. Although they are minutely necessary for Orpheus’ second journey to the underworld, the Bacchante’s distaste for Orpheus is never explained and at the end of the story they seem to have floated away into nothingness. Additionally, in the myth, Orpheus truly loved his wife and wanted her to return to him.  In the movie, Orpheus could care less about his wife and is totally consumed with passion for Death—it’s a ridiculous love triangle.  This would-be love triangle, in turn, makes the ending of the movie completely unpalatable. The ending will have you asking: really, that’s how it ends?  It’s surrealist art films like this that leave a bad taste in my mouth.

However, there are two saving graces to Orphée: the acting is good and the special effects are entertaining.  Regarding the acting, the four principal leads (Marais, Casares, Déa, and Périer) are all enchanting to watch.  In particular, Périer does a stellar job of portraying Heurtebise’s unease in carrying out Death’s orders while falling in love with Eurydice himself.  His resigned disgust of Orpheus’ behavior is the one thing that somehow holds the story together.  And, while I know many people found Casares to lack the screen presence to play Death, I rather enjoyed her interpretation of a nihilistic dominatrix. Quite frankly, if the story had been just about Death and Heurtebise I would have been quite pleased because Orpheus does nothing for me in this, even though I can’t really say that Marais plays the role poorly.  As a matter of fact, a love triangle between Death, Heurtebise, and Eurydice (who is played as a universally sweet woman by Déa) would have made a much more compelling story.

Still, it is the special effects that primarily saves this movie from my ultimate ire. Strangely, the funny thing is that Cocteau doesn’t really use any revolutionary special effects.  He relies heavily on reverse motion and back projection to dazzle his viewer—but he does it so cleverly that you have to admire it.  He uses reverse motion to make it appear that a pair of “magical” gloves put themselves on the hands that are to wear them and also to break mirrors, which are used to transport people to and from the underworld.  The best line of Orphée explains why: “Look at a mirror for a lifetime you will see death at work.” Although it appears as if the characters are walking through mirrors, Cocteau filmed still pools of water which reflected first the actors hands, which were in the pool of water, and then their faces which appeared in the water when the hands were removed.  Today such special effects may seem cheap, but in 1950 people had to be a little more creative than having a computer program do all the heavy lifting. 

Overall, Orphée’s bastardization of the Orpheus myth annoys me beyond comprehension. That said, Cocteau cleverly uses special effects to create a dreamlike atmosphere that is quite aesthetically pleasing and, thus, saves the film, somewhat, for me.

Winchester ‘73 (1950) **

Director Anthony Mann and legendary actor James Stewart made eight films together, five of which were westerns. Their first collaboration was Winchester ‘73 (1950), which is credited as the first “modern western”.  Stewart was 42 years old and worried that he was seen as an actor without range when he was presented with the opportunity to make Winchester ‘73. Fritz Lang had originally been slated as the movie’s director, but Universal Pictures wasn’t interested in having Lang’s own production company, Diana Productions, produce the film. Plus, Universal studio head William Goetz was trying to nail down a deal with Stewart to make Harvey (1950), which Stewart wanted $200,000 for. A deal was brokered for Stewart to earn 50% of the profits for both Harvey and Winchester ‘73, which also allowed Stewart to pick each film’s cast and director—he chose Mann for Winchester ‘73, and his career and the western genre would never be the same again.

The Mann/Stewart western redefined the western by making the protagonist of the film an ambiguous anti-hero.  Gone was the traditional white-hatted cowboy whose intentions were pure and straightforward. The new western “hero” was often a violent, bitter, and vengeful man who was either seeking redemption or revenge—or maybe both. 

Lin McAdam (Stewart) is seeking revenge in Winchester ‘73.  He arrives in Dodge City with two aims: winning a shooting contest for a prized Winchester ‘73 rifle and killing the man who shot his father in the back.  An outlaw and no-good bastard by all accounts, Dutch Henry Brown (Stephen McNally) is Lin’s sworn enemy and also ends up being his main competition at the shooting contest.  It’s hardly a surprise that Lin wins the rifle or that Dutch and his crew waylay him in his room and steal it.  From this point on, the Winchester becomes a character on its own—anyone who comes into possession of it, no matter under what circumstances, meets a bad end: Indian trader Lamont (Joe McIntire) gets scalped; Indian chief Young Bull (Rock Hudson) gets mowed down by the cavalry; would-be outlaw Steve Miller (Charles Drake) gets shot by crazy gunslinger, Waco Johnnie Dean (Dan Duryea); and, then there’s the epic battle between Lin and Dutch—one dies and then the other walks away with the rifle. Personally, I think the victor should have tried to sell that cursed rifle as soon as possible.

I’m sure many people will be unhappy that I only gave Winchester ‘73 two out of four stars.  Yes, it is a rather revolutionary film with its reimagining of the western.  However, for me, it doesn’t go far enough and holds onto some of the moralizing effects of the traditional western.  For example, Lin is supposed to be a man hell bent on revenge, but he still comes off as hero-esque.  Yes. he’s supposed to be a conflicted man—at his heart he’s a good, decent man but vengeance drives him to hunt down and kill a man. Yet, I don’t really ever see much confliction. I do see him standing with the cavalry against Rock Hudson’s Indians and behaving like a gallant gentleman to dance hall girl Lola Manners (Shelley Winters).  Only in small snippets of conversation with his friend and traveling companion High-Spade (Millard Mitchell) do I slightly sense that perhaps there is something evil brimming in Lin.  Still, the idea that a western would premise itself as a revenge tale with the “hero” acting as judge and executioner was something new.

For my money, I’ll take Stewart in The Man from Laramie (1955) and The Naked Spur (1953) over his turn in Winchester ‘73. Perhaps it took him a few films to hone the nuances needed for this new character type, but by the time he made The Man from Laramie he had perfected the part.  It may have also helped if Dutch had been played by the great Dan Duryea instead of Stephen McNally, as he would have probably pushed Stewart more, as Arthur Kennedy’s Vic Hansbro does in The Man from Laramie and Robert Ryan’s Ben Vandergroat does in The Naked Spur. 

I won’t complain about the fact that Rock Hudson plays an Indian—this is just a sad fact about older Hollywood films that I try to ignore.  And, I won’t say much about Shelley Winter’s Brooklyn accent in the middle of Kansas, either.  Perhaps Lola had made her way west and that was really how she spoke.  Plus, Winter’s rather unique way of portraying tough broads played well here.  Her interactions with Duryea are probably my favorite scenes in the film.

Overall, Winchester ‘73 is to be credited for modernizing and revitalizing the western genre.  It also reshaped Stewart’s career and probably helped him prepare for his later roles in Rear Window (1954) and Vertigo (1958). Yet, for me, Winchester ‘73 lacks a legitimate villain and does not allow Lin to venture down a dark enough path to capitalize on the ambiguity of playing a man who is essentially good but driven by very bad intentions.

The Asphalt Jungle (1950) **1/2

(This is my contribution to the CMBA's Fabulous Films of the 1950s Blogathon, which runs May 21-May 26. Check out all the great blog posts!)

Tight—that is the best word to describe director John Huston’s, The Asphalt Jungle (1950).  The plot, cinematography and the acting are all tightly wound together to create one of the most compelling film noir heist movies ever made.  Quite simply, it is the granddaddy of all heist movies, such classics as Rififi (1955) and The Killing (1956) and modern-day “classics” like Oceans Eleven (2001) and Inside Man (2006) all derive from The Asphalt Jungle. What is most compelling, however, about the movie is how it looks at the subterranean world of crime and how different from your typical noir it actually is. 

Adapted from W.R. Burnett’s novel of the same name, Ben Maddow and John Huston’s Oscar-nominated screenplay is tied together by a jewel heist.  The lives of several men are determined by the success or failure of stealing and fencing diamonds and gold worth more than a million dollars (which was a lot of money back in 1950).  The mastermind of the caper is Doc Riedenschneider (Sam Jaffe, in an Oscar-nominated performance), a recently released big timer with a full-proof plan to rob a jewelry store.  He enlists a local bookie, Cobby (Marc Lawrence), to help him snag $50,000 to put a crew together.  This leads him to Emmerich (Louis Calhern), a respected local lawyer with supposedly big pockets, who is also probably the most corrupt man in town.  The audience is then educated as to what is necessary, other than money, to pull off a grand heist—a box man, the guy who breaks into the safe (Anthony Caruso), a driver (James Whitmore), and a hooligan who handles a gun and any security guards or cops (Sterling Hayden).  Once this part of the education is over, we are then treated to a painstakingly detailed view of the entire heist. Unfortunately, things don’t go as planned and a few people get shot and there is a major double-cross that throws a damper on an otherwise spectacularly planned and orchestrated crime.

The underbelly of crime always proves compelling, and in The Asphalt Jungle it is on full display. However, the seediness is not only comprised of only career criminals but also respected lawyers and police officers as well.  For example, Cobby runs a local book that is protected by Lieutenant Ditrich (Barry Kelley), who gets kickbacks for looking the other way.  And, then there’s Emmerich, a highly respected man who both finances and represents crooks, while living in a fine house and carrying on with a woman young enough to be his daughter, or niece (played by Marilyn Monroe), while his bedridden wife (Dorothy Tree) just wants to play cards.

The story does a smart job of planting small hints about the criminals’ weaknesses and also explaining what makes them commit the crimes they do.  Doc won’t touch alcohol and has a fondness for young girls (one of which will haunt him in the end).  Dix (Hayden) only wants to make enough money to buy back his family’s horse farm but can never save enough from his robberies because he bets on the horses.  And, Louie (Caruso) has a wife and child to support.  They all just want one big score so they can get out of the life. These sympathetic, human characters don’t fit the stereotypical noir criminal, who are often violent and unethical.  For the most part, all of the criminals seem to follow a code of ethics, which flies in the face of Noir 101.

And, completely opposite to other noirs, there are no femme fatales anywhere to be seen in The Asphalt Jungle, which might sound strange when one considers that the perfect femme fatale-esque actress was in the film, Marilyn Monroe.  None of the male characters are obsessed with any wicked women. In fact, all of the women in the picture are highly sympathetic—even Monroe, who comes across as the most innocent mistress ever known to cinema. 

However, like any noir, The Asphalt Jungle is a shadow-filled black and white picture full of dark, atmospheric shots. Still, Huston’s framing of the film is much more open and uncluttered compared to other noirs.  He and Oscar-nominated cinematographer Harold Rosson employed high contrast lighting from start to finish, with an extended opening scene that follows Dix walking through a deserted asphalt jungle after his most recent robbery.  Perhaps my favorite scene in the film, other than the 11-minute jewelry heist, is when Doc first paces up and down the tight hallway of Cobby’s book parlor waiting to be introduced. One blinding overhead light illuminates the otherwise dark, grimy hallway as Doc walks toward the static camera—almost walking straight into it—and then he turns his back toward the opening door and the emerging image of Cobby. It’s a small scene, but so full of brilliant lighting and lens work. 

While Hayden may have gotten top billing, Jaffe was clearly the star of the show.  Of course, it helps that Jaffe could act galaxies around Hayden, but his character was the most interesting of the lot.  It takes skill to portray a tightly-wound but always composed character. Additionally, Calhern’s turn as Emmerich is also engaging.  Yes, it’s difficult to feel sympathy for a double-crosser and a philanderer, but when he sits down to write a letter to his wife when he’s about to be arrested and then rips it up after writing it, you almost feel sorry for him. 

Overall, The Asphalt Jungle was an important development in cinema.  It pioneered the heist film and laid the foundation for generations of heist films to come.  Additionally, it broke the barriers of film noir, and ushered in characterization and a more open and uncluttered framing into the world of noir. 

For more great Fabulous Films of the 1950s blog posts click this link: http://clamba.blogspot.com/.

Sunset Boulevard (1950) ***

Before there was The Artist (2011) there was director Billy Wilder’s Sunset Boulevard (1950). Both movies shine a very bright light on the plight of a silent film star in the Hollywood Sound Era.  Of course, things end much better for George Valentin in The Artist than they do for Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) in Sunset Boulevard, but that’s probably why I prefer Norma’s story.  It also helps that the acting is insanely good, the script is dark and acidic, and the set design is ostentatiously divine. 

The story opens with out-of-work screenwriter Joe Gillis (William Holden) floating in a pool—are spoiler alerts really needed after this?—and Joe narrating how he came to find himself there. Trying to evade the repo-man, Joe pulls his car into the driveway and subsequent garage of silent movie queen Norma Desmond.  His timing is both good and bad. It’s bad because Norma’s beloved chimp is soon to be interned, but good because she is planning a return (please don’t say ‘comeback’) to the screen via a screenplay she has penned herself that needs the deft hand of an abled-bodied writer.  Joe, of course, is the obvious choice—he’s broke and hiding from repo-men. 

Norma’s enormous gilded mansion is a decaying monument to herself—photographs and paintings of her line the walls and furniture tops. The house and Norma are attended by Max (Erich von Stroheim)—a quiet, unassuming former director and husband of Norma. I expect it was rather painful to watch Norma make Joe her gigolo, but Max was the sort of man who just wanted to keep his ‘star’ happy. Anyway, the movie takes on a sadistically ironic feel when someone from Paramount calls the house and Norma assumes Cecil B. DeMille wants to direct her in the Salome screenplay she and Joe have penned. Suffice to say this was not the case—they wanted to use her Isotta-Fraschini (see: big, expensive car)—but no one tells Norma and she sets off on a beauty-workout montage that would make Rocky proud.  All the while, Joe is getting cozy with a young female screenwriter (Nancy Olson) and thinking of a way to escape his situation.  Alas, no one ever leaves a star—at least that’s what Norma thinks—and Joe ends up floating face-down in the pool.

I never really liked Gloria Swanson’s silent films and her early forays into the Sound Era were nothing to write home about, either.  Yet, there is something mesmerizing about her campy performance as Norma.  Of course, Wilder and fellow screenwriters Charles Brackett and D.M. Marshman, Jr., incorporated so much of the real Swanson into Norma that it’s hard to know where one woman begins and the other ends.  For example, in her heyday, Swanson was known to have received 10,000 fan letters in a single week and she lived in a gigantic Italianate palace on Sunset Blvd—just as Norma did.  Surely, Swanson knew how grotesquely Wilder was portraying Norma, which only adds to her overall performance. It’s as though she were saying, “You want a delusional megalomaniac past her prime, do you? Well, feast your eyes on these wild eyes, affected mannerisms, and predatory, stalking gait!” Swanson earned her third, and most deserved, Oscar nomination for a role that countless faded female stars turned down, but only she had the panache to play!

The other three principal actors (Holden, Stroheim, and Olson) were also nominated for Academy Awards, but none would have shined quite as bright without Swanson (and in Olson’s case you can only wonder how weak the Best Supporting Actress category was that year?). Holden is convincing as the cynical, world-weary Joe, who finds himself grudgingly accepting the position of gigolo to a lunatic.  Yet, it’s not his acting that I most remember when I think of him in this, but his wonderful physique when he emerges shirtless from the swimming pool (before he was dead, mind you).

In Stroheim’s case, he like Swanson, was playing a caricature of himself.  He hadn’t directed a film in nearly 15 years when Wilder asked him to play Max von Mayerling and screen a version of his Queen Kelly (1929) for Norma and Joe to watch (it starred Swanson).  When he “directs” the final scene in the movie, you know where Norma comes down the stairs and says, “All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up,” it must have stung just a bit—Stroheim was considered to be just as good as DeMille in the 1920s but their careers took dramatically different turns in the Sound Era. 

But there would have been no standout performances without Wilder’s brilliant script—it drips with acidic venom for the excesses of Hollywood.  No element is safe, but the Studio System is his biggest target.  When Norma says to Joe the writer, “We didn't need dialogue. We had faces” and “You'll make a rope of words and strangle this business! With a microphone there to catch the last gurgles, and Technicolor to photograph the red, swollen tongues!” Wilder was making a statement about what passed for artistry in (then) modern cinema.  Some, like Louis B. Mayer, were outraged by Wilder’s film and he took some heat for it, but in the end he had the last laugh as Sunset Boulevard endures as one of the best films ever about Hollywood.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Hans Dreier, John Meehan, Sam Comer, and Moyer for their Oscar-winning art direction and set design.  They made good use of the Getty mansion (which was actually located on Wilshire Blvd. before they tore it down and built the beyond boring Harbor Building).  Massive in size, every inch was used to display Norma’s ostentatious personality.  From the swan-shaped bed to the overcrowded living room, everything screams: Look at me! 

Finally, I must commend Franz Waxman’s Oscar-winning film score.  It bookends the film perfectly, but plays exceptionally well in that infamous, unforgettable final scene as Norma glides down the staircase and approaches the camera for her final close-up—which ironically ends up being a long-shot.  What a way to end a movie! One of the best closing shots ever—right up there with The Third Man (1949), Modern Times (1936), and The Birds (1963).