Saturday, 5 August 2017

Budd Boetticher

Whoever is thinking about making a film should first watch a couple of films made by Budd Boetticher. Not just because so many of them are great works of art, but because he manages to capture so much in them despite them usually being around 70 minutes long and despite them usually having a slow pace. The precise judgement behind what is shown, what is said and what is left out is about as close to perfection you might reach in cinema. Then there is the moral clarity, which is put forward with the same precision and judgement. There is no need for lengthy discussions, all it takes is two words. "Do we?" It is a recurrent response from the main character, especially when played by Randolph Scott, whenever another character says, for example "We think alike you and I." or "Then we understand one another." Behind that "Do we?" lies a whole moral system, an ethics of how to live and how to behave towards others from which the main characters never flinch. In Seven Men from Now (1956) a cavalry officer is talking about killing Indians and looks nervously at Scott's character for confirmation. What he gets instead as one of those "Do we?" and the officer understands the implicit contempt and condemnation in the words and the tone of voice.

There are many other things in Boetticher's work that is special, such as their depictions of deep friendships and the visual style. Some of my favourite shots of all time are to be found in his work, and nothing beats this one from Ride Lonesome (1959):

Their force come not just from the beauty of them but also from the emotional undercurrent that they express, or crystallise. The films are often tragedies, and the images express that too. Comanche Station (1960) is a film about a man who has spent the last ten years mourning the loss of his wife while still searching for her in the mad hope that she might still be out there, somewhere. The film ends like it begins, with him alone on his horse, still searching.

Earlier this year an edited collection called ReFocus: The Films of Budd Boetticher was published by Edinburgh University Press and I contributed a chapter to it. What follows is a part from the introduction to my chapter. First I raise some questions about the concept of the "classical Hollywood style" of filmmaking and wondering whether there is such a thing and how it is to be defined. My suggestion is "a linear narrative, unambiguous cause and effect, an unobtrusive visual style and unironic" (which obviously leaves out quite a lot of Hollywood films) and then I turn to Boetticher:
Where does this leave Budd Boetticher? One the one hand his films do have a linear narrative, unambiguous cause and effect, an unobtrusive visual style and they are not obviously ironic, so in that respect it could be argued that he is a director who actually do make films in the style of authentic “classical” American cinema. But at the same time he is one of the most austere filmmakers of those who worked in Hollywood. His precise, economical style is sometimes more reminiscent of directors such as Yasujiro Ozu or Robert Bresson than any of his American contemporaries. There is rarely any stylistic excess or flamboyance, the actors underplay and are often expressionless and there is nothing that could be described as showing off. To some this might be regarded as a consequence of his films’ comparatively small budgets although there is actually no obvious correlation between a small budget and an austere style. Filmmakers like Edward G. Ulmer, Joseph H. Lewis and Samuel Fuller made films on equally small, or even smaller budgets, than Boetticher yet their style of filming was very different from his, and much more expressionistic and flamboyant. So Boetticher’s style of filmmaking should be regarded as a conscious choice; that he prefers this straightforward and low key style, and it is after all a style that is congenial with the themes of his films. The thing that really matters in his best films is the behavior of the characters, their moral code and grace under pressure, and these characters do not talk much and do not try to show off, nor do they become overtly emotional. (Those that try to show off are usually punished.) With his recurring theme of stoicism and grace it should not come as a surprise that Boetticher had a keen interest in bullfighting, and that he made several films on the subject. The first of these is Bullfighter and the Lady (1951), a key development in Boetticher’s career, the first full-length A-film that he made, as well as his first film about bullfighting. This essay will argue that Bullfighter and the Lady is an important film, and show how several of Boetticher’s themes and motifs, and his style of filmmaking, are fully formed here. It will also argue that there are links to both the transcendental style of filmmaking that Paul Schrader writes about, and to Taoism, the Chinese philosophical system, or way of life. 
While Boetticher is today remembered for his Westerns he made many other films that are also often as good and Bullfighter and the Lady is one example of that, as is the thriller The Killer is Loose (1956). Seek them out.

Seven Men from Now

The Killer is Loose

Friday, 21 July 2017

Summer break

It is July, the weather is nice and I am taking a break from working and writing. So eat an ice cream and wait for August when I will be back, or why not read some of my previous articles here, like these three:

Tokyo Drifter (Seijun Suzuki 1966)

Friday, 7 July 2017

Irving Lerner

In 1943 Irving Lerner directed two short documentaries, both pretty good: Swedes in America (aka Ingrid Bergman Answers) and The Autobiography of a "Jeep". At the time he was working for OWI, the United States Office for War Information and this should not come as a surprise because during his career Lerner did so many different things in movies that it beggars belief. He made anthropological films for Columbia University. He was unofficial editor on Spartacus (Anthony Mann/Stanley Kubrick 1960) and he was assistant to Mann on two other films, Men at War (1957) and God's Little Acre (1958). He acted in a few films and he worked in different capacities with such famous documentary filmmakers as Willard Van Dyke and Robert Flaherty, sometimes as co-director. The last film on which Lerner worked was Scorsese's New York, New York (1977), as an editor. He died during the making of the film and Scorsese dedicated it to him. Lerner was also a man of strong left-wing beliefs and in 1944 he was even accused of spying for the Soviet Union. (His point man was Arthur Adams who, despite the name, was a Russian agent working in the US. Adams was actually born in Sweden, in the town of Eskilstuna, to a Swedish father and a Russian mother.)

Lerner himself

From 1948 to 1952 Lerner had been a teaching film at the University of Southern California, and then he apparently felt the time was right the start making his own feature-length films. He directed at least seven fiction films and some also list him as uncredited director on A Town Called Bastard (aka A Town Called Hell 1971), for which only Robert Parrish received credit, but I do not know what the deal is what that. I have seen only three of them, Murder by Contract (1958), City of Fear (1959) and Cry of Battle (1963), but I have read enough about the other four, Man Crazy (1953), Edge of Fury (1958, co-directed with Robert Gurney Jr.), Studs Lonigan (1960) and The Royal Hunt of the Sun (1969), to be interested in them too. His first feature, Man Crazy, was written and produced by Philip Yordan, as was Studs Lonigan and The Royal Hunt of the Sun. Yordan was also the credited writer on both Men at War and God's Little Acre, although on the first of them he was just the front for the blacklisted Ben Maddow. Maddow also was an uncredited writer on Murder by Contract. So there was a fairly tight little group. Lerner was also a close friend of Fritz Lang, to the extent that Lerner's wife allegedly wondered exactly how close they were.

Murder by Contract

But it would not matter that Lerner is an interesting person if the films were bad, but they are not. At least not those I have seen. The most famous (comparatively speaking) is Murder by Contract, a low-budget film shot during one week and starring Vince Edwards. He plays Claude, who, unsatisfied with his regular job and impatient to fulfil his dream of buying his own house in Ohio, decides to become a hired killer. As he sees it, it is just another job, a business like any other. It is a quite remarkable film (Scorsese was of course a huge fan) and it is easy to imagine Godard watching it repeatedly. It is very tense and hardboiled, filled with eccentric details, unusual editing, handheld camera work and suggestive pans. The characters are also colourful, not just Claude but also the other people he meets. Especially the two men who are his guides when he comes to Los Angeles to do a job. (He is not particularly eager to get going. First, he wants to see the sights, gaze at the Pacific Ocean and go swimming.) In one scene Claude walks around in a gun store and is amazed by it all. What is it with all these guns? And he wonders (self-servingly) why it is that if you kill one man you are a murderer but if you drop bombs on cities, killing thousands of people, you are a hero. The film is also interesting for Claude's weird relationship to women, and it is what is to become his undoing. Murder by Contract is on the one hand pretty typical for its kind but it manages to put so much interesting stuff into its 75 minutes and is shot, by Lucien Ballard, in such an inspiring style that it is close to irresistible. The unusual score by Perry Botkin is another strength.

City of Fear is also a low-budget film shot in a week, it also stars Vince Edwards and is again shot by Lucien Ballard. The excellent jazz score is by Jerry Goldsmith. But despite all this the film is less special and more conventional than Murder by Contract. This time Edwards plays an escaped convict who has by mistake brought with him a metal canister with Cobalt-60, a highly toxic radioactive substance. (He thinks it is heroin in the canister, which he is unable to open.) The police are desperately trying to find him before he opens the canister and inadvertently contaminates the city, while he is getting sicker and sicker by being so close to the canister all day. He is coughing, sweating, gets covered in rashes and starts to bleed through his nose. It is a good thriller, playing on the fear of nuclear power and radiation, yet more ordinary and less visually imaginative than Murder by Contract.

City of Fear

Best of the three I have seen though is Cry of Battle (aka To Be a Man). It is very different from the other two as it was shot in the Philippines and set during the second world war, and it has three big stars, Van Heflin, James MacArthur and Rita Moreno. The rest of the cast consists of Philippine actors, some of them famous locally. The cinematographer is also from the Philippines, Felipe Sacdalan (read a profile here). It tells a rather unusual story, and deals with male chauvinism and racism. The main character is David, a young American, played by MacArthur, whose father owns a plantation and who has lived a sheltered life. But when the Japanese attack the Philippines all of his old life is gone at the blink of an eye. The film begins in 1941, right after the Japanese assault, when David is attacked with some marauding soldiers. He is rescued by a Philippine resistance fighter (played by Leopoldo Salcedo) and is brought to a hut where he stays for a time with an old man and a young woman (played by Marilou Muñoz). They do not speak English, only Tagalog, so David has to learn it in order to communicate with them. But then another American appears, Joe, played by Heflin, and again David's sheltered life is shattered. Joe is deeply unpleasant, he hates the Philippine people and treat women with contempt and sexual aggression. After Joe rapes the young woman they both have to flee, and eventually get caught up in the resistance against the Japanese. But the real conflict is between Joe and David, the ugly American versus to naive and, if you will, quiet American. (The script was based on a book by Benjamin Appel and written by the former blacklisted Bernard Gordon.)

There are several startling scenes in the film, despite many lyrical passages and moments of beauty. One of the resistance fighters that they met is a woman, Sisa, played by Rita Moreno. (Moreno was from Puerto Rico, but in the film she plays a Filipina.) David falls in love with her but Joe, obviously, treats her like a sex object, and she is accustomed to have to play along with the men to stay alive. In one scene a jealous David screams "You're a whore!" to her. She is silent for a moment and then she strikes back. He knows nothing about the world, and what it takes to survives, she points out. He is just ignorant about the evils she has to face. And what is he, Sisa asks. Considering how he survives, is he not a whore himself, if she is one? He does not know how to respond to that, unable to handle her justified combination of weariness and anger.

I will not give away the ending, but that too is pretty powerful. Cry of Battle, with its strange lyrical visual style, harsh subject matter and interesting politics, can stand alone but it is also an interesting companion piece to John Ford's They Were Expendable (1945), which is also set in and around the Philippines. But in Ford's film the focus is only on the American soldiers, not on the people who actually live there. Ford's film is artistically superior but Cry of Battle is rather special too.

My earlier piece on They Were Expendable is here.

Lerner's close personal friend Lang also made a film about the war in the Philippines, with the clunky title American Guerrilla in the Philippines (1950). I will have to write about it too, one day. Especially since it was made for 20th Century Fox.

Here is a film Lerner made with Joseph Strick in 1948, a nine minutes long film called Muscle Beach. I do not know how to define it.

City of Fear

Friday, 23 June 2017


Even a radical film director who wished to portray crucially important social developments like the merger of two industrial concerns could only do so by showing us the dominant figures in the office, at the conference table or in their mansions. (Adorno 1991: 57)
In Jason Mittell's brand new book Narrative Theory and Adaptation. (sic) there is a section discussing ideological film criticism. He had this to say:
In brief, theories of ideology strive to understand how cultural forms like popular cinema work to maintain dominant power relations, ranging from economic inequality to norms of race and gender. The crucial insight of ideology theory is that popular culture works to normalize the status quo and make the dominant systems of power invisible and unquestioned, integrated into a viewer's common sense and outlook on the world. Film scholars have explored how conventions of filmmaking, from industry structure to norms of narrative and style, work to reinforce dominant ideology in both overt and subtle ways. (p. 124)
That reminded me of this prominent part of film theory/criticism and how peculiar it is, in different ways. To some extent ideological readings of art works is as old as art itself, but the kind which has been the dominant one the last century is based on Marxism. There have been different strains of Marxist theory in the west during the 20th century, some of it interesting and productive, some of it embarrassingly inadequate and unrealistic, and quite a lot unpleasant because of its intimacy (and celebration of) the homicidal totalitarianism of, especially, Stalin and Mao. But at the heart of much of these theories was a question that might be expressed like this: "Marx promised us a revolution but it did not come. Why is that?" Instead of blaming flaws in Marx's writings many of these thinkers and critics instead blamed popular culture, not least films, which allegedly kept the masses down; pacified them and lured them into not overturning their governments. It is sometimes difficult to say where the Marxist theory ends and a conspiracy theory begins, and sometimes they overlap. (Not surprising perhaps considering Marx himself was a conspiracy theorist rather similar to Joseph McCarthy (including seeing Russian spies everywhere) as Jonathan Sperber discusses at some length in his impressive Karl Marx: A Nineteenth Century Life.) This is of course not to say that all Marxist critics and scholars are like this. The variety of Marxist thinking is large and some of the best critics of cinema have also been Marxists, with a much more positive view of humanity and the potential and value of mass culture. But there is a long tradition of the negative kind and it became especially prolific in the 1970s, not least due to the influential writings of Louis Althusser.

Cinema is "the ventriloquist of ideology" Daniel Dayan proclaimed in 1974 and for him and similarly thinking scholars/critics there are aspects of the very basic structure of films that are part of the problem, and is helping to "maintain the status quo" to the benefit of our rulers. Continuity editing is one such a dubious aspect. Endings is another, were a film is preferably to have an open ending because "an open ending doesn't confirm or reassure existing ideology; it questions ideology and demystifies it" as Eran Preis put it in an article in Journal of Film and Video. That too is a view shared by many, so let's pause there for a moment.

Is it just with regards to films that not having an open ending means you are supporting the status quo? Let's say I tell a story about how a man fell in love with a woman who was engaged to somebody else, and then they split up and shortly thereafter the man and she began dating and yesterday they were happily married. Am I supporting the status quo by telling this story? And if not, why am I doing so if I write down the same story and make a film of it? If I were to tell the same story but instead of having it end with saying they were happily married yesterday I end it with saying that he will now propose to her, and then leave the audience in the dark as to how it will go, the story will have an open ending. Am I then by default opposing ("mystifying") the status quo?

One might also wonder exactly what that "status quo" is referring to. Is it even possible to talk about such a thing with regards to something as complex as a society, or the world at large? (It is perhaps peculiar for Marxists to complain about the status quo when Marx's dream, communism, is the very definition of a status quo. After capitalism and then the state has whittled away, a new era of an eternal status quo is to emerge.) I suppose it is meant to refer to the larger economic system, capitalism, (or "late capitalism" as it is often called) which is how much of the western world as well as East Asia is arranged, but the particulars vary quite a lot. Should we assume that an American film without an open ending is supporting the lack of universal health care (as it is now) whereas a British film without an open ending is supporting the continuation of the NHS (which is the British health care system)? If a British film had an open ending, would that mean it was questioning the status quo of having free, universal health care? Alas, such particulars are never discussed when the "status quo" is mentioned. Or perhaps the status quo is the system of representative democracy, and any film without closure questions the persistence of democracy and is perhaps advocating for the overturning of that system in favour of, what? A revolution? Is that necessarily something worth pursuing? There are quite a lot of possible scenarios (from Nazis taking power to all out global war) that are a lot worse than what we have now. On the other hand, films with open endings would be impossible in, say, Cuba and Soviet Union, because that would mean that they were opposed to the status quo of communism.

There is another issue too. What exactly is an open ending? Are the endings of The Searchers (John Ford 1956) or Casablanca (Michael Curtiz 1942) open? What about The Seventh Seal (Ingmar Bergman 1957) or L'avventura (Michelangelo Antonioni 1960)? Where are we with Vertigo (Alfred Hitchcock 1958)? One definition is that when a film has closure it does not have an open ending but that just leads to other obvious questions such as What is closure? and Closure for whom? In Se7en (David Fincher 1995) the crime story has closure but not the emotional story, so is it a tie then? Does it have half-closure? Supporting one half of the status quo, whatever that is? You might say that the ending of Dr Strangelove (Stanley Kubrick 1963) is as closed as it gets, the antithesis of an open ending, but what is the status quo that it then supposedly supports? The balance of terror or MAD (mutually assured destruction) is hardly what Kubrick wanted to preserve.

Another popular word when discussing ideology and film (and other art forms, not least theatre) is Bertolt Brecht's Verfremdungseffekt and his "epic theatre". The idea is that a realistic telling of a story, one that relies on creating an illusion of it really happening and making the audience forget it is watching something fictional, partly through identification with the characters, makes said audience passive and unable to question the truth about the world. If instead the story is told in a way that has its artificiality exposed (by for example having actors directly address the audience or having obviously fake sets, and so on) the audience will be awakened and can begin to question and criticise that status quo. So it is once again the very structure that is being addressed and blamed, and an alternative, the distancing effect, is put forward as the solution.
Haneke's opposition to Hollywood's cinema of manipulation can thus be seen as a call for alienation in the Brechtian sense of Verfremdung: as an attempt to tear the realities shown on the screen from the shadow of their 'being-so' into the light of their 'having-been-made-so.'" (Metelmann 2010: 168)
But this idea of the importance, even supremacy, of form strikes me as misguided and completely inadequate. For one thing, form and content must surely work together for there to be a given result. A Nazi propaganda film that uses distancing effects will not have the positive effect that Brecht and others had in mind. When people talk about the Verfremdungseffekt they will usually mention some film by Godard (especially Tout va bien (1972)) or Michael Haneke as examples, but if these films in themselves did not directly attack certain political and social issues in the society in which they were made, the distancing devices would not really matter. (Or Hellzapoppin' (H.C. Potter 1942) would have caused more riots and revolutions than any other film.) The opposite of this kind of film is usually said to be mainstream Hollywood, but there are untold examples of distancing effects there too (direct address, dream sequences, shock cuts, artificial sets) which are not called out as such. On the other hand films like Ken Loach's I, Daniel Blake (2016) or The Bicycle Thieves (Vittorio De Sica 1948) aim for realism, of making the audience feel they are watching the real world, without any alienating effects. If the Brechtians are to be believed these films do not make the audience aware of society's injustices, and do not make them question the way the world works. It is safe to assume though that the films actually do just that, and that alienating effects would have made them less successful.

The problem is that while it might be appropriate to say about one particular film that the structure or the ending "enforce the status quo," however one might define that, it is not at all the case that what is true for one film is true for all films, or even all films of a certain kind. With this focus on the structure, it, at some point, becomes unimportant whether a film has a clear communist, liberal or Nazi theme and message, because if they have the same structure they are all supposedly in support of the same ideology, at which point ideology because a word with no meaning. A buzz-word among many others.


In the years before the Second World War there were three German Marxists who became especially influential: Walter Benjamin, Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno, all associated with the Frankfurt School and what came to be known as Critical Theory, trying in various ways to expand and elaborate on Marx's thinking. I will leave Benjamin for a later post and focus on Adorno here. He did not write about film per se but he (and Horkheimer) wrote a lot about popular culture (they used "the culture industry" as their term to describe the phenomenon they were concerned with), and how popular culture enslaved ordinary people, keeping them hooked for the consumption of more and more mindless culture, for which the primary purpose was to keep them docile and unthreatening for those in power.

"In so far as a film only recounts the fate of an individual, even if maintaining the most extreme critical awareness, it already succumbs to ideology." (Adorno 1991: 57)

Once at a university seminar (when studying the history of ideas) we were discussing two articles from the 1920s, one written by an American celebrating individualism and freedom and one written by a Russian celebrating the collective and the state. One guy in our group laughed at the American article and said that it was pathetic how that guy was so blind to the fact that he was just speaking from within his ideology, that he was not thinking for himself, whereas he said that the Russian writer told the truth and spoke freely, independent of any ideology. Well. For one thing nobody writing in Russia in the 1920s would have been in a position to publish anything else, unless they wanted to be shot by Stalin. In the United States writers actually had the ability to write freely, independently from the government's ideology, as opposed to how it was in Soviet Union. There were many in the United States in the 1920s who were Communists and wrote about it without inhibition, so both articles could have been written there, in the same street (or even office) in New York, whereas only one could have been written in Russia. Adorno makes the same mistake in the quote above. When he says that by making a film about an individual the filmmaker succumbs to ideology he is also saying that somehow a film which does not have the focus on an individual is outside of ideology. But how can that be? Surely that film is just within some other ideology, only one which Adorno happens to sympathise with. The idea that ideology is something that only others are slaves to is common enough.
Nevertheless, the favourite argument of the whole- and half-hearted apologists, that culture industry is the art of the consumer, is untrue; it is the ideology of ideology. /.../ By reproducing the latter (consciousness) with hypocritical subservience, the culture industry changes this reified consciousness all the more, that is, for its own purposes: it actually prevents that consciousness from changing on its own, as it secretly and, deep down, unadmittedly desires. The consumers are made to remain what they are: consumers. That is why the culture industry is not the art of the consumer but rather the projection of the will of those in control onto their victims. The automatic self-reproduction of the status quo in its established forms is itself an expression of domination. (Adorno 1991: 159-160)
This is a common idea, and one that Adorno frequently made. Mainstream culture keeps people from protesting and organising rebellions against the current regime. High art on the other hand helps cultivate a more critical view on society. I find this very dubious. The first implication is that if only people paid more attention to the kind of art which Adorno liked they would bring about the fall of "late capitalism," and that this is what everybody would really want if only they would come to their senses. But I think it is fair to suggest that were you to ask the people who actually are out protesting and rebelling you would find that they are much more likely to listen to pop music than to Arnold Schönberg, watch the films of Ridley Scott rather than the films of Straub/Huillet and read J.K Rowling rather than Samuel Beckett. It is also the case that it is quite common for people, not least younger people, to be out on the streets protesting, and not just during the summer of 1968. And sometimes they even force governments to resign and dictators to fall. But I do not think we can assume that this is because they stop listen to jazz and embrace Bach instead. And most people would probably not like to tear down the present system, regardless of what kind of culture they engage with.

At the same time Adorno had a rather conservative view of films, as suggested by this quote:
Film technology has developed a series of techniques which work against the realism inherent in the photographic process. Among these are soft-focus shots - a long outdated arty custom in photography - superimpositions, and also, frequently, flashbacks. It is about time to recognize the ludicrousness of such effects and get rid of them because these techniques are not grounded in the necessities of individual works but in mere convention; they inform the viewer as to what is being signified or what needs to be added in order to comprehend whatever escapes basic cinematic realism. (Adorno 1991: 159)
He was also rather relentless in his contempt for ordinary people, here with reference to those who listen to popular music (and Adorno's particular pet peeve, jazz):
There is actually a neurotic mechanism of stupidity in listening too; the arrogantly ignorant rejection of everything unfamiliar is its sure sign. Regressive listerners behave like children. Again and again and with stubborn malice, they demand the one dish they have once been served. (Adorno 1991: 44-45)
A lot of Adorno's thinking around art and popular culture suggests a lack of imagination. The quote at the top, about cinema's alleged inability to represent the merger of two industrial concerns, is just wrong. There is no reason to assume this cannot be done. There is a general unwillingness to actually engage with cinema, and mainstream culture at large, and instead he settles for high-minded contempt.

But then cinema was not a focus of Adorno's writings. Even his last, posthumously published, book Aesthetic Theory (1970) mentions films only very briefly. But his complete body of work is complex and vast, and he has been very influential, so these few quotes are not meant to undermine his life's work, they are only meant to be examples of what ideological critique of the art form might look like, and how that critique might be of limited value.

How it can completely derail is suggested by this quote, from the entry on Adorno at Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy: "The Nazi death camps are not an aberration, nor are mindless studio movies innocent entertainment. Both indicate that something fundamental has gone wrong in the modern West.”

from Hellzapoppin'
Print sources:

Daniel Dayan, "The Tutor-Code of Classical Cinema" in Film Quarterly (1974) 
Eran Preis, "Not Such a Happy Ending: The Ideology of the Open Ending" in Journal of Film and Video (1990)
Theodor Adorno, The Culture Industry: Selected Essays on Mass Culture (1991)
Jason Mittell, Narrative Theory and Adaptation. (2017)
Jonathan Sperber, Karl Marx: A Nineteenth Century Life (2013)
Jörg Metelmann, "Fighting the Melodramatic Condition" in A Companion to Michael Haneke (2010)

An early post of mine on film criticism and ideology is about Robert Warshow.

There is plenty of Marxist film criticism, and Marxist literary criticism, but where is the Schumpeterian film criticism, or the Keynesian literary criticism? Film criticism inspired by Hyman Minsky? Ohlinian criticism? History is filled with economists after all.

Friday, 9 June 2017

Lydia Bailey (1952)

Since I began writing about Henry Hathaway in 2011 there have been many posts about films and filmmakers from 20th Century Fox; no studio has gotten more attention even though this was not part of any plan. It just seemed that one post led to another, about Otto Preminger, Henry King, Elia Kazan, Joseph L. Mankiewicz, Joseph MacDonald, who were all at Fox, as was John Ford for a while. There they worked for Darryl F. Zanuck, the head of the studio, who had a close relationship with them all and had a big influence on the shape of the films. Note though that these filmmakers also had their individual themes, tastes and ideas, about acting and style and so on, which developed over time. Those who already had had careers before they came to Fox would often arrive with their unique, personal style and themes already in place, whereas many of those who began their careers at Fox evolved over time, becoming more idiosyncratic. (Kazan did not really blossom until the 1950s when he was working away from Fox, mostly with Warner Bros.)

Another of Zanuck's directors was Jean Negulesco, (the two of them were keen croquet players and Negulesco apparently a sore loser). He was born in Romania; one of the many who came from Mitteleuropa and eventually ended up in Hollywood. Negulesco had spent his teenage years in Vienna and then moved to Paris to be an artist and designer, and was rather good at it. He went across the Atlantic in the mid-1920s for a New York exhibition of his paintings, and found his way to Hollywood. He first did a series of velvety noirs at Warner, such as The Mask of Dimitrios (1944), and later, in the 1950s, came to be known for his Technicolor and CinemaScope romances, such as How to Marry a Millionaire (1953) and Three Coins in a Fountain (1954). Andrew Sarris memorably divided (in The American Cinema) Negulesco's career into two parts, B.C. and A.C. (i.e. Before CinemaScope and After CinemaScope). Sarris preferred the B.C. part and said the A.C. part was "completely worthless", but whether that is fair is debatable. Though The Mask of Dimitrios is probably Negulesco's best film, tied with Deep Valley (1947), there are merits in some of the later films too and Negulesco's known classics are mostly from the A.C. era, such as the two mentioned above. But Negulesco's career is mostly forgotten and unseen, and among the many unknown films there are many that are far more interesting than the famous ones.

Ida Lupino and Dane Clark in Deep Valley

After the second world war, Zanuck, who was a liberal of sorts, decided to embark on a project to highlight social issues, including racism. This resulted in films like Gentlemen's Agreement (Kazan 1947), Pinky (Kazan 1949) and No Way Out (Mankiewicz 1950). Negulesco's Lydia Bailey (1952) is also one of Zanuck's, shall we say, racially conscious films. But unlike the earlier ones, which are more restrained and in black and white, Lydia Bailey is very emotional and in aggressive Technicolor. The argument here is not that Lydia Bailey is a forgotten masterpiece; in terms of artistry and acting it is average to good, and not even Negulesco's best film. The argument is that it has interesting politics and that it fits in with other more famous films about racial issues made at the time.

It is set in 1802 in what is now called Haiti but was then Saint-Domingue; a French colony in which the slaves had rebelled in 1791, inspired by the French revolution, and partly led by Toussaint Louverture. In 1802 a new rebellion had broken out and in 1804, so after the end of the film's story, the French left and Haiti was declared an independent state. So there is a factual basis for the film, and Toussaint Louverture appears in the film (or rather a character by that name, spelled L'ouverture), as does Pauline Bonaparte, the sister of Napoleon, but most of the main characters are fictional.

While most of Negulesco's films were focused on women, often with one or several as leading characters, that is not the case with Lydia Bailey, despite its title. The main character is instead an American lawyer, Albion Hamlin, He arrives in Saint-Domingue to get a signature on some papers to grant his impoverished government access to a large estate on mainland US, which will be a much-needed source of income. The reason he is sent to Saint-Domingue is because Lydia Bailey, the woman who can sign over the rights, are living there with a French aristocrat, Gabriel D'autremont, on a plantation. With the Americans evacuating the place and both the French and the Haitians suspicious of Hamlin's mission and loyalties he is immediately in danger. He is helped by King Dick, a Haitian and former slave, who is close to the leader of the resistance movement, i.e. Toussaint Louverture. Soon this American, Hamlin, who at first took no interest in the local politics, finds himself fighting side by side with King Dick against imperialism and oppression. Sympathising with the Haitians, Hamlin says that if he was one of them "I'd kill every white man I could lay my hands on." It is at times a cruel film, as it begins with the murder of a young boy and towards the end there is another killing of a child.

One might almost get the feeling that Lydia Bailey was based on some unknown historical novel by Graham Greene but the source material is a novel written by Kenneth Roberts, and adapted by Phillip Dunne and Michael Blankfort. The film is an anti-imperialist rallying call, where most of the heroes are black Haitians, and the white characters are either evil or, in the case of Hamlin and Lydia Bailey, naive and in need of an education to come around to the side of justice. King Dick, as part of this education, quotes Plato and says that "True courage is to follow a wise man." with himself obviously being that wise man. Hamlin says at the end that he now understands why the Haitians consider Toussaint Louverture as their George Washington. (Thomas Jefferson is also name-checked, as is Benjamin Franklin.)

While not shot on location it does have an atmospheric and vibrant style and Technicolor is used to vivid effect. There are many shots and images that are extraordinary in their use of colour. It could very well be Negulesco's most stylish colour film, with the help of cinematographer Harry Jackson. There is also a very fine close-up of Lydia Bailey as she is about to leave the plantation and her old life. She suddenly stops, and the camera lingers on her face for a long time while she seems to process everything that is going on, and then she collects herself and continue her escape.

She is played by Anne Francis and Dale Robertson plays Hamlin, but the real star is William Marshall as King Dick, in his first performance. He would later mainly play bit parts in TV-series and also the title role in Blacula (William Crain 1972). He had a very successful stage career however. Here he is easy-going, resourceful, resolute, witty, intelligent, compassionate and a natural leader. It is impossible not to be seduced by him, even though he is at times quite ruthless. In the end he waves goodbye to Hamlin and Bailey as they flee to an American gunboat. The last shot is of him standing in the harbour, one arm raised, with Cap-Français burning behind him, before he turns around to go back to continue his fight for a free Haiti.

It is easy to draw connections to the real world of 1952, when the film was made. At the time the French were fighting, and losing, a war in Indochina against the Vietnamese. In 1954 their time was up, after the battle of Dien Bien Phu. When the French left the Americans stepped in (and this time Graham Greene did write about it, The Quiet American), to well-known and disastrous results. But here, in Lydia Bailey, the American hero stands with the oppressed and the colonised.

The world premiere of the film took place in Haiti, in Port-au-Prince, with the president Paul Magloire holding a reception. What the Haitians thought of the film I do not know.

There were other films from 1949 about racial intolerance, Lost Boundaries (Alfred Werner) and Home of the Brave (Mark Robson), but they were not produced by Zanuck and Fox. Most of these late 1940s anti-racist films are compromised in various ways but it is worth pointing out that one stands out: Clarence Brown's Intruder in the Dust (1949). It is the best of them, and Brown managed to get financed by MGM. I wrote about it here.

My earlier piece about Henry King here. My earlier piece about Otto Preminger here. My earlier piece about Joseph MacDonald here. My earlier piece about Kazan's Wild River here.