Dark Passage (1947) -- Delmer Daves

Vincent Parry (Humphrey Bogart) is an innocent man accused of murdering his wife. When he escapes from San Quentin prison, he is picked up on the road by Irene Jansen (Lauren Bacall), an attractive and sympathetic woman who seems to know all about him. She offers Vince temporary shelter; and as he goes to drastic measures to hide his identity in order to uncover the real killer before the police manhunt tracks him down, they begin to develop feelings for one other. But complicating his efforts is Madge Rapf (Agnes Moorehead), the witness whose testimony sealed his conviction. Before his marriage, she and Vince were once an item.     

If that sounds like the makings of a decent noir, you're in for a disappointment. The third of four Bogart/Bacall collaborations, Dark Passage doesn't measure up to the others. Despite a great cast, the script is flat, far too reliant on coincidence, and the real killer too obvious early on. Vince and Irene fall for one another too quickly, though in Irene's case it can be explained as a father fixation. Worse is the gimmick photography used in the first hour of the film -- the action unfolds from Parry's point of view. Bogart's face doesn't appear on scene during this period, but we hear his voice and occasionally see his hands doing something at the bottom of the frame. If director Daves used the technique for a short spell it might have been effective, but as it is, the novelty wears off quickly, making it distracting and just plain weird. I want to see Bogart.

Robert Montgomery employed the same gimmick five months earlier in his film, The Lady in the Lake. That two directors used an unconventional POV in such a short period is an odder coincidence than Bacall's character coming upon Bogart's shortly after his breakout. (He sneaks out of prison in a barrel on the back of a supply truck, the most interesting scene in the entire film.)

Vince's escape. Are those really Bogie's hands?

Irene reveals that she happened to be painting in the area and heard about Vince's escape on the radio. Having followed his trial and incarceration because his circumstance mirrored her father's, she felt compelled to look for him. Naturally he's suspicious, but has no choice but to accept her offer of help. He hides under a blanket in the backseat of her car as they make their way into San Francisco. At the Golden Gate Bridge, director Daves undoubtedly hoped to stage a suspenseful stop at a police roadblock. It's not. After a harmless conversation with a patrolmen and a cursory check, Irene is waved through and she drives across the bridge and into the city. It is interesting to see the then ten-year old span so empty. There's a shot of it in another Bogart film, The Maltese Falcon (1941), but this is one of the earliest films to feature the landmark.

Irene is the second person Vince meets outside the prison. First he hitch-hikes with a small-time hood who happens by. When an account of the escape runs on the radio, Vince's identity is compromised. He knocks the man cold -- the POV makes the fight appear silly and girlish -- and switches clothes. The hood will dog Vince for most of the rest of the film and ultimately give him the clue to identify his wife's killer.



D'Andrea and Stevenson discuss Vince's face before the operation.

The film's supporting characters almost save the story. Clift Young plays the hood as a somewhat weaselly man in over his head; he looks scared even when he's holding the gun. Tom D'Andrea is a talkative cabbie who leads Vince to a back-alley doc who specializes in plastic surgery. The surgeon is Houseley Stevenson. You wouldn't trust this guy to give your dog a shot, let alone allow him to carve up your face. He looks well-acquainted with a bottle.

Bogart finally makes his appearance. 
 

Vince emerges from the operation swathed in facial bandages, which he wears for a week or so, only able to communicate with pen and paper so as not to disturb the doctor's work. Give him sunglasses and he'd look like Claude Rains from The Invisible Man. Amazingly, when he takes the bandages off at Irene's there's no bruising, marks or stitches to deal with. That's one fine surgeon. In any case, we finally get Bogart's face. Perhaps Vince should have asked for a refund.

There are a couple of scenes where Bogart over-acts, once when interrogated by a suspicious cop in a diner and his hand shakes excessively and another when he staggers up a hill after the operation to Irene's place, looking more like a drunken sot than a man who is tired.

Madge, in the most amazing coincidence, happens to be friends of sort with Irene. She shows up at Irene's apartment having heard of Vince's escape and fearing he will seek revenge. Irene sends her away. Vince at this point has fallen in love with Irene and changes his plans, now more interested in leaving San Francisco than proving his innocence. The hood miraculously makes another appearance, coming out on the losing end of a confrontation with Vince, who manages to extract some information that leads him to the killer -- Madge.



Vince (Bogart) and Madge (Moorehead) have it out.

In the climatic scene Vince shows up at Madge's. With his new face she doesn't recognize him despite a voice that hasn't changed and knowing that Vince is somewhere in the city. Apparently this woman is over-sexed because she lets the stranger in. He flirts a few minutes before revealing his true identity and demanding she sign a confession. Really? She refuses, but either falls or jumps out the window to her death. (The obvious dummy drop caps the silly scene).

The "jump" scenario assumes that Madge is so obsessed with Vince that if she can't have him, she decides no-one will. Knowing Vince loves Irene, she opts for suicide to prevent his being declared innocent. Such a course is unnecessary so long as she doesn't confess, so I don't find this very plausible.                

Johnny Mercer's 1937 hit "Too Marvelous for Words" plays several times in the film, Jo Stafford  with the vocal on the phonograph in Irene's apartment, and just the melody at the end as Irene reunites with Vince in a cantina in Peru. It seems far too sophisticated for this story.

It's a stretch to call this a noir. There's no femme fatale, little characteristic shadowy images, and lacking in cynicism. More importantly, the good guy has a happy ending. Sounds like shady marketing to me.

The Bogart/Bacall Quartet:

• To Have and Have Not (1944)
• The Big Sleep (1946)
• Dark Passage (1947)
• Key Largo (1948)

A Passage to India (1984) -- David Lean

Cultures clash in this story set at the height of English colonialism when a repressed English woman comes to India to visit her potential fiance, Ronny, an ambitious bore who serves as a local magistrate in Chandrapore. Adela Quested (Judy Davis) is accompanied by her future mother-in-law, Mrs. Moore (Peggy Ashcroft). Both women want to see the real India and meet indigenous people, and not restrict their activities to the stuffy British social club, where British authorities and their wives behave with priggishness and snobbery toward all Indians. Mrs. Moore strikes up a friendship with Dr. Aziz, who, wanting to impress, foolishly arranges for a visit to the Marabar caves, a sort of tourist attraction known for disaffecting echoes. Here, both women experience strange emotions that ignite an incident that brings to a dramatic head the simmering racial tension and prejudices existing between the two cultures.

The caravan to the Malabar Caves.

Harking back to earlier days in the director chair, David Lean draws on a superb novel as the source for his final film. He achieved near perfection with his take on Dickens' Great Expectations in 1946, (less successfully with 1965's Dr. Zhivago), and here taps E.M Forster's acclaimed A Passage to India, named one of the 20th Century's greatest English-language novels by scores of critics, including The Modern Library, NPR, Time, and Random House. His transfer from page to screen here is similarly faithful to the source, capturing Forster's complex and subtle themes.

Lean is always thinking visually, and here, like all his best films, he makes sure to include several magnificent wide-screen shots designed to pull the viewer into the setting: a gorgeous shot of a distant train moving under the moonlit landscape, the painted elephant trudging up the Marabar hills, the valley of the holy Ganges, majestic Himalayan peaks, and a dugout canoe being paddled through water lilies. Beautiful stuff. If Lean is at fault, it is not including a few more such vistas. The scenes of crowds in the city in particular are done in either closeup or mid-range, losing all sense of location and much of their impact. You have the feel that the crowd is not really all that big. Overall, there seems too much tight camerawork for such an exotic country.

Judy Davis as Adela Quested.


The acting is terrific throughout, especially James Fox as Mr. Fielding, the enlightened head of the college and the only Westerner who considers Indians as equals rather than mere subjects. While other transplanted British officials look down their long upturned noses at the natives, Fielding welcomes interaction and also befriends Dr. Aziz. Fielding aligns himself with Aziz after the doctor is accused of a crime, placing him at odds with his fellow countrymen, who naturally assume Aziz guilt, even with scant evidence. Fox does a great job as the conflicted Fielding. The educator believes Britain's presence is useful for India, helping bring needed order to the country, but he is keenly cognizant that its imperialistic attitude toward the people is doomed to fail, and at times, is disgraceful. A more humane, enlightened approach would better serve both parties. And his bemusement rather than scorn of the religious beliefs of Hindus and Muslims sets him apart.

Brave to support Aziz, the friendship between the two is as much a part of the story as Miss Quested's ordeal, as it represents a microcosm of the two country's relationship, and asks the question if the West and East can co-exist in harmony.

Davis is effective too as a young woman, confused about her future and unsure that marriage to Ronny would make her happy. Lean altered an important scene for her character from the novel, changing the setting from a car accident she experiences with Ronny. Instead, Lean has her finding an abandoned temple on her own. A good decision as it better hints at her state of mind and helps explain what may happen later. On a bike ride in the countryside and tall grass Adela suddenly comes upon some old ruins. The heat is oppressive, the air stagnant. Sexually suggestive statuary and images adorn the walls and lay on the ground. She stands somewhat dazed and experiences a brief inner crisis. It's a perfectly acted moment, without words, that gives us insight into the girl's thoughts. She's having a hard time keeping it together in this strange land. Davis plays it all with her face and eyes. It is wonderfully edited, the camera switching between the figures and Adela, with one slow pull in to her face.         



Miss Quested, Mrs. Moore, and Dr. Aziz about to enter a cave.

Going into detail about the alleged crime would spoil the film's most interesting sequence for those who haven't seen it. Suffice it to say it involves those mysterious Marabar caves. Some readers of the novel and viewers of the film claim some ambiguity about Aziz's guilt. But whatever may have been author Forster or Lean's intent, it is clear to me what did not happened, even if what did happen is not fully explained.


Dr. Aziz looks for Miss Quested in the cave.

In any case, Aziz is arrested and a trial takes place, setting up the story's climax. The parties take clear sides and we see how misunderstanding is fueled by parochial interests and narrow mindedness. It is all resolved far too quickly for my taste, both in the novel and film.

Forster's book is filled with beautiful writing, which conveys the underlying prejudices of both sides. Lean's second change is in altering one of the most famous passages, attributing a quip to the defense attorney rather than an anonymous person in the packed courtroom:

McBryde (police chief and prosecutor at the trial) "Before we begin, I'd like to state what I believe to be a universal truth: the darker races are attracted to the fairer, but not vice-versa."
Advocate Amrit Rao: "Even when the lady is LESS attractive than the gentleman? "
[court breaks out in laughter]

The exchange embarrasses the young woman, and seems much crueler here than the novel, coming from an accomplished Indian man, whose status as an attorney puts him nearly on par with the Britishers.  Lean seems intent on suggesting it is not just the British who could use an attitude adjustment. And indeed, fault lies on both sides. Later Aziz will jump to a conclusion about something regarding Fielding, showing we are all colored by preconceived notions of others' motives. In any case, Davis the actress is far more attractive than the character Adela depicted in the novel, making the quip less sensible.


Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested have tea at the club. No Indians are allowed.

Alex Guinness plays the equable Godbole, an odd Hindu teacher who talks in riddles and seemingly innocuous statements. Nothing fazes him. For those of us in the West, India will always be a perplexing place, or as Fielding suggests, a muddle. But Godbole doesn't see anything that way. When Fielding asks how he can help Aziz, Godbole, unconcerned, suggests the man's fate is already certain:

Professor Godbole: Nothing you will do will change the outcome. .
Fielding: So "Do nothing!" Is that your philosophy?
Godbole: My philosophy is you can do what you like... but the outcome will be the same.

Guinness' makeup is a slight distraction. It looks as if he has been coated with brown shoe polish. But surely he must have been pleased with the role. It marked his sixth collaboration with Lean and was a nice return to respectability following a film he reportedly felt foolish making, Star Wars.

Overall, the film garnered 11 Oscar nominations, including Davis for Best Actress, Lean for Best Director and Best Editing, and the film for Best Picture. It was up against stiff competition in several categories as it was the year of Amadeus, winner of eight. A Passage to India won just two: Ashcroft for Supporting Actress and Maurice Jarre for Best Score. Ashcroft did a fine job but Jarre's award seems unwarranted. The score is most present over the titles, at start and finish, and sounds more appropriate for an Agatha Christie film and one set in India. It does little to support the mood of the action.

One well-deserved nomination was for Best Costume Design, as evidenced by the authentic and colorful Indian saris throughout. And Davis' Edwardian outfits look terrific.  

The revered Mrs. Moore -- Peggy Ashcroft.

If not the masterpiece of Lawrence of Arabia, this is still a finely crafted and acted film. A splendid swan song for Director Lean. Want to more about author E.M. Forster? Click here.







The Sun Also Rises (1957) -- Henry King

"What's the use?" That's the central question on the minds of a group of expatriates living in Paris after World War I. Besides the millions of dead left on the battlefields, the war created a "lost generation" of damaged young adults who allowed the conflict to infuse them with a sort of malaise. Disillusioned and decadent, they can't find true happiness and generally see life as empty and meaningless. To compensate they drink their way around Europe. The main protagonist is Jake Barnes (Tyrone Power), whose problem stems from a war injury that left him impotent. As a result, Brett (Ava Gardner), who loves him, frequently finds solace in the arms of other men, making both miserable.

An annual vacation to Pamplona, Spain for Jake, Brett, her fiance Mike (Errol Flynn), and a friend Bill (Eddie Albert), gets spoiled when she foolishly beds another of Jake's acquaintances, Robert Cohn (Mel Ferrer). Cohn is different. He's Jewish, didn't serve in the war, and behaves as an ass. Acting like a jealous schoolboy, his infatuation with the beautiful woman drives him to tag along.


Based on Ernest Hemingway's wonderful novel, one of the best of the Twentieth Century, director Henry King and his cast capture the spirit of frustration and loss the author portrayed in his characters, if not their full personalities. The biggest problem is the age of the performers. The novel takes place in the mid 1920's, so the American ex-servicemen (Jake, Bill, and Mike) should be in their early 30s, certainly no more than 35. Unfortunately, Power was 43 and Flynn 48. Heavy drinkers and smokers in real life, both look at least ten years older. Power was a matinee idol, dashingly handsome when younger. Imagine him as he looked in 1946's The Razor's Edge, and you get a picture of how the character should have looked here. As it is, he seems far too old and burnt out. Albert was 52. Ferrer at 40 and Gardner at 35 fare much better.

Power as the unfulfilled Jake Barnes. 

Power and Gardner have fine chemistry though, and each gives a solid performance. Power often looks appropriately anguished, reasonable given his disgust with Brett's promiscuity. A lot of what he is feeling goes unsaid, but in one unguarded moment he reveals his discontentment and pain, saying: "Don't try to tell me how to live with myself! I know all about that. It's just living with other people that gets to be tough once in a while."

Gardner looks lovely in a colorful, period wardrobe. If not quite as glamorous as when she burst on the scene ten years earlier, she's nicely believable in the part, though hardly British as in the novel. Still, she coveys shame and remorse for her actions to Jake, and in hindsight, the perfect actress to embody the new sexual freedom that many women sought in the 1920s.

Gardner as Lady Brett Ashley, the object of everyone's attentions.

The surprise performance in the film is Flynn's. No doubt, the boozing role of Mike mirrored his own existence by this time (he'd be dead in two years), but Flynn nails the role of a bankrupt, insecure man who resorts to passive/aggressive bullying of a rival to express resentment, at times being mean, full of self-pity, and always reliant on alcohol. One of the best scenes in the film takes place when, after a night of drinking and an altercation with Cohn, Jake visits Mike in his room the next morning. Brett has dumped him and Mike is hungover and sad. He asks Jake to make sure he comes to dinner that night, saying: "It seems as if about six people have disappeared."

Director King wisely stuck to the novel's dialog much of the time. Hemingway's prose is distinctively terse, a characteristic of his writing that fans admire. Still, the script can't compare. For one thing, it makes Jake's injury more obvious than is necessary. Hemingway made it plain enough but let the reader figure it out. The rougher language has been sanitized, and the characters made less sharp. Cohn Jewishness is ignored for one, and he is far more obnoxious in the book. Overall, scenes from the film lack the novel's underlying tension that exists between the characters, and in comparison, fails to adequately convey that Jake's injury is an emotional one as well as a physical one. 

The highlight of both film and novel are the bullfighting action in Pamplona, including the famous running of the beasts through the narrow streets. Mike and Bill, fortified with lots of wine, take part, a humorous scene not in the novel. This gives Mike another reason to taunt Cohn for being weak and unwelcome. Mike, clearly an alcoholic, knows about Brett's liaison with this pest, frequently telling him to get lost as no one wants him around. Brett's interest by now has shifted to the handsome young matador, Pedro Romero. All the while, Jake suffers.

I'm glad the film omits the more graphic violence of the sport. Still, even without the gore and blood, you get a good sense of how cruel bullfighting is. Just watching the long cape sequence designed to tire the animal out is disturbing. How a culture and people can still enjoy this sport in the 21st Century is beyond any reasonable person's understanding. In the film, the crowd eats it up, of course, cheering wildly when Romero inflicts the coup de gras off camera.

The end finds Jake and Brett sharing a cab, lamenting their circumstances and talking about what might have been. 

Brett: “Oh, Jake, “we could have had such a damned good time together.”
Jake: "Yes. Isn't it pretty to think so?"

Those lines are straight from the novel; but as filmed, King lost much of the poignancy by leaving out one of literature's most famous symbolic gestures: "... a mounted policeman in khaki directing traffic. He raised his baton." Jake's response is one of resignation, knowing that any dream of a life with Brett is impossible. His sad existence will continue, each day after the next.

Though not immediately apparent upon reading the novel or seeing this film, Hemingway said he wanted to show that despite their damage, the "lost generation" was resilient. Maybe so, but for Jake Barnes, that idea seems a stretch. Given his unhappiness and inner torture, it's easier to think he'd soon sink into a drunken stupor, a victim of cirrhosis of the liver or suicide.

Flynn as Mike and Ferrer as Cohn.

 

For my money, Hemingway justifiably deserves being considered one of the giants of American literature. His work is not easily transferred to screen, especially this one, which is subtle and too talkie to suit the taste of some readers. Henry King did an admirable job, despite the flaws.

Zorba the Greek (1964) - Mihalis Kakogiannis

I can't imagine the people of Crete thought too highly of Nikos Kazantzakis' popular novel or the film version of the story of a robust Greek named Zorba who takes under his wing a repressed, extraordinarily uptight Englishman and teaches the younger man about life. With the exception of the title character (Anthony Quinn) and a few others, Cretans come across as backward barbarians, whose reprehensible actions seem right out of the middle ages rather than the 20th Century.

Quinn as the exuberant Zorba.

Basil (Alan Bates), apparently long suffering from writer's block, has come to a Greek island to re-open a closed mineral mine, inherited from his father. If successful, he will provide a needed economic boost to the depressed area, and perhaps, recapture enthusiasm for his craft. He meets and befriends Zorba on a boat in passage, and begins a journey that is more about how to live unencumbered by modern expectations and demands than how to operate a mine in a foreign country.

Zorba takes life as it comes. He is in no hurry. Remarkably present, he is loud, full of zest, and in sharp contrast to Basil, whose timidity and fear of the unknown makes life empty and dull. Zorba loves to dance and laugh, and enjoy the company of women. At one point, he tells Basil that "Life is trouble. To be alive is to undo your belt and look for trouble."

This is certainly Quinn's most memorable performance. Nominated for a Best Actor Oscar, he lost to Rex Harrison for My Fair Lady, a result that reflects Academy conservative conventions rather than a pure assessment of the two actor's work in their respective films. Quinn is great and his distinctive laugh wonderfully appropriate for the character. A Mexican by birth, Quinn was terrific at playing other ethnicities. His face, especially with some beard growth, seems nearly universal.

Irene Papas, an exotic beauty, is a widow who attracts the attention of all the men in town, especially a boy whose unrequited passion leads to suicide after he learns that she opened her bedroom to the newcomer, Basil. It is a small part, but she is the film's most sympathetic character. (That it takes Basil most of the movie to act on the obvious overture from the attractive widow is the most exasperating aspect of that man's character). Tragic consequences follow as the entire town holds her responsible. Most readers of the book and viewers of the film surely find their savage response crazy and not anathema to any civilized society. It is difficult to know if the author, Kazantzakis, meant it as some sort of allegory, or as a striking means to contrast their character with that of Zorba, but the scene is quite shocking and unexpected. Only Zorba tries to come to her aid. Basil's tepid reaction is inexplicable and disgusting in light of the couple's recent consummation. After this failure in manhood and decency, it is impossible to like the man.


Irene Papas

The townspeople close in.

A subplot involves Zorba's relationship with an older French woman who runs the hotel, Madame Hortense (Lila Kedova). A lonely woman, well aware that her better days are long behind her, she finds solace and comfort in the arms of the passionate Zorba. For his part, Zorba cares little for monogamy, at one point telling Basil he has known the "full catastrophe: wife, children, and home." Still, for her sake, he makes the old girl happy by participating in an informal wedding shortly before her death. Here we have the second disturbing scene as the raving townspeople loot her residence ahead of the taxman with her body lying on the bed. Sure they are dirt poor, but their timing is outrageously disrespectful.

In the end, Basil's attempt to make the mine a going concern fails miserably. Zorba's complicated plan to bring timber down the mountain to shore up the mine shaft goes haywire. This helps convince Basil that he is out of his element and must return home. It hasn't been a total waste, however; a little of Zorba has rubbed off. Basil asks his mentor to teach him to dance and the film ends with a wonderful scene: the camera starts in a medium shot and slowly pulls back to a high overhead one showing the two men, arm in arm, prancing on the beach.

The crisp black and white photography makes the stark countryside look inhospitable, just like the people. Mostly a rocky island and poor town, it is nothing spectacular to look at. The familiar score creates a perfectly Mediterranean mood.

The film was nominated for 7 Oscars, including Best Film, Actor, and Director.

From Here to Eternity (1953) - Fred Zinnemann

The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor is just around the corner -- two hours into the film, actually -- in this terrific story of Army soldiers stationed at Schofield Barracks. The main protagonist is prideful, hard-headed private Robert E. Lee Prewitt (Montgomery Clift). He's recently transferred into a new outfit, G Company, upset over being replaced as first bugler at his old regiment. A skilled boxer, Prewitt has given up the sweet science because of an unfortunate accident in the ring -- he blinded an opponent. That doesn't sit well with his new captain, Dana Holmes, desperate to win the regimental boxing title. Prewitt soon finds himself the target of the "treatment," harassment from the boxing squad, a bunch of muscular non-coms intent on changing his mind.

Montgomery Clift as Robert E. Lee Prewitt.

Holmes is a sorry officer, who relies on his efficient staff sergeant, Sergeant Warden (Burt Lancaster), to keep the company running smoothly while he focuses his efforts on securing an undeserved promotion. A classic case of the Peter Principle, Holmes has risen above his ability. We learn early that he cheats on his wife, neglecting her as he chases other women and drinks at the officers' club.

The film is based on James Jones' bestselling novel, and director Zinnemann wisely focused on three relationships in transferring the story from page to screen. The most interesting involves Warden's affair with Holmes' wife, Karen (Deborah Kerr). Warden also serves as somewhat of a mentor to Prewitt, giving the stubborn private advice and keeping him off report when he goes AWOL. A second, parallel love affair involves Prewitt and Lorene (Donna Reed), a girl-next-door type he meets at a social club. To appease censors, film-makers changed Lorene's occupation from the novel, where it's clear she's a prostitute. And Zinnemann dropped a subplot from the novel that concerned soldiers and gay locals who frequented the bars, as well as a long section that had Prewitt in the stockade. The final relationship involves Prewitt and Maggio's (Frank Sinatra) friendship. Maggio's short temper and wise-cracking gets him in trouble.

Admirers of the film praise Clift's performance, which is terrific; but for me, the best part of the film are the scenes with Lancaster and Kerr. Both  seem credible and natural, especially Kerr as the adulterous wife, vulnerable and hurt and troubled by rumor and gossip. Their first scene is innocent enough and takes place as Kerr comes to the office looking for her husband. Warden tells Karen he's out, but there's an undercurrent of sexual attraction between the two. Later, he comes to her house in a rain storm under the pretext of official business.  

Warden brings papers to Holmes' house for his signature, knowing that only his wife would be there]
Karen: Are these really important?
Sergeant Warden: Yes, but not important they get signed today. Tomorrow's okay.
[She rips them up]
Warden: I have copies at the office, so it won't be much work to fix 'em up.
Karen: That's what I like about you, Sergeant: you have confidence. It's also what I dislike about you.
Warden: It's not confidence, ma'am; it's honesty. I just hate to see a beautiful woman going all to waste.
Karen: Waste, did you say? There's a subject I might tell you something about. I know several kinds of waste, Sergeant. You're probably not even remotely aware of some of them. Would you like to hear? For instance, what about the house without a child? There's one sort for you. Then there's another... You're doing fine, Sergeant. My husband's off somewhere, and it's raining outside, and we're both drinking now. You've probably only got one thing wrong. The lady herself. The lady's not what she seems. She's a... washout, if you know what I mean... and I'm sure you know what I mean!
Warden: You going to cry?
Karen: Not if I can help it. What are you doing?
Warden: I'm leaving. Isn't that what you want?
Karen: I don't know, Sergeant. I don't know.
[He kisses her]

It's a beautifully acted scene. Kerr captures a complex mix of emotions with nervous glances and body language. This virile man excites her, but we suspect she's been burnt before by men who have used her; she's scared and unsure of herself. Most of all she is achingly lonely and unhappy in her loveless  marriage. Presumably, this encounter leads to their first tryst.

Sergeant Warden and Karen Holmes share a last meeting.

When they later meet on a park bench, she again acts awkwardly. Anxious, she's arrived early and scolds him for having made her wait, though he is on time. She's having a hard time believing this man might love her. She wonders aloud if he thinks he's made a mistake and says she'll go home. But Warden, already smitten, tells her of course he cares for her and that he risks prison dating the wife of a superior officer. Happy, they leave for the famous beach scene and one of the most iconic images in all of film.

The famous kiss.

Here, Warden acts somewhat cruelly, almost taunting her about her past, having heard salacious lies about her being with several other men. She shares her sad story, about her philandering husband, her lost child, and her inability to have another.

There's another scene later in a secluded night club, where they sit quietly together as a band plays tropical music. Karen isn't really listening, just gazing at this wonderful man who promises her a new life, one with love and caring. Zinnemann uses one of the rare closeups in the film to track to Kerr's face. Watch her eyes. She kisses his wrist and buries her face in Lancaster's neck. But the illicit romance is ill-fated, as circumstances are against them. (To emphasize the impermanence of it all, the only time Karen uses the sergeant's given name is in their last meeting.)

A six-time nominee for Best Actress, Kerr never won. Timing has a lot to do with it as each time she was up against some tough competition, but 1953 may have been her best chance. She lost to lovely Audrey Hepburn for Roman Holiday. I'd of voted for Kerr.

Interestingly, Joan Crawford was to play the role until a dispute over who would serve as cameraman got her sent packing. She and Lancaster would have smoldered. But director Zinnemann went with Kerr in an inspired bit of casting against type. Perhaps to enhance the effect, he had her gorgeous red hair dyed blond. She gives a passionate performance and looks great, even in black and white, but here's a photo of her as Karen in color:

This is Lancaster's first big role and he's perfect. One man describes Warden as the best soldier he's ever seen and in early scene Lancaster appears shirtless. Age 39 at time of filming, Lancaster was cut, with a physique any athlete would envy. He'd been acting successfully for seven years, but never had had such a meaty role. Ernest Borgnine is great as "Fatso" Judson, a dangerous sergeant who runs the stockade and dishes out punishment with his fists. He's more sadistic in the novel, but Borgnine makes the character plenty scary in the film. Maggio gets on his wrong side and suffers the consequences. Judson also carries a switch blade, which he is only too happy to unleash. The most exciting scene in the film has him threatening Maggio in an altercation in a bar. Warden breaks it up by smashing a beer bottle and jumping between the two combatants. Maggio isn't so lucky later when he finds himself in the stockade.

O.K. Fatso, if it's killin' ya want, come on.

As good as parts are, the film has problems. The story loses steam any time it returns to Prewitt and Lorene. This is likely the fault of the script and the source novel, which gives the couple a less compelling story. And the actual Japanese attack is not impressive. Viewers expecting lots of explosions and action will be disappointed. There are a few token stock footage shots of the harbor attack on the Naval ships, including the explosion on the battleship Arizona, but most involves just the strafing of Schofield Barracks and Lancaster and crew attempting a feeble return fire. 

Overall, the film received 13 Oscar nominations, and won 8, including Best Film and Best Director. Besides Kerr, Lancaster and Clift were both nominated for Best Actor. They likely cancelled each other out and the award went to William Holden for Stalag 17. Both Sinatra and Reed took home supporting statues, but neither are that impressive. Sinatra in particular did far better work elsewhere. The dramatic role by the singer likely was so unexpected that Academy voters gave him the award. Reed's best scene takes place at the end. She and Karen happen to be on the same ship, headed back to the states. (No one here gets a happy ending except Warden, a career military man who's likely content that the expectant war has finally started.)

Lorene fabricates a story about Prewitt to impress Karen, and as a way to handle her grief -- he's been shot trying to get back to his troop following the bombing. She says he was a pilot, killed while trying to take off during the attack, but Karen knows different, having heard about the private from Warden.  Karen tosses two leis into the water, saying if they float back to shore, you will return to Hawaii some day, and if out to sea, you will never be back. Lorene says she'll never come back, but we are left wondering what will become of Karen. She's opted to remain with Holmes after concluding she and Warden are too different, but it's hard to think her decision as final. After the war, who knows...?

Which way will the leis float? 

The New York Times loved the film, saying: "As a job of editing, emending, re-arranging and purifying a volume bristling with brutality and obscenities, "From Here to Eternity" stands as a shining example of truly professional moviemaking."

In the Heat of the Night (1968) -- Norman Jewison

It is the late Sixties, with Blacks still severely oppressed in the deep South. On a typically hot, sticky night someone murders a wealthy white man who's planned to build an important factory in the town. The crime brings out the worst in the racially backward town of Sparta, Mississippi, as its chief of Police, Gillespie (Rod Steiger), must reluctantly accept the help of a traveling black police officer from Philadelphia, Virgil Tibbs (Sidney Poitier), to find the killer.

Rod Steiger as the stubborn chief of police. 

Winner of the 1968 Oscar for Best Film, In the Heat of the Night still feels current. If race relations in the United States have taken a giant leap forward since the turbulent 60's, there's still plenty of hatred and prejudice going around to make one believe you could read this story in today's newspapers. And thanks to Jewison's terrific direction and its fine cast, the film seems just as exciting and balanced as it must have when released. Balanced because it depicts racism from both sides of the black and white divide: the ignorant redneck crackers who populate Sparta and hope to wrap a chain or tire iron about the uppity black Yankee; and Tibbs himself, who's convinced that the town's most important white landowner, Mr. Endicott, is behind the murder. The film's most famous moment occurs between these two.

[upon the suggestion that he may have murdered Colbert, Endicott slaps Tibbs across the face. Tibbs promptly slaps him back. Endicott is positively shocked.]
Endicott: Gillespie?
Gillespie: Yeah.
Endicott: You saw it.
Gillespie: I saw it.
Endicott: Well, what are you gonna do about it?
Gillespie: I don't know.
Endicott: I'll remember that.
[to Tibbs]
Endicott: There was a time when I could've had you shot.

Stieger is terrific as the conflicted Southern officer. He has his pride, and like many white Southerners, is distrustful of anyone from the North, let alone a black man. But he's miles ahead of the hooligans in town when it comes to judging a man by his character rather than his skin. His motives are not entirely grounded on a more advanced social consciousness; however, he's quick to realize that Tibbs is a lot smarter than he. His job is on the line because the victim's wife is threatening to pull the investment into the factory out unless her husband's killer is caught. Gillespie needs Tibbs. You can see him reassessing the strange out-of-towner Tibbs as the investigation unfolds and wondering about long-held beliefs as he works his grey matter as hard as his omnipresent wad of gum.

Stieger won that year's Oscar for Best Actor against some tough competition: Warren Beatty for Bonnie and Clyde, Dustin Hoffman for The Graduate, Paul Newman for Cool Hand Luke, and Spencer Tracy for Guess Who's Coming to Dinner.  I think the Academy made the right choice.

Tibbs examines the hands of an early suspect. 

The script gives his character a nice telling scene with Tibbs, late one night in his house, where he admits that no one has been there before. He is a lonely man, whose job doesn't even offer much satisfaction. When Tibbs makes a comment that he takes for pity, Gillespie ends the conversation. Poitier had a busy year in 1967. Besides this film, he made Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, and To Sir, With Love. Each was a big hit.    

Warren Oates is officer Sam Wood, who comes under suspicion, and Lee Grant is the grieving widow. Both do their usual solid work. The part of Woods plays a bigger role in the novel by John Ball, as the story is told from his perspective. Composer Quincy Jones and the great Ray Charles collaborated on the bluesy theme, which opens the film with a wonderful shot of a train pulling into the station in the middle of the night. Though shot mostly in Illinois, the whole film captures the feel and look of the deep South. (Filming did include a quick trip to some cotton fields in Tennessee to add authenticity).

The actual mystery is not complicated but well hidden until the end. And there are enough red herrings to keep up the viewers' interest. Like chief Gillespie, we wonder where Tibbs is taking his investigation. But the film isn't really about the murder anyway. Rather, it is a sharp, well-produced statement on the state of racial relations, and why it's important for all of us to examine our own belief system from time to time.

I don't suppose the people of Mississippi remember the film too fondly. They aren't presented in a favorable light. Hopefully, they've shown considerable progress in the last 45 years in their attitudes toward blacks.

A deadly confrontation.

 

The Most Beautiful Women post

Every once in a while, while watching a film, I have been struck with how beautiful an actress is. I may have seen her before in other roles, or maybe it is the first time I've seen her in a film. Perhaps the cameraman has just the right lighting, the makeup is perfect, or maybe it's a character that is particularly likable. More likely, she is just naturally gorgeous.

Here are women that gave me a sudden "Wow. That woman is beautiful" moment. It hasn't happened often, and of course, there are many attractive actresses out there--Elizabeth Taylor, Grace Kelly, Olivia de Haviland to name a few-- that haven't produced quite the same reaction. And I'm sure there will be others, or maybe I just haven't seen the right film.

Claudia Cardinale in Once Upon a Time in the West

Margaret Lockwood in The Lady Vanishes

Tatyana Samojlova in The Cranes are Flying

Zhanna Prokhorenko in Ballad of a Soldier

Joan Crawford in Grand Hotel



Carole Lombard in Mr. and Mrs. Smith



Alida Valli in The Third Man

Marilyn Monroe in The Asphalt Jungle

Deborah Kerr in King Solomon's Mines

Tarita in Mutiny on the Bounty