#wyler trope series

[tastethesetears]

WEDNESDAY & TYLER + TROPES: grand staircase entrance (9/?)

[dweemeister]

The Princess and the Pirate (1944)

Bob Hope’s mastery of quickfire one-liners and self-deprecation endeared him to American audiences listening to him over the radio or watching him in films. Those skills made him the ideal Academy Awards host (Hope still has the record hosting the most ceremonies) and frequent entertainer for the United Service Organizations (USO). By the 1940s as a contracted actor to Paramount, Hope starred in the Road to... musical comedy series with Bing Crosby and Dorothy Lamour. Their comedic chemistry made the films runaway hits. Road to Morocco (1942) represented the series pinnacle, but Paramount wanted to move on – loaning Hope out to Samuel Goldwyn Productions (at this time affiliated with RKO Radio Pictures as distributor) for two films in exchange for Gary Cooper’s services to make For Whom the Bell Tolls (1943).

The first Bob Hope movie with Goldwyn, They Got Me Covered (1943), made little impression. For the second film, Goldwyn lavished an A-picture budget for Hope, Virginia Mayo (an unofficial member of the Goldwyn Girls), and director David Butler. As a detour from the Road to... series, The Princess and the Pirate is filled with fourth wall-breaking references that make it impossible to recommend for anyone who has never seen a Bob Hope movie from this era. With that qualifier in mind, The Princess and the Pirate is an offbeat comedy that Hope’s fans and admirers will enjoy, though it is certainly not his finest work in motion pictures.

We open with the title screens describing a ruthless pirate named Hook. Immediately, Bob Hope breaks the fourth wall to tell the audience: “That’s not me folks, I come on later. I play a coward!” Hook (Victor McLaglen), who – shockingly – has a hook hand, has just buried a valuable treasure on a desert island when he orders an attack on a naval ship. With his buccaneers of the Avenger swindling the booty, Hook’s crew also kidnap the Princess Margaret (Mayo), who has run away from home in defiance of her father, the King (Robert Warwick), as she wanted to marry a commoner. Hook’s crew also accosts an actor, Sylvester the Great (Hope), who sleeps in the cabin across from the Princess. Sylvester escapes abduction by disguising himself as a gypsy. The Avenger’s eccentric tattooist, Featherhead (Walter Brennan), finds the disguised Sylvester attractive. Featherhead helps Sylvester and Princess Margaret escape, directing them to see find his cousin somewhere on the pirate cove named Casarouge.

Also featured in The Princess and the Pirate are the Governor of Casarouge, La Roche (Walter Slezak); Hook’s first mate, Pedro (Marc Lawrence); Hugo Haas as an ethically challenged barkeep; and a film-ending cameo that makes a ruffled Hope exclaim that this will be the last picture he makes for Goldwyn (it was).

In these days where memories of Bob Hope’s radio and USO work are waning, his wise-guy humor might not be as funny to some viewers. Without question, his comedic timing and delivery is as refined as anyone’s. Director David Butler even admitted that Hope himself did not need much direction with the screenplay by Everett Freeman (1942’s George Washington Slept Here, 1951’s Jim Thorpe – All-American); Don Hartman (1935’s The Gay Deception, Road to Morocco); and Melville Shavelson (1958’s Houseboat, 1959’s The Five Pennies. But Hope’s signature jokes about one’s own shortcomings and metatextual jabs over the ways the Hollywood Studio System worked are not sustainable for a feature film unless there is support from elsewhere in the movie.

The Princess and the Pirate does not have the broad humor one sees in the Road to… series. Instead, the film’s comedy – which still possesses Hope’s comedic hallmarks – is interwoven into the plot. On another level, The Princess and the Pirate is a swashbuckler parody that provide its supporting characters (namely, the antagonists) with more antics and jokes than the typical Bob Hope comedy. The swashbuckler genre was overdue for a parody by this point, as the genre had been popular since the silent era – The Crimson Pirate (1952) and The Court Jester (1955) would come later. As Hook, Victor McLaglen’s energetic performance – his threats to slit Sylvester’s gizzard or gullet enliven the intentionally hackneyed writing – is a joy to watch. McLaglen, a character actor often found in gritty, hypermasculine roles, looks like he is having the time of his life in this film. So too is an unhinged Walter Brennan, who had the distinction (fortunate or unfortunate depending on how one views it) of looking much older than he was. Brennan’s tattooist must have been the film censors’ worst nightmare – a slightly queer and lusty pirate. And in a role where he is more than just an old Western coot playing alongside a John Wayne or Gary Cooper, he gets to be more cartoonish than in any other performance I’ve seen him in. For The Princess and the Pirate, McLaglen and Brennan’s complement those of Hope and Mayo’s.

For Mayo, The Princess and the Pirate was her first starring role. Though she participated in singing classes with the Goldwyn Girls, Mayo herself never joined the company. Yet, she was a breakthrough star in her own right. As the film’s no-nonsense, strait-laced foil to Hope, Mayo plays off Hope’s comedic chops, but her character resists Sylvester’s raised eyebrows and naughty suggestions. That Hope and Mayo have no romantic spark subverts swashbuckler tropes, as the dynamic between their characters can best be described as friendly bickering. In Princess Margaret’s exasperation as pirates board their ship, their comedic dynamic sets the tone for the rest of the film:

PRINCESS MARGARET: Why don’t you die like a man? SYLVESTER: Because I’d rather live like a woman!

Costume designer Mary Grant (1957’s Sweet Smell of Success) gowns see Mayo go through various wardrobe changes – just how many dresses does she have on her person? – in the film’s splendid Technicolor. The remarkable production design by Ernst Fegté (1943’s Five Graves to Cairo, 1950’s Destination Moon) and Howard Bristol (1940’s Rebecca, 1959’s Anatomy of a Murder) not only encompasses the ships, but the Casarouge exteriors and La Roche’s palatial residence. The Casarouge art direction – ramshackle wooden buildings, portside materials strewn haphazardly across the docks – help make it believable as a sleazy den of inebriated, trigger-happy scalawags. As the final act transitions to La Roche’s governor’s mansion with its high ceilings, ornate furniture, and gleaming floors, the sets look like they came from some lavish musical. Despite some indifferent camerawork (as one often finds in comedies), The Princess and the Pirate’s backgrounds are always fascinating to look at. Filled with so much detail, the film almost escapes the restrictions of the soundstage that almost all of it was shot in.

According to Hope, he enjoyed making The Princess and the Pirate and his character’s ability to don various costumes to evade the villains (which reminded him of his vaudeville beginnings). But Hope’s loan to Samuel Goldwyn had expired – actors and actresses in the Old Hollywood Studio System had little leverage to oppose loan deals written up by studio executives – and he was ready to return to Paramount. With World War II raging in two theaters, he would continue to entertain American troops on various USO tours. Virginia Mayo remained with Goldwyn until 1949. With her ascension to being a leading actress, she starred in a handful of comedies opposite Danny Kaye and was cast against type in her brilliant performance for William Wyler’s The Best Years of Our Lives (1946).

Though The Princess and the Pirate might not be the most memorable (or funniest) film its two leads starred in, it is a welcome swashbuckling comedy that defies the swashbuckling stereotypes that one comes to expect. Entertaining though it is, several references are rooted in an assumption that one knows about Bob Hope’s filmography, Samuel Goldwyn’s reputation, and other period-specific media. Feeling more like an animated short film stretched longer than it should, the movie should only be seen by those who have an interest in the cast and crew involved with the production.

My rating: 7/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found in the “Ratings system” page on my blog (as of July 1, 2020, tumblr is not permitting certain posts with links to appear on tag pages, so I cannot provide the URL).

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, check out the tag of the same name on my blog.

[claudia1829things]

"JEZEBEL" (1938) Review

"JEZEBEL" (1938) Review Following the release of Margaret Mitchell's 1936 novel, "Gone With the Wind", some Hollywood studios scrambled to find a way to cash in on its success. Producer David O. Selznick managed to purchase the film rights to Mitchell's novel. However, Warner Brothers Studios decided to do its own Southern melodrama called "JEZEBEL". 

Directed by William Wyler, "JEZEBEL" starred Bette Davis in the title role as a headstrong New Orleans belle named Julie Marsden in the early 1850s. Julie's vanity and willful nature leads her to a series of actions, culminating in the loss of the man she loves, a banker named Preston "Pres" Dillard. The movie begins with Julie and Preston engaged and the former demanding the full attention of the latter. When Pres refuses to drop his work and accompany her on a shopping expedition for the upcoming Olympus Ball, Julie decides to retaliate by ordering a red dress (in New Orleans society, virgins wear white). Although Pres accompanies Julie to the ball and dances with her, he eventually has enough of her temperamental and foolhardy behavior and breaks off their engagement. Then he leaves New Orleans to spend some time up North in New York City. Julie eventually realizes she had made a major blunder and spends a year grieving over her broken engagement. However, she becomes determined to mend fences with him, when he returns to New Orleans. But their reunion proves to be bittersweet, due to Pres' new companion - his bride - and the potential danger of a yellow fever pandemic within the city. The road to the 1938 movie began with playwright Owen Davis Jr., whose play of the same title made its Broadway debut in December 1933. Starring Miriam Hopkins, the play only ran on Broadway for over a month before it eventually flopped. Someone at Warner Brothers must have seen some kind of potential in this Southern melodrama for the studio had purchased the play back in 1937. Rumor has it that the studio had specifically purchased it for Bette Davis as compensation for her failure to win the part of Scarlett O'Hara for David O. Selznick's film adaptation of Mitchell's novel. The truth is that Selznick had yet to consider his leading lady for the 1939 film back in 1937. I think Warner Brothers saw the story provided a juicy role for Davis and purchased it. Miriam Hopkins, who had starred in the 1933 play, had hoped to be cast in the coveted role. Needless to say, she was very disappointed when Wallis informed her that he had only "considered her" for the role. Warner Brothers had originally cast Jeffrey Lynn for the role of Julie's true love, banker Preston Dillard. However, the producers of a play he was appearing in refused to release him and the studio eventually turned to 20th Century-Fox star Henry Fonda as a last minute replacement. As for the film's director, Wallis and studio chief Jack Warner's first choice as director was Edmund Goulding (who had directed "GRAND HOTEL"), who was eventually dropped. Next, they approached Michael Curtiz (future "CASABLANCA" director), who dropped out at the last moment. They finally hired William Wyler, who had a contract with Samuel Goldwyn at the time. There have been many comparisons between "JEZEBEL" and the 1939 movie, "GONE WITH THE WIND". Considering the settings and leading female roles for both films, I could see why. But this is about my opinion of "JEZEBEL". The 1938 movie is not perfect. Since the film is set in the Antebellum South, naturally it would feature characters that are African-American slaves. With the exception of two characters, the majority of them are portrayed in the usual "happy slaves" literary trope that has marred a good number of Old Hollywood films set during the 19th century. You know . . . infantilizing the black characters. One scene featuring Julie's maid, Zette, enthusiastically accepting Julie's infamous red gown as a present. Now, any maid worth her salt would recognize the gown as trash. A black maidfrom the 1939 comedy, "DAY TIME WIFE", certainly regarded a cheap rabbit fur as trash and contemptuously rejected it as a throwaway present. But this wince-inducing portrayal of blacks in "JEZEBEL" seemed to be at its zenith in one particular scene that featured the Halcyon slaves greeting Julie's guests upon their arrival at her plantation . . . with cheers. Mind you, I have seen worse in the 1957 movie, "BAND OF ANGELS". Another major scene that I found equally wince-inducing featured Julie and a group of young slaves surrounding her, while they sing "Raise a Ruckus" to her guests. Yikes. I find ironic that a film like "GONE WITH THE WIND", which was equally guilty of its cliched portrayal of African-Americans, managed to feature at least three or four memorable black characters. I cannot say the same for "JEZEBEL", despite having the likes of Eddie Anderson (who was also in the 1939 Best Picture winner) and Theresa Harris in its cast. William Wyler redeemed himself, I am happy to say, in his 1956 movie, "FRIENDLY PERSUASION". Ironically, a good number of the white minor characters - namely men - seemed to be stuck in some kind of "Southern gentlemen" cliché from stories set in the Old South. You know the type - he wears a wide planter's hat, while either holding a glass of booze, a cigar or both; while discussing duels or putting down Yankees. This was especially apparent in one of the film's first scenes at a saloon, inside the famous St. Louis Hotel. There is also one scene, earlier in the film, that left me scratching my head. It featured Preston Dillard at his bank's board meeting, discussing the possibility of constructing rail lines through New Orleans and throughout Louisiana. I realize that the other board members' negative reaction to Pres' support for the railroad was suppose to be a sign of the South's backwardness and unwillingness to accept the advancement of technology. But I found this hard to accept. The movie began in 1852. During this period, the state of Louisiana was already expanding the railroad throughout the state. Nor was the South adverse to accept technological advances, as long as its elite profit from it. If the region - especially the Mississippi Valley - was willing to use steamboats to ship their cotton and sugar to the North, why not railroads? One mode of transportation was just as good as the other. And Southern planters certainly had no qualms in using Eli Whitney's invention of the cotton gin to become the number one producer and exporter of cotton in the first place. So, this scene seemed a bit unreal to me from a historical point-of-view. I have two other problems with "JEZEBEL" that I consider aesthetic. One of those problems featured the film's production designs, supervised by Robert Fellows. I had no problems with the production designs for New Orleans' French Quarter. I had a big problem with the production designs for Julie Marsden's plantation, Halcyon. At least the exterior designs. In the scene that featured the arrival of Julie's guests, Halcyon's front lawn and the exterior designs for the house resembled a large house in a Southern suburb, instead of a plantation house. I did not expect Halcyon's exteriors to resemble some clichéd Southern manor. But it seemed quite clear to me that Fellows, along with art director Robert M. Haas and the film's art department did not put much thought in the plantation's exterior design. Quite frankly, it almost resembled a facade constructed in front of a matte painting, on the Warner Brothers back lot. I certainly did not have a problem with most of Orry-Kelly's costumes for the film. But I had a problem with one in particular . . . namely the infamous Olympus Ball "red gown":

I realize that in the movie, the gown had been originally created for one of New Orleans' most infamous courtesans. And I did not have a problem with the gown's full skirt, which accurately reflected the movie's early 1850s setting. But that bodice . . . seriously? A strapless ballgown in 1852? I do not care if the gown was originally created for a prostitute. No such ballgown existed in the 1850s. The gown's bodice struck me as pure late 1930s. The ballgown is practically schizophrenic as far as historical accuracy is concerned. And I am surprised that so many film critics and movie fans have failed to realize this. Surprisingly, there is a good deal to admire in "JEZEBEL" . . . actually a lot. Many critics have compared it unfavorably to "GONE WITH THE WIND", due to the latter being a historical drama. Somewhat. Well, aside from its use of the New Orleans 1853 Yellow Fever Epidemic and the U.S. sectional conflict of the antebellum period in its narrative, "JEZEBEL" is not what I would describe as a historical drama. Which is why I find the movie's comparison to "GONE WITH THE WIND" rather questionable. Besides, the movie is basically a character study of one Julie Marsden, an orphaned Louisiana belle who also happened to be the owner of a plantation called Halcyon. Screenwriters Clements Ripley, Abem Finkel and John Huston structured the film's narrative as a three-act play - which is not surprising considering its literary source. All three segments of the film - "The Dress", "The Duel" and "The Fever" - served as different stages in Julie's tenuous relationship with Pres Dillard. But the best I can say about "JEZEBEL" it is a well-balanced mixture of character study, melodrama and a touch of historical drama for good measure. I can honestly say that "JEZEBEL" was not some uneven mixture of genres. There is something about "JEZEBEL" that I found rather odd. On one level, the whole movie seemed to be about how a willful and over-privileged woman finally received her comeuppance after causing so much chaos and even tragedy in the lives of those close to her. Yes, Julie Marsden was a selfish and rather childish woman who believed the worlds of others - especially Pres Dillard - should revolve around her. After all, it was her petulant reaction to Pres' refusal to accompany her on a shopping trip that set their break-up in motion. But I must admit that I was surprised to find some aspect of the film's narrative that questioned the 19th society that demanded Julie remained in her place, as a woman. Yes, she was selfish and childish. But she possessed a bold personality that seemed unfit for conforming to society's rigid rules. In a way, I could not help but wonder if some of her attempts to do what she wanted had sprung from some kind of frustration at being expected to remaining below the glass ceiling. Surprisingly, one example was the character Preston Dillard. As I had pointed out earlier, "JEZEBEL" featured the usual "happy slaves" clichés in its portrayal of the African-American characters. But it also used the Pres Dillard character to criticize the South's dependence on slavery. Pres denied more than once of being a follower of abolition. Yet, his criticism of slave labor, his respectful attitude toward slaves like Uncle Cato, his decision to live in the North and his support for technological advances in transportation and an improved sanitation system for New Orleans seemed to hint otherwise. A better example of the film's criticism of 19th century Southern society came from the film's second act, "The Duel". Yes, I felt contempt at Julie's efforts to humiliate Pres and his new bride Amy by manipulating her former beau, the hot-headed Buck Cantrell, into goading them. And I also felt disgusted when her manipulations led to a duel between Buck and Pres' younger brother, Theodore "Ted" Dillard. This proved to be especially ironic due to the close friendship between the pair. But what really disgusted me was not only did Julie eventually realized she had went too far and tried to prevent the duel; both Buck and Ted knew that Julie had manipulated them into that duel and her reason behind her action. Yet, those two morons insisted upon carrying out the duel. For face. I was especially disgusted with Buck and his blind adherence to this "gentleman's honor" nonsense. Buck and Ted's insistence upon carrying out their duel, despite knowledge of Julie's role in it, seemed to be a harsh criticism of a society that encouraged such duels. This is pretty rare for a Hollywood film made before the 1960s, let alone the 1950s. Despite a few quibbles, I was very impressed by the production and art designs for "JEZEBEL". Red ballgown aside, I thought Orry-Kelly did an exceptional job with the film's costumes. The Australian-born designer's costumes came very close to reflecting the fashions of the early 1850s - not only for women, but also for men. I was also impressed by the production and art designs that also did an excellent job of reflecting the film's setting - 1852-1853 Louisiana. The exterior designs for the Halcyon plantation may have been a bust, but I cannot say for the other exterior and set designs. This was certainly the case for the exterior designs for the New Orleans French Quarter scenes, as seen in the image below:

I simply found them exquisite. This artistry was on full display, thanks to the movie's long opening shot that introduced movie fans to New Orleans circa 1852. And we can thank both director William Wyler and cinematographer Ernest Haller for this memorable scene. And this was just the first. Another creative sequence from Wyler, Haller and the film's art designers featured a montage that introduced movie audiences to the film's third and final act - the Yellow Jack epidemic. I did not have a problem with the film's performances. In general. But as I had stated earlier, I found some of the performances for minor white planters and black slaves a bit over-the-top. One of those over-the-top performances came from Donald Crisp, of all people, who portrayed Dr. Livingstone - Pres Dillard's mentor. I thought Crisp took the whole Southern gentleman cliche just a bit too far. I was also a bit troubled by Theresa Harris' portrayal of Julie's maid, Zette. It seemed a bit too cliched in my opinion and I wish that William Wyler had reined in her performance a bit. Harris had better luck portraying another maid in the 1941 period comedy, "THE FLAME OF NEW ORLEANS". There was one more performance that failed to impress me and it came from Margaret Lindsay, who portrayed Pres' Northern-born wife Amy. How can I say this? Would one consider a limp and underwhelming character like Amy as another literary trope? At least for a story set in the mid-19th century? I could say that Lindsay was a bad actress, but I find this hard to accept, considering her performance in the 1940 melodrama, "THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES". Fortunately for "JEZEBEL", it did feature some very solid performances. Eddie Anderson gave a pretty solid performance as Julie's competent stable hand, Gros Bat. Matthew "Stymie" Beard struck me as equally solid as his young son, Ti Bat. Spring Byington was amusing as Julie's slightly snobbish neighbor, Mrs. Kendrick. Margaret Early gave a lively performance as the former's daughter, Stephanie Kendrick. Henry O'Neill was pretty solid as one of Julie's guardians, General Theopholus Bogardus. But I did not find him particularly memorable. Lew Payton gave excellent support as Julie's major domo, Uncle Cato. And Richard Cromwell really impressed me as Pres' younger brother, the intelligent yet temperamental Ted Dillard. But there were two supporting performances that truly impressed me. One came from George Brent, who I believe gave one of the best performances of his screen career, as the uber-macho Buck Cantrell. One, his grasp of a Lower South accent really impressed me. The actor also managed to convey the glimmer of Buck's intelligence behind his masculine posturing - something that made the rupture of his friendship with Ted Dillard rather tragic. The other impressive supporting performance came from Fay Bainter, who portrayed Julie's other guardian, Aunt Belle Massey. Bainter did such an excellent job of conveying the character's tiring efforts to make Julie conform to society's rules, especially those for women. Bainter made Belle Massey's struggles so apparent that when Julie's manipulations led to the Buck-Ted duel, Bainter gave that infamous "Jezebel" speech with a superb performance that may have sealed her win as Best Supporting Actress Oscar. I have read a good number of reviews for "JEZEBEL". And for the likes of me, I cannot understand why Henry Fonda's portrayal of banker Preston "Pres" Dillard was dismissed as either wooden or weak. I find the contempt toward the character rather mind-boggling. I even came across an article in which the author could not decide which male character was this film's Rhett Butler - Pres Dillard or Buck Cantrell. Was that why so many had dismissed Fonda's character? Because he was no Rhett Butler? I hope not. Personally, I found Fonda's performance spot on as the intelligent, yet beleaguered Pres, who finally decided that he had enough of Julie's antics. Fonda's Pres Dillard wooden? I beg to differ. Fonda did an excellent job of conveying Pres' emotions throughout the film - whether it was his initial passion for Julie, a combination of confusion and exasperation in dealing with Julie's childishness, his determination to save New Orleans' citizens in dealing with a potential pandemic, any lingering physical attraction he might feel for Julie following his marriage, and his anger. Like his younger brother, Pres had a temper, but he controlled it through a very intimidating stare that left others unwilling to confront or challenge him. It is a pity that he was never acknowledged with an acting nomination for his performance. Bette Davis, on the other hand, more than deserved her Best Actress Oscar for her performance as the spoiled Julie Marsden. What can I say? She was superb. She would probably be the first to thank William Wyler for his direction of her performance. And perhaps the director deserved some credit for guiding her performance and eliminating some of her bad habits of exaggerated behavior. But Wyler could only do so much. The talent was there - within Davis. She recognized that she had a first-rate director on her hands and did everything she could to give a stellar performance as the bold, yet childish and vindictive Julie. And Davis knocked it out of the ballpark with some of the most subtle and skillful acting of her career. I realized that I have not discussed the movie's most famous scene - namely the Olympus Ball. I can see why so many critics and moviegoers were impressed by it. The film's production manager had scheduled one day for Wyler to shoot it. The director shot it in five days and created a cinematic masterpiece. Each moment was exquisitely detailed - from Julie and Pres' arrival, the other guests' reaction to Julie's dress, Pres' insistence that the band begin playing, the dance, the manner in which the other guests slowly pulled away from couple . . . I could go on. But what really made this scene for me were Davis and Fonda's performances. Between Davis expressing Julie's growing unease and humiliation and Fonda conveying Pres' intimidation of everyone in the room, it was easy for me to see why these two, along with Wyler, became Hollywood icons. I cannot deny that "JEZEBEL" had its problems - including some of its production designs, one particular costume, and the inclusion of Southern character stereotypes - especially African-American slaves. But . . . I cannot deny that when push comes to shove, "JEZEBEL" is a well-written melodrama and a character study of a complex woman. The movie greatly benefited from a pretty damn good script written by Clements Ripley, Abem Finkel and John Huston; an excellent cast led by Oscar winner Bette Davis and Henry Fonda; and superb direction from the likes of William Wyler. I never understood why "JEZEBEL" had to exist within the shadows of "GONE WITH THE WIND". It is more than capable of standing on its own merits.

[gp-synergism-blog]

Gothic Film in the ‘40s: Doomed Romance and Murderous Melodrama

Posted by: Samm Deighan for Diabolique Magazine

Secret Beyond the Door (1947)

In many respects, the ‘40s were a strange time for horror films. With a few notable exceptions, like Le main du diable (1943) or Dead of Night (1945), the British and European nations avoided the genre thanks to the preoccupation of war. But that wasn’t the case with American cinema, which continued to churn out cheap, escapist fare in droves, ranging from comedies and musicals to horror films. In general though, genre efforts were comic or overtly campy; Universal, the country’s biggest producer of horror films, resorted primarily to sequels, remakes, and monster mash ups during the decade, or ludicrous low budget films centered on half-cocked mad scientists (roles often hoisted on a fading Bela Lugosi).

There are some exceptions: the emergence of grim-toned serial killer thrillers helmed by European emigres like Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt (1943), Ulmer’s Bluebeard(1944), Siodmak’s The Spiral Staircase (1945), or John Brahm’s Hangover Square(1945); the series of expressionistic moody horror film produced by auteur Val Lewton, such as Cat People (1942) and I Walked with a Zombie (1943); and a handful of strange outliers like the eerie She-Wolf of London (1946) or the totally off-the-rails Peter Lorre vehicle, The Beast with Five Fingers (1946).

Thanks to the emergence of film noir and a new emphasis on psychological themes within suspense films, horror’s sibling — arguably even its precursor — the Gothic, was also a prominent cinematic force during the decade. One of the biggest producers of Gothic cinema came from the literary genre’s parent country, England. Initially this was a way to present some horror tropes and darker subject matter at a time when genre films were embargoed by a country at war, but Hollywood was undoubtedly attempting to compete with Britain’s strong trend of Gothic cinema: classic films like Thorold Dickinson’s original Gaslight (1940); a series of brooding Gothic romances starring a homicidal-looking James Mason, like The Night Has Eyes (1942), The Man in Grey(1943), The Seventh Veil (1945), and Fanny by Gaslight (1944); David Lean’s two best films and possibly the greatest Dickens adaptations ever made, Great Expectations(1946) and Oliver Twist (1948); and other excellent, yet forgotten literary adaptations like Uncle Silas (1947) and Queen of Spades (1949).

The American films, which not only responded to their British counterparts but helped shape the Gothic genre in their own right, tended towards three themes in particular (often combining them): doomed romance, dark family inheritances often connected to greed and madness, and the supernatural melodrama. Certainly, these film borrowed horror tropes, like the fear of the dark, nightmares, haunted houses, thick cobwebs, and fog-drenched cemeteries. The home was often set as the central location, a site of both domesticity and terror — speaking to the genre’s overall themes of social order, repressed sexuality, and death — and this location was of course of equal importance to horror films and the “woman’s film” of the ‘40s and ‘50s. Like the latter, these Gothic films often featured female protagonists and plots that revolved around a troubled romantic relationship or domestic turmoil.

Wuthering Heights (1939)

Two of the earliest examples, and certainly two films that kicked off the wave of Gothic romance films in America, are also two of the genre’s most enduring classics: William Wyler’s Wuthering Heights (1939) and Hitchcock’s Rebecca (1940). Based on Emily Brontë’s novel of the same name (one of my favorites), Wyler and celebrated screenwriter Ben Hecht (with script input from director and writer John Huston) transformed Wuthering Heights from a tale of multigenerational doom and bitterness set on the unforgiving moors into a more streamlined romantic tragedy about the love affair between Cathy (Merle Oberon) and Heathcliffe (Laurence Olivier) that completely removes the conclusion that focuses on their children. In the film, the couple are effectively separated by social constraints, poverty, a harsh upbringing, and the fact that Cathy is forced to choose between her wild, adopted brother Heathcliffe and her debonair neighbor, Edgar Linton (David Niven).

Wuthering Heights is actually less Gothic than the films it inspired, primarily because of the fact that Hollywood neutered many of Brontë’s themes. In The History of British Literature on Film, 1895-2015, Greg Semenza and Bob Hasenfratz wrote, “Hecht and Wyler together manage to transfer the narrative from its original literary genre (Gothic romance) and embed it in a film genre (the Hollywood romance, which would evolve into the so-called ‘women’s films’ of the 1940s)… [To accomplish this,] Hecht and Wyler needed to remove or tone down elements of the macabre, the novel’s suggestions of necrophilia in chapter 29, and its portrayal of Heathcliffe as a kind of Miltonic Satan” (185).

This results in sort of watered down versions of Cathy — who is selfish and cruel as a general rule in the novel — and, in particular, Heathcliffe, whose brutish behavior includes physical violence, spousal abuse, and a drawn out, well-plotted revenge that becomes his sole reason for living. It is thus in a somewhat different — and arguably both more terrifying and more romantic — context that the novel’s Heathcliffe declares to a dying Cathy, “Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living. You said I killed you–haunt me then. The murdered do haunt their murderers. I believe–I know that ghosts have wandered the earth. Be with me always–take any form–drive me mad. Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! It is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!” (145).

Despite Hollywood’s intervention, the novel’s Gothic flavor was not scrubbed entirely and Wuthering Heights still includes themes of ghosts, haunting, and just the faintest touch of damnation, though it ends with a spectral reunion for Cathy and Heathcliffe, whose spirits set off together across the snow-covered moors. These elements of a studio meddling with a film’s source novel, doomed romance, and supernatural tones also appeared in the following year’s Rebecca, possibly the single most influential Gothic film from the period. This was actually Hitchcock’s first film on American shores after his emigration due to WWII, and his first major battle with a producer in the form of David O. Selznick.

Rebecca (1940)

Based on Daphne du Maurier’s novel of the same name, Rebecca marks the return of Laurence Olivier as brooding romantic hero Maxim de Winter, the love interest of an innocent young woman (Joan Fontaine) traveling through Europe as a paid companion. She and de Winter meet, fall in love, and are quickly married, though things take a dark turn when they move to his ancestral home in England, Manderlay, which is everywhere marked with the overwhelming presence of his former wife, Rebecca. The hostile housekeeper (Judith Anderson) is still obviously obsessed with her former mistress, Maxim begins to act strangely and has a few violent outbursts, and the new Mrs. de Winter begins to suspect that Rebecca’s death was the result of a homicidal act…

The wanton or mad wife was a feature not only of Rebecca, but of earlier Gothic fiction from Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre to “The Yellow Wallpaper.” In the same way that Cathy of Wuthering Heights is an example of the feminine resistance to a claustrophobic social structure, Rebecca is a similar figure, made monstrous by her refusal to conform. The dark secret that Maxim’s new wife learns is that Rebecca was privately promiscuous, agreeing only to appear to be the perfect wife in public after de Winter already married her. She pretends she is pregnant with another man’s child and tries to goad her husband into murdering her, seemingly out of sheer spite, but it is revealed that she was dying of cancer.

A surprisingly faithful adaptation of the novel, Rebecca presents the titular character’s death as a suicide, rather than a murder, thanks to the Production Code’s insistence that murderers had to be punished, contrary to the film’s apparent happy ending, and restricted the (now somewhat obvious) housekeeper’s lesbian infatuation for Rebecca. Despite these restrictions, Hitchcock managed to introduce some of the bold, controversial themes that would carry him through films like Marnie (1964). For Criterion, Robin Wood wrote, “it is in Rebecca that his unifying theme receives its first definitive statement: the masculinist drive to dominate, control, and (if necessary) punish women; the corresponding dread of powerful women, and especially of women who assert their sexual freedom, for what, above all, the male (in his position of dominant vulnerability, or vulnerable dominance) cannot tolerate is the sense that another male might be “better” than he was. Rebecca is killed because she defies the patriarchal order, the prohibition of infidelity.”

Wood also got to the crux of many of these early Gothic films (and the Romantic/romantic novels that inspired them) when he wrote, “The antagonism toward Maxim we feel today (in the aftermath of the Women’s Movement) is due at least in part to the casting of Olivier; without that antagonism something of the film’s continuing force and fascination would be weakened.” Heathcliffe and de Winter are similarly contradictory figures: romantic, but also repulsive, objects of love and fear in equal measures, they mirror the character type popularized in England by a young, brooding James Mason — an antagonistic, almost villainous (and sometimes actually so) male romantic lead — that would appear in a number of other titles throughout the decade.

Rebecca (1940)

In “‘At Last I Can Tell It to Someone!’: Feminine Point of View and Subjectivity in the Gothic Romance Film of the 1940s” for Cinema Journal, Diane Waldman wrote, “The plots of films like Rebecca, Suspicion, Gaslight, and their lesser-known counterparts like Undercurrent and Sleep My Love fall under the rubric of the Gothic designation: a young inexperienced woman meets a handsome older man to whom she is alternately attracted and repelled. After a whirlwind courtship (72 hours in Lang’s Secret Beyond the Door, two weeks is more typical), she marries him. After returning to the ancestral mansion of one of the pair, the heroine experiences a series of bizarre and uncanny incidents, open to ambiguous interpretation, revolving around the question of whether or not the Gothic male really loves her. She begins to suspect that he may be a murderer” (29-30).

As Waldman suggests, there are many films from the decade that fit into this type: notable examples include Hitchcock’s Suspicion (1941), where Joan Fontaine again stars as an innocent, wealthy young woman who marries an unscrupulous gambler (Cary Grant) who may be trying to kill her for her fortune; Robert Stevenson’s Jane Eyre (1943) yet again starred Fontaine as the innocent titular governess, who falls in love with her gloomy, yet charismatic employer, Mr. Rochester (Orson Welles); George Cukor’s remake of Gaslight (1944) starred Ingrid Bergman as a young singer driven slowly insane by her seemingly charming husband (Charles Boyer), who is only out to conceal a past crime; and so on.

Another interesting, somewhat unusual interpretations of this subgenre is Experiment Perilous (1944), helmed by a director also responsible for key film noir and horror titles such as Out of the Past, Cat People, and Curse of the Demon: Jacques Tourneur. Based on a novel by Margaret Carpenter and set in turn of the century New York, Experiment Perilous is a cross between Gothic melodrama and film noir and expands upon the loose plot of Gaslight, where a controlling husband (here played by Paul Lukas) is trying to drive his younger wife (the gorgeous Hedy Lamarr) insane. The film bucks the Gothic tradition of the ‘40s in the sense that the wife, Allida, is not the protagonist, but rather it is a psychiatrist, Dr. Bailey (George Brent). He encounters the couple because he befriended the husband’s sister (Olive Blakeney) on a train and when she passes away, he goes to pay his respects. While there, he he falls in love with Allida and refuses to believe her husband’s assertions that she is insane and must be kept prisoner in their home.

In some ways evocative of Hitchcock (a fateful train ride, a psychiatrist who falls in love with a patient and refuses to believe he or she is insane), Experiment Perilous is a neglected, curious film, and it’s interesting to imagine what it would have been if Cary Grant starred, as intended. It does mimic the elements of female paranoia found in films like Rebecca and Gaslight, in the sense that Allida believes she has a mysterious admirer and, as with the later Secret Beyond the Door, she’s tormented by the presence of a disturbed child; though Lamarr never plays to the level of hysteria usually found in this type of role and her performance is both understated and underrated.

Experiment Perilous (1944)

Tourneur was an expert at playing with moral ambiguities, a quality certainly expressed in Experiment Perilous, and the decision to follow the psychiatrist, rather than the wife, makes this a compelling mystery. Like Laura, The Woman in the Window, Vertigo, and other films, the mesmerizing portrait of a beautiful woman is responsible for the protagonist becoming morally compromised, and for most of the running time it’s not quite clear if Bailey is acting from a rational, medical premise, or a wholly irrational one motivated by sexual desire. Rife with strange diary entries, disturbing letters, stories of madness, death, and psychological decay, and a torrid family history are at the heart of the delightfully titled Experiment Perilous. Like many films in the genre, it concludes with a spectacular sequence where the house itself is in a state of chaos, the most striking symbol of which is a series of exploding fish tanks.

But arguably the most Gothic of all these films — and certainly my favorite — is Fritz Lang’s The Secret Beyond the Door (1947). On an adventure in Mexico, Celia (Joan Bennett), a young heiress, meets Mark Lamphere (Michael Redgrave), a dashing architect. They have a whirlwind romance before marrying, but on their honeymoon, Mark is frustrated by Celia’s locked bedroom door and takes off in the middle of the night, allegedly for business. Things worsen when they move to his mansion in New England, where she is horrified to learn that she is his second wife, his first died mysteriously, and he has a very strange family, including an odd secretary who covers her face with a scarf after it was disfigured in a fire; he also has serious financial problems. During a welcoming party, Mark shows their friends his hobby, personally designed rooms in the house that mimic the settings of famous murders. Repulsed, Celia also learns that there is one locked room that Mark keeps secret. As his behavior becomes increasingly cold and disturbed she comes to fear that he killed the first Mrs. Lamphere and is planning to kill her, too.

A blend of “Bluebeard,” Rebecca, and Jane Eyre, Secret Beyond the Door is quite an odd film. Though it relies on some frustrating Freudian plot devices and has a number of script issues, there is something truly magical and eerie about it and it deserves as far more elevated reputation. Though this falls in with the “woman’s films” popular at the time, Bennett’s Celia is far removed from the sort of innocent, earnest, and vulnerable characters played by Fontaine. Lang, and his one-time protege, screenwriter Silvia Richards, acknowledge that she has flaws of her own, as well as the strength, perseverance, and sheer sexual desire to pursue Mark, despite his potential psychosis.

This was Joan Bennett’s fourth film with Fritz Lang – after titles like Man Hunt (1941), The Woman in the Window (1944), and Scarlet Street (1945) — and it was to be her last with the director. While her earlier characters were prostitutes, gold diggers, or arch-manipulators, Celia is more complex; she is essentially a spoiled heiress and socialite bored with her life of pleasure and looking to settle down, but used to getting her own way and not conforming to the needs of any particular man. (Gloria Grahame would go on to play slightly similar characters for Lang in films like The Big Heat and Human Desire.) In one of Celia’s introductory scenes, she’s witness to a deadly knife fight in a Mexican market. Instead of running in terror, she is clearly invigorated, if not openly aroused by the scene, despite the fact that a stray knife lands mere inches from her.

Secret Beyond the Door (1947)

Like some of Lang’s other films with Bennett, much of this film is spent in or near beds and the bedroom. The hidden bedroom also provides a rich symbolic subtext, one tied in to Mark’s murder-themed rooms, the titular secret room (where his first wife died), and the burning of the house at the film’s conclusion. Due to the involvement of the Production Code, sex is only implied, but modern audiences may miss this. It is at least relatively clear that Mark and Celia’s powerful attraction is a blend of sex and violence, affection and neurosis. As with Rebecca and Jane Eyre, it is implied that the fire — the act of burning down the house and the memory of the former love (or in Jane Eyre’scase, the actual woman) — has cleansing properties that restore Mark to sanity. It is revealed that though he did not commit an actual murder, the guilt of his first wife’s death, brought on by a broken heart, has driven him to madness and obsession.

This really is a marvelous film, thanks Lang’s return to German expressionism blended with Gothic literary themes. There is some absolutely lovely cinematography from Stanley Cortez that prefigured his similar work on Charles Laughton’s The Night of the Hunter. In particular, a woodland set – where Celia runs when she thinks Mark is going to murder her – is breathtaking, eerie, and nightmarish, and puts a marked emphasis on the fairy-tale influence. But the house is where the film really shines with lighting sources often reduced to candlelight, reflections in ornate mirrors, or the beam of a single flashlight. The camera absolutely worships Bennett, who is framed by long, dark hallways, foreboding corridors, and that staple of film noir, the winding staircase.

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WEDNESDAY & TYLER + TROPES: matchmaking (7/?)

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WEDNESDAY & TYLER + TROPES: grand romantic gesture (4/?)

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WEDNESDAY & TYLER + TROPES: tending to wounds (1/?)

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WEDNESDAY & TYLER + TROPES: coffee shop au (3/?)

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WEDNESDAY & TYLER + TROPES: belligerent sexual tension (8/?)

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WEDNESDAY & TYLER + TROPES: betrayal (6/?)

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WEDNESDAY & TYLER + TROPES: meet cute (5/?)

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WEDNESDAY & TYLER + TROPES: almost kiss (2/?)