Glenn Heath Jr.
Pure American fluff. Tapestries ripe with whimsey and longing intertwine lost souls suffering from unrequited love and artistic impotence. The musical numbers show a penchant for fantastic displays of movement, yet each fades from memory because the story and characters lack any dynamism. But Vincente Minnelli’s brilliant use of color transcends the material as reds and blues take on meaning far beyond their surface representations. Is there another classic director who appreciates the use of color in evoking emotional connections with characters as much as Minnelli? In An American In Paris, there are some curious and historically important reflexive moments sprinkled throughout the opening sequence, but by the end it’s hard to consider why this film is so beloved by certain critics. It’s entertaining, but completely fleeting and superficial.
The sheer scope of Howard Hawks’ historical epic impresses a certain gravitas on the deceptively poignant personal tragedies emerging from each catacomb and dimly lit lair. Betrayal, assassination, and slavery define an otherworldly Egyptian past of technicolor hues and dark intentions, where Hawks constructs in massive detail a society descending down a road of greed and self-destruction, spearheaded by a figure blinded by the allure of gold and power. Talk about universal. I’m relatively unfamiliar with the late films of Hawks (El Dorado and Hatari are next up), but Land of the Pharaohs seems like a haunting progression for a director so attuned to patterns of professional existence and relationships. Hawks paints a revelatory picture of where this overt professionalism might lead if tainted by absolute power. Also, the religious devotion between servant/master becomes a problematic state of mind, where the Egyptians, supposedly the more evolved race, gladly follow their deity to the grave, while the barbaric “slaves” are free-thinking and innovative survivors.
Robert Wise’s Run Silent Run Deep takes military stoicism seriously, relishing the interactions of strong male characters who live and die intrinsically linked to the greater national cause. Simple on the surface, but not simplistic, Wise’s directing never glosses over the sacrifice these men make out of respect for each other and their country. Most submarine films suffer from a lack of visual or narrative imagination, however Wise transcends this problem by favoring tension built from character interaction over visuals, taking the viewer through the meticulous rythmn of naval procedure. Clark Gable’s wise Commander Richardson relentlessly prepares his men to attack a lethal Japanese destroyer at the height of the Pacific Campaign, drilling them to the brink of mutiny, however Burt Lancaster’s Executive Officer Bledsoe interjects, pushing his ego aside for the greater good. Run Silent Run Deep isn’t revolutionary, but it displays a master director doing what he does best – telling a good story. Robert Wise might be the greatest anti-auteur, a juggernaut of Hollywood seamlessness who depends on earnestness and seriousness to compliment a character-first structure, where even the slightest mannerisms turn out to be incendiary.
When mining the Hitchcock greatest hits canon, I prefer Rear Window, Strangers on a Train, and The Birds, but Vertigo contains a blatant perversity and experimental subversion those films lack. These traits might explain the universal critical love bestowed on this shifting nightmare of calculating deception and jaded comeuppance, because the film creates a consistent mood out of such uneasy tonal shifts. The fact remains Vertigo is an oddity of massive proportions, unsettling, demented, layered, and brutal. This time around, the issue of fate vs. personal trauma burst from the seems, mainly because Hitchcock constructs the San Francisco locale as an elaborate minefield of historical manipulation, cramped space, and fractured identity. The ending still seems a bit tacked on to me, but Jimmy Stewart’s mental deformation in the last act stands tall as a truly disturbing metamorphosis, one of the most jolting in film history.
Watching back to back Ophuls is like having a bit too much champagne – the costumes, the tapestries, the elegant glances begin to overwhelm the senses and go right to your head. In this regard, maybe I should have waited for the glorious high of La Ronde to pass before sitting down with Le Plaisir, because the many obvious pleasures of the latter seem redundant and flimsy in comparison. Not to say Le Plaisir isn’t a beautiful and entrancing experience, just not that memorable. Ophuls weaves three stories by Guy du Maupassant into distinct short vignettes, moral lessons on romantic yearning and desire concerned with class, gender, and of course, sex. Yet the very format of the film – disconnected narratives – takes away from the overall impact each story is supposed to relate, separating Ophuls’ themes over various temporal and spatial grounds, diluting them in the process. Like all Ophuls, tragic love and fate define Le Plaisir, but the subversive undercurrents of The Earrings of Madame de… and La Ronde are noticeably absent.
La Ronde, with its hypnotic camera movements and circular narrative, beautifully fulfills the whimsy of fated love. However, Max Ophuls’ masterpiece is one of the most uncomfortably subversive Romance pictures ever. As each fleeting couple momentarily begins and abruptly ends, the playful tone masks a consistent sense of disappointment and longing. Seduction and lust often substitute for genuine connection, while the only substantial element connecting each vignette is the art of off-screen sex. Ophuls is a master of capturing the sporadic moments of silence shared between lovers at the worst possible moment, when one or the other decides to pull away, or leave altogether. No one character in La Ronde is spared this heartache, yet the women in the film (except for the actress) seem more at odds with the reality of love than the men, who not ironically care more for the perception of their own ego in relation to love. La Ronde weaves a delightful tapestry of oscillating romantic dilemmas, but underscores each smile, each kiss, and each glance with an artificial sensibility that transcends the medium.
