Review - The Flame of Love

 February 27, 2021

Flame of Love, The – 1930, UK 

You would think that a movie with a running time of 76 minutes and a plot involving a desperate race to save a condemned man would not waste a single moment. Not in 1930, apparently. That year, director Richard Eichberg and writer Monckton Hoffe, like so many others in the early days of talkies, were seemingly so giddy over the arrival of sound that they couldn’t resist inserting not just one, but five musical performances into their film The Flame of Love. And these are not the kinds of musical numbers that move the plot along or reveal characters’ inner conflicts or feelings. No, these are pure eye candy, replete with scantily-clad female performers and unintentionally laugh-inducing lyrics about how beautiful Russia “songs” are. The latter description refers to two numbers that are disappointing for another reason: They follow moments of intense emotion. Two lovers gaze into each other’s eyes and completely convey the depths of their desire. They want nothing more but to embrace and passionately lock lips, but what do Eichberg and Hoffe have one of them do? Run to the piano. Did I mention that these characters are alone?
 
Then again, they really weren’t. The higher-ups had deemed British audiences not yet ready to witness intimacy between a Caucasian and an Asian; hence, two characters who pine for each other and look at each other with intense stares that perfectly convey their collective longing are reduced to grasping each other’s hands and occasionally receiving a peck on the knuckles. It is hard to understate how disappointing this must have been for the film’s star, Anna May Wong. She had gone to the UK hoping to find better roles, only to find the same insulting restrictions that she had experienced in Hollywood. And it would be awfully hard to understate how dated scenes like these make the film seem. We are essentially watching a relic of all that was wrong with early motion pictures.
 
In The Flame of Love, Wong plays Hai-Tang, a singer in what resembles a Russian vaudeville circuit. After a brief reunion with her Russian military officer boyfriend, Boris Boriskoff (John Longden), she performs in front of a packed crowd which includes several high-ranking members of the Russian military, including the Grand Duke (Georg H. Schnell). The Grand Duke takes an immediate liking to her and sends a “request” that Hai-Tang meet him later that night. Interestingly, Boris is the one ordered to deliver the invitation. Two things are immediately apparent: Boris has no intention of granting the request, and the Grand Duke has no interest in taking no for an answer. Thus, something has to give, and only one of them has complete authority over the other.
 
Hai-Tang’s song and dance number, or as it might more correctly be called, “the bad idea that they multiplied by three,” must be seen to be believed. In it, the curtain rises on Hai-Tang. She is seated regally on an elevated pillow, decked out in the kind of flashy, skimpy attire that frequenters of red-light districts see ethnic women perform in and assume must be cultural. That she then performs a song that is much more Western than Asian only makes the scene more surreal. First, Hai-Tang sings, then young men dressed in Terra-cotta uniforms wearing men throw off their armor and impressively perform acrobatic feats for so long that what was once impressive becomes tedious. Then, for reasons truly unknown, it’s Hai-Tang’s time to bust a move, and what comes out of her is an unsightly mix of Hawaiian luaus and Isadora Duncan prancing. There’s a silver lining to this travesty of filmmaking, however: the lack of authenticity and Wong’s questionable techniques remove any doubt about the Grand Duke’s intentions. After all, there’s absolutely no way he’d want a private performance of that.
 
As for the film’s other numbers, they aren’t really an improvement. Boriskoff’s intended romantic serenade falls well short of the mark, and a brief number involving a barbershop quartet is just filler – presumably to help the film achieve feature film length. Other musical numbers take place at an after-hours club, and surprisingly they exist for a purpose, to demonstrate the difference between the kind of place officers go on official business and the ones they frequent when they’re off-duty. The latter was dirtier and much more raucous, and I got the impression that Eichberg intended the scene as a PG-version of an orgy. Alas, like he did with Wong’s first number, the director doesn’t know when the quit - the first of these debaucheries was effective; the second was pure overkill.
 
I mention this aspect of the film because I believe it is the reason the film was panned upon release. Eichberg spends so much time filming people dancing and singing that it’s hard not to get an impression of narrative shallowness. However, if one can look past these numbers, as well as the fact that the only Russian characters who actually sounds Russian speaks as if it is a foreign language to her, there is actually much to laud the film for. At its core, it is about the powerless being at the mercy of the powerful. Hai-Tang may be a famous performer, but it is important to remember just how much performers were looked down upon in the past, and requests like the Grand Duke’s were sadly routine. Plus, as a Chinese woman living in the days before the first World War, Hai-Tang is paradoxically viewed as not being marriage material, while simultaneously being seen as erotic and desirable. Interestingly, Hai-Tang recognizes this. She is under no illusion of the Grand Duke’s intent, and she also has a less than perfect view of her relationship with Boris. Early on, she tells her overly optimistic boyfriend that the future will send them down diverging roads and that “[i]t must be so.”
 
Fortunately, once the film dispenses with – or at least reduces – the musical numbers, it becomes an intriguing and emotional film about the efforts of two people to ward off danger and protect both themselves and the people they love. Both Longden and Wong began their careers in silent films, and by the time sound came along, they had learned how to express emotions through looks and expressions. Wong had learned not only how to cry on cue, but also how to simultaneously demonstrate just how deeply anguished a character could be. She needed no words to convey her character’s pain and desperation, and when she and Longden gaze into each other’s eye, they express more than could be achieved with thirty minutes of whispered sweet nothings and heartfelt exposition. They deserve credit for the fact that the second half of the film works as well as it does.
 
Perhaps The Flame of Love can best be summed up as a tale of two halves, of a poorly-conceived first half replete with far too many sideshows, and a dramatic and deeply involving second half that moves with a deliberate and desperate pace. I cared for these characters, and even though the ending is a foregone conclusion based on the casting and earlier foreshadowing, the ending was still a punch to the gut, at least until the very last image, when Boris looks at his lost love, anguish running over his face, and hides his head behind hers. The stupidity of the times didn’t allow him to kiss his beloved good-bye. (on DVD in Region 2)
 
3 stars

Review - Juno and the Paycock

 

 September 24, 2020

Juno and the Paycock – 1930, UK

Legend has it that Alfred Hitchcock had two reactions to scripts for episodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents: If he liked them, you knew it right away, and if he found them subpar, he would be silent a moment and them pronounce them merely “okay.” Now, I have no way of knowing how Hitchcock reacted to Sean O’Casey’s play Juno and the Paycock or if he ever saw it when it was staged at the Abbey Theater in Dublin, Ireland, in 1924. However, I can imagine the first half eliciting one of his nonchalant okays and the second a much more enthusiastic yes. In other words, the film is one of those that you’ll likely walk away from happy you saw, but that will diminish upon reflection, as you find yourself reminiscing on the first half and its many problematic aspects.

The film is set in Dublin during the early days of the Irish Civil War. This is reflected in the film’s opening scene, in which a middle-aged man delivers a powerful speech about the need for Ireland to remain united; it is met with a hail of gunfire and sends many of the spectators tumbling into a pub. And here is where the film makes its first misstep. A bartender sees the crowd and starts getting glasses ready; The camera then focuses our attention on two of the stumbled, “Captain” Jack Boyle (awkwardly played by Edward Chapman) and his loafer friend, Joxer Daly (Sidney Morgan), and instead of reacting to their narrow escape or cursing those who would fire indiscriminately into a crowd of their own countrymen, they quickly break into a comedy routine involving the pleasures of drinking and just who is going to pick up the tab. A waitress named Maisie Madigan (Marie O’Neill) walks over and instead of inquiring about fatalities or injuries from the gunfire, just sighs and agrees the pay for the men’s drinks.

I suspect the blame for the tone deafness of the scene is Hitchcock’s. Neither the play’s entry on Wikipedia nor several online plot summaries mention a gathering coming under fire, leaving me to suspect it was inserted into the film as a means of establishing the peril of the times. The problem is that once we are made to feel the real threat to people’s lives, it is hard to set them aside and laugh at the idiosyncrasies of Jack and Joxer. Yet that is exactly what the film asks us to do. We watch as Jack makes disparaging remarks about his wife, Juno (Sara Allgood, reprising the role she played onstage), annoyingly quibbles about breakfast, complains about an injury that keeps shifting from his right left to the left, and gets mad at his daughter’s suitor for having the gall to tell his about an opportunity for employment.

We soon meet the rest of the family. There’s Jack and Juno’s son Johnny (John Laurie), who’s lost an arm in the struggle and goes though most of the film looking shell-shocked. And for good reason: a childhood friend has recently been gunned down, and there are rumors that his death was the result of an informant. Their daughter, Mary (Kathleen O’Regan), pops up with her new boyfriend, a lawyer named Charles Bentham (John Longden), who is announced as having the “opportunity of a lifetime” for Jack. This indeed turns out to be the case, as Jack is surprised to learn that a relative has died and included him in his will. Logically, the family concludes that their fortunes have changed, a sentiment that would be more believable if the sound of gunfire didn’t precede each fade out.

From the looks of it, Hitchcock was faithful to Juno and the Paycock’s theatrical roots. Like the play, the majority of the action takes place in the Boyle family’s crowded apartment, giving the film a slightly claustrophobic feel and accentuating Johnny’s growing paranoia. As for Hitchcock, he keeps the camera relatively still throughout the film, and this allows him to film rather long scenes, as well capture as some pretty emotional monologues. There are few of those trademark Hitchcock moments that make later films so legendary. In fact, other than the frequent spattering of gunfire, the only Hitchcockian moment I can think of involves the appearance of mysterious men in trench coats. Unfortunately, Hitchcock undercuts his own efforts by showing us similarly dressed men being behind the gunfire in the opening scene.

Admittedly, I was annoyed by the first half of the film, as few of the characters seemed to be acknowledging the tragedy of the times. Characters don’t have to, of course, and in truth, a man like Jack might not. He a man who has no qualms about his wife being the family’s primary breadwinner and who thinks he’s being philosophical when uttering such pointless inquiries as What is the stars? and What is the moon? Remove the first scene, and they might provoke laughter. Fortunately, the film improves in its second half. The drama is tighter, the family’s actions have unintended consequences, and Jack finally embraces his status as a lazy, powerless deadbeat. There’s betrayal and acts of retribution, both big and small, and a powerful speech that signals the end of the marriage and the start of a life of insecurity and loss.

I admit I was moved by this part of the film, and they slightly explained the indifference I felt during the first half. O’Casey meant for us to laugh initially and to get our hopes up. He meant for us to view Jack as a lovable loser so that we could breathe a sigh of relief for his family when their fortunes look positive. Part of his comeuppance is warranted; the other part you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. In other words, the film should work much better than it does.

So, here’s my hope, that some day soon, a company, perhaps Kino in a second volume of Hitchcock’s British films, releases a far superior version of Juno and the Paycock than the one I purchased. That version, release by a company called FilmRise, is truly an insult to viewers; the top part of the film has been cropped off in an effort to modify it to fit TV screens, rendering character’s heads completely off screen while they are engaging in conversations. There are also sound issues. This could have been easily fixed, yet no attempt was made to reduce the distortion, and no subtitles were provided. My envisioned double dip addresses these issues, while also exercising the film’s opening scene. Just start the movie in the pub. Let the audience laugh at the zaniness, and then leave them heartbroken as reality prevents their dreams from coming true. That would be a movie worth watching. In its present form, it stumbles right out the gate and never truly recovers. (on DVD)

2 and a half stars

Review- Skin Game, The (1931)

December 6, 2018

The Skin Game – UK, 1931

There’s more than a tinge of Shakespeare running through Alfred Hitchcock’s 1931 drama The Skin Game. The film’s central character has shades of Shylock, albeit without the religious element that has made that character so controversial as of late, and the conflict at the center of the film involves two warring families with obvious effects on at least two of the younger generation, a la Romeo and Juliet. There’s even a Lady Macbeth character in the form of Mrs. Hillcrest (Helen Haye), who, while clinging to altruistic notions such as loyalty and keeping one’s word, has a vengeful streak that sucks every ounce of mercy right out of her. And there’s one of those classic Shakespearean switcharoos - the kind that makes you question just who you should be rooting for.

The film’s central character is Mr. Hornblower (John Longden), a man who’s moved up in the world recently and, like Shylock, has not forgotten the people who shunned him and rooted against him when he was struggling. Also like Shylock, his actions can be seen as a kind of road rage, for once it is within his power to exact revenge, the thought consumes him, driving him away from reason and into the arms of the kind of irrationality that often results in catastrophe for all involved. The object of Mr. Hornblower’s animosity is the Hillcrest family, and it is not so much what they did but rather what they didn’t do that makes revenge sound so sweet to him – the Hillcrests refused to acknowledge Mr. Hornblower daughter-in-law, Chloe (Phyllis Konstam), a young lady new to the family and the town, and seemingly without a friend in the world.

Mr. Hornblower’s plan is simple: His newfound wealth has enabled him to spend fairly freely, and he aims to buy up as much land as possible and turn it into factories that spew pollutants into the atmosphere through thoroughly awful-looking chimneys. He has a dual purpose here: 1) make himself a ton of money and 2) ruin the Hillcrest’s magnificent view of the countryside.  

Given this description, and the situation presented toward the beginning of the film – a family that has lived in their home for thirty years is told they have a week to clear out by Mr. Hornblower – it makes sense to get behind the Hillcrests, as they look for a way to block Mr. Hornblower’s development plans. And yet just as we’re ready to pick up a pitchfork and storm Mr. Hornblower’s mansion, Hitchcock throws us a Bard-like curve ball, and in doing so reminds us that the ends do not always justify the means and that it is often the innocent and unfortunate that pay the price in situations such as this one.

The film was made in 1931, and as such it understands the issues of the day. The Hillcrests represent the stoic upper class clinging to tradition because they have thrived under it and see no reason to change anything. The Hornblowers represent the progressive working class, people who were able to better their lives through hard work, determination, and the prosperity of the Roaring Twenties. One contrast in particular lays their differences out perfectly: The Hornblowers are always seen and heard driving noisy automobiles; the Hillcrests still enjoy the pleasures of an afternoon horseback ride.

Having said all of this in such as enthusiastic manner, I feel somewhat guilty about what is about to come, for as much as I like The Skin Game, I should have liked it much more. I blame two things for this, one that was in Hitchcock’s power to control and the other that he could not possibly have foreseen without the help of an extremely reliable psychic. First, Hitchcock’s cast is not always up to the task. Instead of playing moment with the emotion that they deserve, many members of the cast say their lines as if their characters are detached from all feelings. When some of them talk of love, they often don’t sound at if they themselves are experiencing it, at least not unless love means being calm and pragmatic. In fact, I’d say that, with the exception of Gwenn and Konstam, there’s an overall lack of energy in most of the actors, and the effect of this is to weaken the film’s more dramatic moments, for if the characters can’t be bothered to invest emotionally, just why should the audience?

The other problem is the condition of the film itself. Like many of Alfred Hitchcock’s early films, The Skin Game was apparently allowed to fall into disrepair. What remains of it, while seemingly entirely intact narratively, suffers from image and sound distortion, and in many scenes, it was difficult for me to make out what the actors were saying. The film is, therefore, in desperate need of restoration, yet like many of Hitchcock’s films from this stage of his career, such treatment does not appear likely. The copy of the film I viewed was released by LaserLight, a company known for releasing films in Public Domain without much in the way of restoration, despite the declaration that appears on the back cover of the jacket. I don’t blame them for this. Their calculation was likely the same as that of the studios that passed on the films in the first place – that there just wasn’t enough demand to justify the additional expenses that attempting to remove its blemishes would accrue. Still, it’s rather sad that a film with so much going for it will always be hampered and diminished by such shoddy preservation.

Having said that, The Skin Game remains one of my favorite of Hitchcock’s British films. Despite a few uneven performances, in particular that of Konstam, the film is consistently involving, and its ever shifting sympathies make for fascinating viewing. By the end of the film, we see carnage that equals that found in the closing moments of both Romeo and Juliet and The Merchant of Venice. There’s even a rueful monologue that sums up the tragedy that we has befallen before us, yet offers little hope of reconciliation. In fact, in the film’s closing moments, we see a tree falling after being chopped down. It appears change has taken place anyway and that all of characters’ conniving, sacrificing of values, and mounting losses have been for nothing. It’s a stunning way to end the film, and somewhere I sense Shakespeare looking down approvingly. (on DVD)

3 stars

Review - Blackmail

December 7, 2017

Blackmail – UK, 1929

With her curly blond hair, slight build, and expressive face, I have no doubt that Anny Ondra excelled in silent films. In fact, prior to making Alfred Hitchcock’s Blackmail, she had appeared in over twenty of them, and there is evidence that Blackmail indeed began as one. The film’s opening sequence, in which a number of officers from Scotland Yard set out to arrest someone, contains no dialogue and only minimal sound. There’s also an impressive sequence later on in which Ondra reacts to a terrible incident by opening her eyes wide, keeping her lips frozen, and slowly stumbling through an artists studio, utterly in shock. Here too the sound is non-existent – there’s not even a musical score. Ondra is perfect in the scene; truthfully, it’s the best one in the film.

Blackmail, however, is not a silent film, and if you didn’t know that it was directed by Hitchcock, you’d be forgiven for thinking it had been made by an untested director struggling to find his way behind the camera. The film is awkwardly paced, and, even more egregious, its cast seems to be a beat behind. An actor will speak, and instead of an immediate response, there is often an unnatural pause, as the actors just stand there looking at each other. Were it a stage play, I’d say someone had missed a cue.

The result of this is a movie that, with the exception of one or two scenes, moves at a painfully slow pace. Characters stand around waiting for someone on camera to do something, as if frozen in time. When someone finally moves, it is the other characters that become motionless. There is a particular scene in which a character inquires about a cigar, ponders which brand to buy, gets one, asks for a light and then just stands there smoking. I suppose the scene is intended to show the character’s calm and calculating demeanor, but I suspect that it will produce nothing but yawns and slowly closing eyes.

In the film, Ondra plays a young woman named Alice who is dating a police officer named Frank (John Longden). Early on, we learn that the two of them are having trouble, and that Alice has turned her attention to a young painter, Mr. Crewe (Cyril Ritchard). The film’s most dramatic moment comes when he coaxes her up to his apartment and attempts to woo her with art, music, and sweet words. Of course, his intentions are not entirely honorable, and Alice is forced to protect herself from some pretty aggressive advances. Her escape from the apartment does not go unnoticed, despite her best efforts, leading to a scene from which the film gets its name.

There are a few classic Hitchcock moments. In one scene, Hitchcock films his lead actors as they ascend a staircase, and savvy filmgoers will immediately recognize the techniques as ones he perfected and used later in Vertigo. Hitchcock also excellently portrays the crazed obsession that can develop over specific items or images after an unfortunate act. In these moments, we get a great sense of Alice’s state of mind. And there’s a curious scene in which the chirping of birds is used to convey the message that nothing can put Alice’s fears to rest.

However, the film is ultimately a disappointment. It never develops the appropriate pace, and its script is so light on substance that its 85-minute running time feels like much longer. And then there’s Ondra. According to Wikipedia, her accent was felt to be too thick, which resulted in Joan Barry recording Alice’s dialogue. I honestly have no idea whose voice is on the version of Blackmail that I saw, but it was indeed awkward, the voice of someone unsure of how to speak with confidence in a foreign language. And yet in those moments when the film just lets her react, she is a revelation.

It is not hard to understand what led to the decision to change Blackmail into a talking picture. That was what audiences demanded after The Jazz Singer, and studios were eager to keep them happy. However, Blackmail is an example of a film that was hurt by the move toward sound. Its cast looks the part, yet they never find their groove. It’s as if Hitchcock hired them for a silent film and then did not have time to recast the film after the decision was made to add dialogue. And here’s the kicker. Remove the sound and edit some of the scenes a bit more, and Blackmail would work. It would not be a masterpiece or even a great film, but it would be a decent one, one led by an immensely talented silent actress. Unfortunately, that’s just not the film we have. (on DVD)

2 stars