Archive for Emlyn Williams

Play Acting

Posted in FILM, Theatre with tags , , , , , , , , on May 27, 2022 by dcairns

I think NIGHT MUST FALL (1937) may be some kind of aberrational masterpiece. It’s kind of perfect, but peculiar. It shouldn’t really work. My guess as to what’s happened to make it the way it is, is this: MGM bought Emlyn Williams play, a very un-MGM tale about a psychopath, his unhealthy influence on a young woman, and what he’s got in his hatbox. They then tried to replicate a theatrical production — presumably the New York run. They imported Dame May Whitty from the stage show, and cast Robert Montgomery as Danny the psycho. Montgomery evidently studied Williams’ performance, because although his Danny claims to be Irish, he sounds Welsh (well, kinda). A bad Irish accent is easier to do (more familiar to the American ear) than a bad Welsh accent, so there’s really no other likely explanation.

Director Robert Thorpe — NOT a brilliant cineaste — Esther Williams remembered him mainly as grouchy — delivers a brilliant film. Montgomery’s accent isn’t a problem (we can imagine that Danny is lying about his origins, as he is about everything else), and the play’s suspense sequences transfer to the screen with tension and terror. Which either should or shouldn’t be the case, because Thorpe is shooting it as if he had the play in front of him. Hitchcock defined one of his better theatrical adaptations as “a play — photographed from the inside.” Meaning you don’t have an imaginary fourth wall, you have a real one, and the editing and camera movement allow us to see it. Cinema in the round.

Well, Thorpe doesn’t do that. His one concession to cinema is to glide from room to room (still viewing them as if from the stalls, but as if one had a wheelchair) and to cut in closer shots. He does edge around a bit when shooting singles, so everything isn’t absolutely flat on. But we only ever see one side of the set.

There are a few Hollywood England exteriors, including a gorgeous sweeping movement across miniature countryside. But the play is the play. A showcase for Montgomery-as-Williams, Rosalind Russell as the strange girl, and Whitty. The drama comes almost entirely from Williams’ stagecraft (he directed as well as writing and starring in the play), minimally from any cinematic devices except basic decoupage. And it’s really terrifically effective.

THIS lovely angle gains power by being just about the only one of its kind. Note the hatbox.

The Karel Reisz remake is worth seeing, but I think they made the mistake of tossing out the play for that one — what they come up with is persistently interesting, but falls apart at the end. I reckon they dismissed the original as a warhorse and thought they could come up with something better. But Williams’ plot is perfectly serviceable, a solid framework, and there’s nothing dated about his observation of psychopathy, which is quite uncannily accurate.

And speaking of uncanny… Montgomery was never so good. His image did not permit him to play many bad guys. He’s electrifying. An actor who always favours stillness, sparseness, simplicity, here he pares away all unnecessary movement. He moves with the elegance of a robot. His face, often with a cigarette drooping from it or with the mouth hanging slack, suggests idiocy, then animal cunning. His eyes, limpid but not especially large or gleaming, come to SEEM enormous.

I think the approach — big elaborate sets and a do-the-play philosophy — is symptomatic of the MGM aesthetic — the more expensive something is, and the more it resembles theatre, the classier it must be. But the play they’ve chosen to lavish all this attention on deals with the seductive power of evil, and makes us feel it. So the classy and respectable veneer fails to conceal something dark and subversive. It’s also self-consciously a play about performance — Danny is, he admits, always acting. Until the very end, when he addresses us not-quite-directly, using a mirror —

What’s a good remedy for a chilled spine?

Waif Goodbye

Posted in FILM, literature, MUSIC with tags , , , , , , on April 16, 2015 by dcairns

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I guess D.W. Griffith wasn’t to know that 1936 would be his last chance for a comeback, but young John Brahm certainly seized his chance at a debut. What Emlyn Williams (above) thought he was doing was anybody’s guess. Over at The Forgotten.

Sage of the Sagebrush

Posted in FILM, MUSIC with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on December 2, 2014 by dcairns

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THE SCARF opens excitingly, with a fugitive on the run through the desert, the name ALCANTA emblazed across his back, marking him as a fugitive from a secure psychiatric hospital as clearly as the M on Peter Lorre’s shoulder marked him as murderer. The film is a late work by emigre E.A. Dupont, who had limited success in America after the triumphs of his German period and English excursion, VARIETE, MOULI ROUGE, ATLANTIK. He would be dead in five years, and his last projects, including the perverse THE NEANDERTHAL MAN, resound with the heavy tread of the somnambulist.

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Even for a German filmmaker, Dupont was always a very German filmmaker — I first encountered him in childhood, being mocked for the pregnant pauses of his Titanic movie (“The ship has less than ONE HOUR TO LIVE!”). Still, the portentous plod approach has a certain grandeur if you can suppress your giggles, and what we have here is a unique noir with amnesia, psychopathia sexualis, philosophy on a turkey ranch, and a crazy cast featuring John Ireland (he of the perfumed bullets), Mercedes McCambridge and Emlyn Williams, whose status as nutjob du jour is clinched immediately upon arrival by his habit of playing idly with a feather during every scene. A great scene-stealing idea I’m surprised I haven’t seen used elsewhere.

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The truly best stuff is early on, when grizzled recluse James Barton (equally grizzled and reclusive in YELLOW SKY) finds the fleeing asylum inmate Ireland and must decide whether to hand him over to the proper authorities. The same dilemma is faced later by singing waitress McCambridge (whose speaking voice, in those pre-EXORCIST days, smacks of Mickey Mouse, but turns out to carry a torch song rather effectively), and this leads to a moment of pure expressionism, as the neon sign of the sheriff’s office dissoves into $ signs. McCambridge first turns up as a windswept hitchhiker straight out of DETOUR, and like Tom Neal before him, the not very bright Ireland picks her up despite the fact that he’s on the lam and should really be keeping a low profile. But what man could resist that gurning face?

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It has shadowy photography by Franz Planer, whole shelves of dollar-book Freud (I yearned for a closeup of Emlyn Williams’ fruit-loop book-case), a pounding score by Herschel Burke Gilbert, and a script by Dupont that makes everybody a philosopher, from the turkey farming “sage of the sagebrush” to the lowliest bar-room brawler. I loved it. I thought it was swell.