Archive for Ian Hunter

Forbidden Divas: The Black Widow versus The Black Pearl

Posted in Fashion, FILM, literature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on July 16, 2018 by dcairns

David Wingrove returns with another Forbidden Diva, an Engish rose, but watch out for her thorns!

FORBIDDEN DIVAS

The Black Widow versus The Black Pearl

 “Posterity’s not worth my getting a headache every day.”

–          Margaret Lockwood, Bedelia

Perhaps the greatest British female star of the 40s, Margaret Lockwood was one of the weirdest and most anomalous figures that the staid and somewhat insular UK film industry had yet produced. Most British films prior to the 60s were populated by genteel and rather pallid young ladies who looked poised, at any moment, to give up acting and teach etiquette at a South Kensington finishing school instead. But in a string of barn-storming, bodice-ripping melodramas – The Man in Grey (1943), The Wicked Lady (1945) and Jassy (1947) are the best-known – Margaret Lockwood was a voluptuous, raven-haired temptress who robbed and swindled and schemed, fornicated with torrid passion and murdered in cold blood. She was everything that nice British ladies were not supposed to be. No wonder the (largely female) picture-going public of World War II adored her as fervently as they did.

What is also remarkable is that her career transpired entirely in Britain. Traditionally, any British star who went in for glamour did her best to escape to Hollywood as fast as possible. Think of Merle Oberon and Vivien Leigh, Joan Collins and Jacqueline Bisset and Catherine Zeta-Jones. Others who may not have fancied a life of palm trees, sprawling suburbs and year-round sunshine – Charlotte Rampling or Kristin Scott-Thomas – made do with a career in France. It is hard to think of any other star who got away with being consistently sexy and glamorous in British movies, who did so for so long and to such passionate and overwhelming popular acclaim. The critics, of course, abhorred Margaret Lockwood and her movies. But critics have never been a notably glamorous bunch. Their sniffiness about Margaret Lockwood – and the wondrously overblown melodramatics that were her stock-in-trade – carries with it a distinct smell of sour grapes.

If Margaret Lockwood never actually went to Hollywood, she made a more than creditable stab at rivalling it on her home turf. Bedelia (1946) is a lush and florid attempt at the kind of ‘women’s picture’ – half Gothic melodrama and half film noir – that flourished for a few years after World War II. Most of them centre on a gorgeous and absurdly charismatic ‘bad girl’ and their titles and stars have an iconic resonance to this day. There was Gene Tierney in Leave Her to Heaven (1945) and Rita Hayworth in Gilda (1946), Hedy Lamarr in The Strange Woman (1946) and Lana Turner in The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946). Of course, not all these girls were truly evil. Some, like Gilda, were just a tad misguided. But Margaret Lockwood in Bedelia is as spectacularly and surpassingly wicked as the very worst of them. She is a psychotic and seductive Black Widow who murders a string of wealthy husbands and lives under a multiplicity of guises and names. The opening voice-over likens her to “a poisonous flower” and Lockwood seems to have needed (and received) very little direction apart from that.

The film starts in Monte Carlo, which – then as now – was the place where well-heeled rotters went to spend their ill-gotten gains. Bedelia has just married her fourth husband, a stolid and unimaginative Yorkshire mill owner (Ian Hunter) who believes her to be an angel incarnate. He knows she has been married before; otherwise, she might have some awkward explaining to do on the wedding night. But her first husband, she says, was a penniless artist who died before he could sell so much as one painting. Speaking of artists, there is one on hand at the moment. Ben Cheney (Barry K Barnes) first spots Bedelia in a jeweller’s shop, where she is having a valuable black pearl set in a fancy ring. A few scenes later, she tells her husband it is worthless – a piece of costume jewellery, no more. Cheney overhears and knows that she is lying. Intrigued, he worms his way into the couple’s acquaintance. Soon enough, her far-too-trusting husband commissions him to paint Bedelia’s portrait.

We wonder, idly, if Cheney will try and get Bedelia into bed. This is a movie, after all – and surely it is customary for the leading man and leading lady to show at least a token sexual interest in one another. Nothing, it seems, could be further from Cheney’s mind. Indeed, he shows no discernible interest in women at any point in the film’s 90-odd minutes. He describes himself as “a hardened bachelor” and flounces about Monte Carlo in an array of suspiciously stylish white suits. He leads an Airedale on a leash and one observer says this will be a magnet for the ladies. But our sixth sense tells us those ladies are quite safe. In case we are tempted to think this is all in our warped 21st century imaginations, note that Bedelia is based on a novel by Vera Caspary who also wrote the noir classic Laura (1944). In that film, one struggles in vain to find a heterosexual anywhere in the large supporting cast.

Yet Bedelia is one of the very few films of the 40s (indeed, one of the very few commercial movies ever) to have a recognisably gay man as its protagonist. Cheney – like Bedelia – is an infiltrator, a shape-shifter, a trickster. He too is living under a false guise and the truth – or part of it, at any rate – is revealed only late in the film. He is out to catch Bedelia not because he desires her but because, on a basic level, he understands her. He and she are not potential lovers; they are unspoken alter egos. All of which is a whole lot more interesting than mere sex. Cheney uses his wiles to trap the Black Widow and unearth the secret of why she hides, but refuses to give up, her ring with its black pearl. She even tells her husband she has lost it. But her ring, her Siamese cat, her collection of musical dolls…these are the only objects in the world to which she seems to cling.

To be fair, Bedelia has most of the flaws we associate with British films of its period. Once the action shifts back to Yorkshire, there are far too many scenes where polite and well-spoken people stand about in drawing rooms and explain to one another what is happening. David Thomson described the traditional British cinema as “photographed radio” and it is true that, in Bedelia, we hear a great deal too much and see a great deal too little. Yet the director (who goes by the uninspiring name of Lance Comfort) makes frequent and inventive use of mirrors and reflections – as is only fair in a film that is all about identity and the evasions and outright lies that ‘identity’ so often involves. The cameraman, Frederick A Young, shows as much mastery of over-furnished and claustrophobic interiors as he would of panoramic and wide-open vistas in Lawrence of Arabia (1962) or Doctor Zhivago (1965) or Ryan’s Daughter (1970).

It is with Young’s help that Margaret Lockwood somehow contrives to look ravishing despite – and not because of – a uniquely hideous Elizabeth Haffenden wardrobe. As the film wears on, we keep a tally in our heads as to which of her outfits is the least flattering. Is it the draped Grecian-style gown with the metal-studded shoulder pads? Or the black pinafore and puffy white blouse, which make her look like a milkmaid in a church hall production of The Sound of Music? Could it be the truly grisly leopard-skin coat with the dark mink sleeves? My own choice is the velvet Italian Renaissance gown with diamanté trim and two enormous tassels dangling in front. This is clearly meant to be the last word in expensive chic. But it looks as if Scarlett O’Hara had knocked it together out of a pair of old curtains.

Now that’s what I call glamour.

David Melville

Deco Vespiary

Posted in FILM, Radio, Television with tags , , , , , , , , , , on October 21, 2017 by dcairns

DEATH AT BROADCASTING HOUSE (1934) — viewed on Talking Pictures TV — is in many ways a cut above the average British picture of its time, but I can never seem to focus on it. It’s set in BBC Radio’s magnificent art deco hub, a gorgeous building. That starts things off with plenty of interest. There’s a strangulation murder broadcast live to the nation (nobody suspects until afterwards, since the victim was playing the role of a man who gets strangled). Snuff radio! And director Reginald Denham delivers not only plenty of beautiful shots of sharp-suited men looking pensive in white rooms, but some positively experimental jump-cut treatment of the musical numbers (yes! musical numbers!). I really want to try more of his films but few are available. Maybe Talking Pictures TV will transmit a few more.

My problem with the film is that all the male characters are the same — acidulated queens spitting venom at one another.  This may be an accurate portrayal of the BBC at the time — it probably is — but after the initial amusement value, a certain monotony sets in. One or two such characters could certainly enliven a murder mystery with their barbed quips, but this is too much of a good thing. When Ian Hunter shows up as the man from the Yard, he’s just the same, another sarcastic prig. There would have been good mileage in having him a comparative innocent, horrified at the nest of media vipers he’s stumbled into.

Among the sniping bitches are Henry Kendall (RICH AND STRANGE), a nubile Donald Wolfit, and Jack Hawkins, who doesn’t look quite as alarming here as he did in 1932’s THE LODGER, but still hasn’t grown into that toby jug head, which looks peculiar atop a spindly young body.

The script is by Val Gielgud — yes, brother of the more famous John — who also appears, looking diabolical and debonair in a goatee that positions him perfectly as the alternate universe evil twin of dear, dear Johnny. His scriptwork is a little lacking in variety but he’s such a surprising presence I wish there was more of him to see. I shall have to make an appointment with MEN ARE NOT GODS, his only other talkie, which is the original of Cukor’s A DOUBLE LIFE. Sounds kind of great.

The Look 2: Lukas Rejects

Posted in FILM, Mythology with tags , , , on July 30, 2016 by dcairns

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Reminder: I’ve embarked on an occasional series about moments when actors look at the camera.

A tricky one — I wasn’t sure if I was remembering this correctly.

But when I think of actors looking at the camera, I always think of Paul Lukas in STRANGE CARGO (1940), or STRANGE FILM as surely somebody else must have called it.

Frank Borzage’s films were often religious, or spiritual, or whatever you want to call it, but this one is a full-blown allegory, with Ian Hunter unusually effective as the Christ figure, who is part of an all-star group of escaped convicts including Joan Crawford, Clark Gable and Peter Lorre.

Lukas plays a serial killer of women — for profit. He leaves the group midway through the film to take up his profession again. Hunter has been on at him to repent of his sinful ways. Lukas leaves, but after doing so, when he is alone apart from US — he turns, glances about in the direction of the camera — eyes flickering wildly so that for a moment I was afraid my memory was playing me false and he wasn’t going to do it — and then he looks right down the barrel of the lens and says, very firmly —

“No.”

Borzage’s camera, which has been following Lukas, seems to have become briefly identified with the eye of God. This is Lukas’ final rejection of the grace of God. Delivered to us. As if we were all, collectively, the best stand-in for the deity that Borzage could think of.

So that’s nice of him.