Archive for The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse

The Low Sixties

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 9, 2021 by dcairns

The fifties died hard, were still going strong in 1963, is my main takeaway from THE COURTSHIP OF EDDIE’S FATHER, directed by Vincente Minnelli and written by John Gay from Mark Toby’s novel. It’s an everyday story of real people, brought to you by filmmakers who have apparently never met any. Every note is jarring, and yet a number of them do connect to human experience, but in an off-kilter, disjointed way. Future historians will look at this movie and try to calculate how much is accurate social observation, how much is soap opera contrivance.

Glenn Ford is a recent widower living in New York with his son, the director of THE DA VINCI CODE. He produces or does something involving a radio show whose horndog disc jockey, Jerry Van Dyke (an uncanny genetic facsimile of brother Dick) urges him to remarry. It’s been, what, a month?

Three women are wheeled past to tempt our bereaved patriarch: Stella Stevens, a beauty queen from Montana who has come to the Small Apple (it’s all interior sets) to Gain Confidence; Dina Merrill, a careerist fashion consultant; Shirley Jones, the student nurse next door. The outcome is obvious — the writers think they’re smart by making Jones a divorcee with a potential career and having her argue a lot with Ford, but they haven’t counted on the casting of Jones, who is naturally soft and appealing. And she’s right all the time, and she’s already basically acting as mother to the director of APOLLO 13. Plus she’s right across the hall. The fact that she could be Ford’s daughter is no doubt to be considered a plus. His last wife died, after all, we want this one to be longer-lasting. And ultimately the disqualifying traits almost cancel each other out — she’s resorted to a career to help get over the divorce — presumably she’ll be only too happy to give up that silly girlish idea when she becomes Mrs. Eddie’s Father.

Cherishable moments include Merrill declaring she doesn’t want to be the woman BEHIND the man, but side by side with him, and Ford saying he doesn’t see that becoming a national movement anytime soon. Oh Glenn.

Psychodrama! The director of HILLBILLY ELEGY freaks out at the sight of a belly-up goldfish. Jones deduces it’s because he hasn’t grieved for his mother yet, and Ford freaks out at that — “A FISH — IS A FISH — AND HIS MOTHER — IS HIS MOTHER!” Complete with Dramatic Turn and music stab.

Ford and Minnelli are reunited immediately after the superflop FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE, and obviously the intention is to spend a lot less money on this one, but it seems like wasted money since the soap and sitcom elements are exactly what the public can see at home on TV, only here they’re in a somewhat peculiar combination.

The director of A BEAUTIFUL MIND is clearly a prodigious sprog, child-actorly in mode but very skilled in his mimicry and timing, a carrot-topped replicant. Ford embodies the fifties-style paterfamilias more effectively, I bet, than he did “a hot young Argentinian stud” as David Wingrove put it, in his previous Minnelli epic. But it’s not a very appealing archetype to me.

Minnelli might be expected to regard this very square set-up with veiled horror — his comedies tend to have the quality of nightmare (FATHER OF THE BRIDE contains an actual nightmare which uses the “stairs as swamp” image repeated in A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET; THE LONG, LONG TRAILER turns sitcom into pure anxiety dream, a cold sweat of a film). Here, there’s just a sort of chilly lack of enthusiasm in the visuals. A late scene where Ford and the director of FROST/NIXON roleplay a prospective conversation with Shirley Jones, with the director of CINDERELLA MAN taking the Jones part, is clearly meant to be cute, and it is, but it’s also kind of weird, like everything else.

My favourite presence in the film was Stella Stevens, and my favourite scene was her big one — comparable to Shirley MacLaine’s adorable drunken singing in SOME CAME RUNNING, and the only scene where Minnelli the great musical director has really propitious material. Dick Van Dyke’s brother tries to boost her confidence by getting her to do the drum solo she’s been scared to do. Everyone knocks it out of the park.

Lo!

My copy of the film played once then gave up the ghost, which is why so few images here. Fortunately there are lots of clips online.

Ingram’s Wrecks

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 14, 2016 by dcairns

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Rex Ingram had some kind of fascination with the grotesque. The main identifying trait I had identified in the work I’d seen was a tendency to cut in bizarro comedy business at the worst possible moment. I liked that about him. There’s even buffoonery going on during the famous erotic tango of FOUR HORSEMEN OF THE APOCALYPSE. If you’re getting off on Valentino, those cutaways (a drunk finding a goldfish in his glass) will put you right off your stroke. THE MAGICIAN, a melodrama about mad science and black magic, ends with a dwarf stuck in a tree with his trousers in tatters.

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Ingram only does one really weird cutaway in SCARAMOUCHE, but it’s right at the climax — the hero rescues his family from the Reign of Terror, and we cut to a huge closeup of an ugly guy flickering his eyelids in a repulsive parody of feminine emotion. An extraordinary thing to insert during your tale’s emotional climax, expressing either humorous contempt for the material or some kind of urge to set the sublime in stark contrast with the ridiculous.

Elsewhere, Ingram entertains himself with his extras, in the manner of Fellini. He not only gathers impressive physical oddities, he enhances them with makeup, so Danton is spectacularly pockmarked and corrupt French justice is embodied by this caricature —

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The make-up artist / putty wrangler is uncredited. This guy is mocked by the beautiful Novarro for his hideousness, which is somehow meant to stand in for his corruption, but then Danton, who looks like somebody spat Rice Crispies in his face, is a noble figure, which seems inconsistent.

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In a cameo, we get Napoleon, played by the great montage director Slavko Vorkapich (Nappy gets a walk-on in the remake, too, but a more significantly placed one). Slavko has a terrific face. This is his earliest credit, but the IMDb list is surely incomplete, so we can’t know if he was plucked from some other role because his face fit, or if he was bumming around Hollywood doing extra work before his montage career took off (he later made an expressionist movie, THE LIFE AND DEATH OF 9413, A HOLLYWOOD EXTRA, which may support that supposition).

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Jacques Tourneur is also listed as an extra in the film, but he’s hard to spot in the cast of thousands. This isn’t him ~

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Somewhere in the throng is Buster Keaton’s future sidekick, Snitz Edwards, and Ingram favourite John George, the little guy from THE MAGICIAN and TRAIL OF THE OCTOPUS. This movie could be nicknamed INGRAM SATYRICON.

More SCARAMOUCHE soon!

“I Adore Arabs – I Mean the REAL Ones!”

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 6, 2013 by dcairns

David Melville, taking a break from Cine Dorado, his alphabet of Mexican Melodrama, casts an eye over the final film of Ireland’s greatest auteur, Rex Ingram.

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Rex Ingram and Baroud

Shot on location in Morocco in 1931, Baroud (1933) was the last film (and the only talkie) of legendary silent director Rex Ingram. Perhaps the defining Hollywood maestro of the 20s – with hits like The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (1921), The Prisoner of Zenda (1922), Scaramouche (1923) and Mare Nostrum (1925) – Ingram was as vital and influential a figure as D W Griffith had been a decade before. Yet by the dawn of the 30s, Ingram – much like Griffith – was seen as an unemployed and unemployable has-been. An obsolete (and silent) dinosaur in the brave new world of sound.

It’s easy to blame his downfall on this rapid and sudden shift in the technology of movies. Ingram, after all, was a supremely visual artist in a medium given over – in the early 30s – to wisecracks, musical numbers and chat. Easy but, perhaps, untrue. The careers of both Ingram and Griffith went into free-fall some years before Al Jolson sang in The Jazz Singer (1927). In the case of Griffith, the problem is all too clear. His brand of neo-Victorian melodrama looked quaint and out-of-date in the Jazz Age; his heavy drinking only exacerbated his woes.

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For Ingram, whose style and sensibility were far more modern, the case is more complex. Born in Dublin in 1893, he studied sculpture at the Yale School of Fine Arts and entered movies during World War I. After his run of triumphs in the early 20s, he fell out with MGM over NOT being allowed to direct the 1926 super-production of Ben Hur. Taking off in high dudgeon to the French Riviera, he built his own film studios (Victorine, in Nice) and indulged in what was euphemistically called ‘independent production’. The films he made there – The Magician (1926) and The Garden of Allah (1927) – were not successful enough to sustain him. A later film made in Britain, The Three Passions (1929), was an ignominious flop.

So it was clear by the 30s that Rex Ingram would never be a ‘company man’. More damaging, perhaps, was the gossip around his personal life. Although he was married to the dazzling blonde Alice Terry – the leading lady in virtually all his films – the couple lived in different homes for most of their marriage. Ingram’s true passion, it was said, was a string of dark, exotic and sculpturally handsome young actors who played his male leads. Rudolph Valentino, Ramon Novarro and Ivan Petrovich were all ‘discovered’ by Ingram – and the Hollywood casting couch has never been just for young ladies. Tongues wagged that Ingram was “peculiar” with a weakness for “gentlemen of a sepia tint”.

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Pierre Batcheff, the dashing White Russian who stars in Baroud (his career ranged from Siren of the Tropics (1927) with Josephine Baker to Un Chien Andalou (1928) for Dalí and Buñuel) looks like an Ingram leading man in the classic mould. He even plays the Valentino-esque role of a lusty desert tribesman. (‘Baroud’, as the opening titles so helpfully tell us, is a North African word for a tribal war.) In one of the few amusing moments, an English lady traveller who wants to “engage” him crows with joy when she finds out he’s “a real sheikh” – not just some guide who’s been dolled up to lure horny tourists.

If Ingram had only allowed Batcheff to be the centre of the film, Baroud might at least make enjoyable eye candy. The script, alas places him on one side of a triangle involving his sister (Rosita Garcia) and his French comrade-in-arms, who’s played ill-advisedly by Ingram himself. (Was this, perhaps, a bid to save money?) It was often said, in his heyday, that Ingram was handsome enough to play the lead in his own films. What his admirers neglected to say was that he lacked the ability to act. In fact, the acting in Baroud is universally atrocious; only Batcheff gives something you might call a performance. So the love triangle – for all its incestuous and homoerotic overtones – can’t help but fall resoundingly flat.

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The more interesting scenes hint, nonetheless, at an ‘abnormal’ closeness between the two male leads. The first is a sleazy nightclub sequence – an Ingram staple since Valentino’s iconic tango in The Four Horsemen. Here, Ingram catches the eye of a platinum blonde chanteuse but passes her on smoothly to Batcheff. Their wink of lustful complicity suggests the two boys could have just as much fun without her. At a table nearby, a turbaned spahi puffs on a cigar and blows the smoke out through his ears; the singer repels an unwanted suitor by stubbing her cigarette out in his beer. So glamorously fetid is the ambience that one half expects Marlene Dietrich to stride in wearing a tuxedo. (Ingram’s co-writer, incidentally, was Benno Vigny – who also wrote Amy Jolly, the novel on which Morocco (1930) was based.)

A few scenes later, Batcheff has reason to suspect his sister has ‘dishonored’ herself with his infidel friend. A confrontation takes place at the barracks, in a cosy room shared by the two men. Batcheff pulls out an impressively phallic dagger and fondles it, menacingly, at crotch level. Ingram eyes him with some curiosity – until Batcheff flicks the blade out and lets him admire it. Tossing his weapon on the bed, he watches as Ingram picks it up and plays with it in turn. The camera fades on a loving close-up of the curved, gleaming knife. Perhaps the most flamboyantly queer sequence in Ingram’s output, the scene leaves little doubt that one man is ‘sticking’ something to his closest pal.

Too bad if such scene-specific readings make Baroud sound more interesting (or, at any rate, more fun) than it really is. Much of the film is taken up by interminable location footage, in which pro-French spahis and rebel tribesmen march from one side of the screen to the other, and back again. In Ingram’s earlier films, his studio-built recreations of Buenos Aires and Ruritania and Revolutionary France compel us with their dazzling detail. The Satanic orgy in The Magician makes even Hell look like a real place. But the dusty location shots in Baroud turn real-life Morocco into a succession of bad sets. Ingram, like most great film-makers, was an illusionist and not a realist. Did he realise this, perhaps, when it was already too late?

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So Baroud is a catastrophically bad film, but one that only a gifted artist could have made. It shows us Ingram poised – with excruciating awkwardness – between melodrama and realism, exoticism and reportage, homosexual and heterosexual love. A cinematic ‘dead zone’ from which no film-maker (except for Pasolini, perhaps) could ever have escaped. Returning to Hollywood, where he died in 1950, Ingram worked on as a painter, sculptor and novelist – but never again in films. Baroud has scarcely been seen, either in the 30s or since, but is well worth seeking out. As long as you don’t expect to enjoy it.

David Melville

December 2013