Archive for Vertigo

The Sunday Intertitle: Things I Read Off the Screen in Blackmail

Posted in FILM, Mythology with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 26, 2015 by dcairns

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Glasgow! With silent film accompanist Jane Gardner, to see BLACKMAIL with live score by Neil Brand, under the baton of Timothy Brock. This was preceded by a special concert of Hitchcock scores — Webb, Rosza, Tiomkin, Waxman and of course Herrmann. It’s quite something to have VERTIGO blasted at you live. As for PSYCHO, a young couple to my left obviously regarded the shower scene as their song: as the violins shrieked, he mimed stabbing her in the back with an invisible knife, to her apparent delight.

Getting there, mind you, was a journey of Hitchcockian suspense — taking the bus to meet Jane we got caught in football traffic (ugh! the worst kind of traffic — even worse than badminton traffic) and arrived late, then scooted off in her Fiat 500, struggling to find a parking spot near the venue and then struggling to find the venue, eventually arrived seconds before the lights dimmed.

The BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra did us proud, and there was a surprise treat in the form of a theremin for SPELLBOUND — I wasn’t at all sure such a thing would be provided — there are, after all, entire recordings of the SPELLBOUND score without a theremin — some wretched fiddler taking the part, I guess, I haven’t troubled to listen to such abominations. This was a delight.

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Then BLACKMAIL, which I hadn’t seen since Hitchcock Year, Maestro Brand’s score was thrilling, of course — with many playful references to the musical spirit of Hitchcock to come. The most overt was the extract from Gounod’s Alfred Hitchcock Presents theme (I know, I know, he didn’t write it for TV) played when Hitch makes his first true guest appearance. I wondered whether such references would distract me,  but in fact, the playfulness was discrete — it must have taken restraint not to turn the scene where artsy rake Cyril Ritchard waits while Anny Ondra changes into something more comfortable into a straight reprise of the similar scene in VERTIGO.

The score, in fact, worked wonderfully, the proof being that despite the visible presence of the orchestra between us and the screen — Brock’s hands would occasionally rise into the bottom of the frame as he signalled a particularly vigorous moment — for much of the show we forgot the music except as part of the enjoyable experience of watching a story unfold on a screen. A smooth artistic synthesis was achieved!

Hitch’s cameo got me noticing how incredibly well handled all the extras are. The small boy who torments Hitch on the underground ends the scene, having been told off, standing on his seat and simply glowering malevolently at Hitch, like a raven from THE BIRDS. He doesn’t realize that Hitch has a short way of disposing of children on public transport. From then on, I was aware that each individual walk-on character, however crowded the scene, had a bit of personal business to distinguish them, and each performed his role perfectly.

I also started noticing writing. Some of what follows was noted during the show, some found afterwords, perusing the DVD.

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Receiving a radio message — “Flying Squad Van 68 — Proceed at once to Cambri” — the rest is unfinished — the van makes a 180 turn into Looking-Glass Land, where all the shop signs run backwards into a kind of cod-Russian cypher. Evidently nobody had shot a background plate traveling in the right direction, so they simply flipped the film. The store Dollond & Aitchison glimpsed here, is also advertised on the London Underground scene later.

Perhaps due to this confusion, when the Sweeney arrive at their destination, it isn’t Cambridge Street or Place or Circus of Terrace, it’s Albert Street. Perhaps close to Eastenders‘ Albert Square? Certainly in the mysterious East. Less salubrious than Hitch’s native Leytonstone.

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A slew of text inside. The criminal is reading The Daily Herald. An ad for Wrigleys in the bottom corner. Another newspaper lies on his desk, bearing his watch and revolver. We can read a headline about MURDER TRIAL and, at the bottom, the words I’VE FOUND IT! — probably another advertisement. Most amusingly, above the bed is a religious motto, GOD HELPS THOSE WHO HELP THEMSELVES. Ironic, since it seems our friend in the nightshirt has been helping himself a little too freely.

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The note Anny has received proposing a secret assignation ~

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Torn from a cocktail menu, it suggests a whole furtive nocturnal backstory. I like the abbreviated slogan “NIPPY” COCK — a partial directorial signature?

Anny’s despondent walk after she’s killed Ritchard is full of printed cues and clues. For one thing, she passes a poster advertising the climactic fight from THE RING, Hitchcock’s previous film, starring Carl Brisson, Anny’s lover from THE MANXMAN. The fight is staged at the Albert Hall, looking forward to THE MAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH.

A neon sign in Piccadilly Circus, advertising Gordon’s Gin “The Heart of a Good Cocktail” dissolves so that a cocktail shaker outline becomes a hand stabbing with a kitchen knife — a ludicrous idea, but bold, and the call-back to the “nippy” cocktails is appreciated.

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IS PRAYER ANSWERED? A significant question in Hitchcock, directly addressed at the film’s climax, when Ondra apparently prays, and her decision to confess her crime is answered with the death of the blackmailer. See also THE WRONG MAN.

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Ondra’s family newsagent yields a plethora of signage! My eyeballs dart like frightened mice, from one corner of the screen to another to try and catch all the little textual nudges. Alice’s first sight of home is viewed through the reverse side of a shop sign, so we get mirrored lettering AGAIN — Alice is through the looking glass! The earlier accident begins to look deliberate. Confirmed when Alice stares at herself in her dresing table mirror just moments later.

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PICTURE SHOW — lower right. Ah, if only Anny had gone to the pictures with John Longden, we wouldn’t be where we are now. The reference may also remind us of the pieces of art in Ritchard’s sex garret, each of which has an accusatory role in the narrative. One is a laughing, pointing jester, the other is a sketch on canvas signed by Ondra.

When we see the phone booth again, from Longden’s POV, that sign has vanished, in the best ROOM 237 manner. On the left of frame is a possible explanation — a MYSTIC ERASER. Just what Anny needs to obliterate the past 24 hours as neatly as the obliterated her incriminating signature from Ritchard’s canvas.

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The booklets and other props around the phone booth will continue to change randomly throughout the scene, an uncanny peekaboo of discontinuity.

Ondra’s dad, Mr. White, is explicitly framed with a halo reading the word WARLOCK. Not sure why. But the shopkeeper dad is obviously a stand-in for Hitch’s own father, with whom he associated his fear of arrest. So although Mr. White is kindly, Hitch makes him a source of anxiety with this supernatural halo of occult lettering.

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Ondra has mentioned Edgar Wallace earlier — now a poster at floor level refers to Sexton Blake, stalwart hero of schlock thrillers, whose exploits had been printed in the Union Jack since 1894. The threat from ‘D’ (no idea who he is), “If Sexton Blake comes to Yorkshire, I’ll get him!”, gives the blackmailer’s first appearance a further underscore of menace.

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And finally ~

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SHAG (middle left). Obviously a reference to another fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes, whose favourite pipe tobacco this was.

The Whit Sunday Intertitle: Crossing Delaunay

Posted in FILM, Painting with tags , , , , , , , , , , on May 24, 2015 by dcairns

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Marvelous Mary came back from the Sonia Delaunay exhibition at the Tate, clutching the catalogue and full of enthusiasm. I was totally unable to procure the Delaunay-designed 1926 movie LE P’TIT PARIGOT, a clip of which had entranced Mary, so we settled for Marcel L’Herbier’s LE VERTIGE, costumed by Delaunay the same year, which the IMDb doesn’t even know she did (sharing screen credit with Jacques Manuel).

LE VERTIGE is pretty slow and dull dramatically, but the production design by a team including top architect Robert Mallet-Stevens and Delaunay’s husband Robert, is really striking. Sadly, there aren’t many of the striking patterns she made her name with. L’Herbier’s lover and star Jaque Catelain does turn up with a nice robe at the 105 minute mark, and there’s a Mexican stand-off at the end by two men both attired in fabulous scarves, but that’s your lot.

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Compare with the designs for LE P’TIT PARIGOT ~

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Or this stunning set of jammies modeled by architect Erno Goldfinger (whose name inspired the Bond villain) ~

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If I owned a set of jim-jams as stylish as that, I wouldn’t think twice about detonating a nuclear device in Fort Knox either.

Still, LE VERTIGE has something else: a storyline which seems closely connected to Hitchcock’s similarly-titled 1959 necrodrama. The movie opens at the height of the Russian revolution. The jealous General Mikhail (Roger Karl) shoots his rival Jaque Catelain in full view of his straying spouse, Emmy Lynn. Then the revolutionaries burst in and bayonet the prone philanderer. So he’s dead, right? Shot in the heart and bayoneted by the entire Russian revolution, he’s dead. Rumours of his death are not only NOT exaggerated, we can say they don’t go nearly far enough.

So imagine Emmy’s surprise when Catelait turns up on the Cote D’Azur years later, alive, smirking and driving a speedboat. The same smile, the same lipstick, the same guyliner. Positively the same Catelait.

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She now attempts to recreate this passionate affair with the doppelganger of her lost love, and it works pretty good too, from what one can gauge between passionate fadeouts, but she still has that jealous husband.

“Did Hitchcock see this?” asked Fiona. We agreed it was possible, but perhaps more likely that Boileau et Narcejac, the writing team behind the novel D’entre les Mortes, Hitchcock’s source, saw it. In VERTIGO, Both Kim Novaks are the same character. In LE VERTIGE, there are two Catelains, their resemblance coincidental. Jimmy Stewart’s vertigo is a literal acrophobia, but it’s also a spiritual terror, a fear of falling out of one’s place in time, into the past, and a desire to do so. That feeling is already present in LE VERTIGE, and accounts for all Emmy Lynn’s swooning fits, I guess.

More Sonia Delaunay to enjoy — in colour! (And with the promised intertitles.)



V is for Vertigo

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , on March 11, 2014 by dcairns

David Melville returns with another installment in his alphabet of Mexican melodrama. The title this time may be familiar, but the film perhaps is not…

 CINE DORADO

The Golden Age of Mexican Melodrama 

V is for Vértigo

What happens in life is what has to happen. Each must follow his own destiny.

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No, in case you were wondering, this is not a Mexican version of the 1958 Hitchcock classic. (Interestingly, a 1956 Argentine film called Más allá del olvido/Beyond Oblivion is said to be a near blueprint.) Vértigo, shot in 1945, is a literary costume drama by the Spanish exile Antonio Momplet – who, on the basis of this film alone, could lay claim to being Latin America’s answer to William Wyler. Like such Wyler films as Jezebel (1938), The Little Foxes (1941) or The Heiress (1949), this is a tale of high-octane suffering in exquisite (if claustrophobic) period settings. Its dazzling use of decor and deep focus reveals, rather than hides, the depths of human depravity on show.

Its star is María Félix in one of her subtlest and most sympathetic roles. Cast for a change as a more-or-less normal woman and not a tempestuous, man-eating virago. Of course, in any film that involves María, ‘normal’ is strictly a relative term. Her character Mercedes is a pious and eminently respectable widow, owner of a small hacienda in the depths of rural Mexico, sometime in the late 19th century. For the first 15 minutes or so, Maria goes to the amazing lengths of looking plain – wearing dull, dowdy gowns, next to no makeup and (ay, caramba!) glasses. Before too many scenes elapse, her whiny daughter (Lilia Michel) comes home from five years at school in the big city. Thoughtfully, she brings her mamá a full Parisian wardrobe in the back of her small wagon.

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If only that were all she brought…Vértigo would be a very dull film indeed. The girl also brings her fiancé (Emilio Tuero) a sexy rotter who’s closer in age to her mother. When the lovebirds arrive at the hacienda, Michel steals up behind Félix and puts her hands over her mother’s eyes as a ‘surprise’. The first thing mother sees, as the hands slip away, is Tuero’s face. Moustachioed and rapier-thin, like a sort of latino Basil Rathbone. Felix – who, remember, has spent all of 15 minutes trying to look dowdy and repressed – is fired instantly with a fatal passion. Tuero feels the same and the stage is soon set for a deadly love triangle. One of those where nothing, not even murder, will keep the guilty lovers apart.

As always in a Mexican film of this era, the Hollywood parallels are clear yet confusing. Vértigo looks like a Wyler movie and is based on a ‘classic’ literary source. (The story is by Pierre Benoît, a French author best known for the oft-filmed L’Atlantide.) Yet its plot might have been purloined from Hollywood’s hottest property of the 40s, the pulp novelist James M Cain. The rivalry of mother and daughter for a sexy but disreputable man is straight out of Mildred Pierce (1945), which won Joan Crawford an Oscar that same year. The man’s opportunistic killing of the daughter – the axis on which the plot turns – is in the Cain tradition of criminal lovers, from Double Indemnity (1944) to The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946). One might best describe Vértigo as a ‘costume noir’.

Death, of course, comes later on in the story. Before that, we have to witness María’s grand entrance at the party she throws to welcome her daughter back home. The festivities are in full swing when, suddenly, the mariachi band stops in mid-note and the guests rise, in a body, to their feet (like the obedient and well-trained extras that they are). Félix enters slowly in a clinging white silk gown, garlanded with swirls of silk roses. That unconvincing grey streak has been washed (mercifully) out of her hair; a choker of pearls gleams and dazzles at her throat. The guests gape in awe (mirroring the audience) and the local priest asks in hushed reverence: “Is that you? Or has a star come down to earth?”

It is not simply that María Félix is one of a very few stars who can live up to dialogue like this. What’s astonishing here is the way Félix – who was nothing if not a clothes-horse – walks in this gown as if she were ill at ease and unaccustomed to such finery. Sniping at María’s limitations as an actress is a favourite game among critics – yet María Félix tells us more with a gown, and the way she wears it, than Meryl Streep can with any of her dozen foreign accents. Once the party is over and she has retired to bed, she gazes out through fluttering white curtains at the silent moonlit courtyard. There she sees her daughter and her fiancé locked in an embrace. Here, her vast dark liquid eyes tell us all we need to know.

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For years (so the script tells us) this woman has been “living without life and crying without tears”. A few weeks pass and her soon-to-be son-in-law seduces her as she reads by a stream. (Momplet cuts to a cascading waterfall, as a stand-in for the carnal act.) In the next scene, her gown has altered from the pale virginal lace of her early outfits, to a tightly voluptuous black bodice and a skirt with lurid zebra stripes. She wears it, this time, like a full-on femme fatale. Tuero urges her to forget her daughter and run away with him, but Félix – remembering her duties as a mother – tells him he must marry the girl as planned, go abroad and never see her (Félix) again. She cannot suspect, of course, that the man she loves might stoop to murder.

Not so much murder, perhaps, as ‘deliberate accidental death’. The night before the wedding, it starts to rain heavily – a series of exquisite random shots that evoke the Joris Ivens ‘film poem’ Regen/Rain (1929). Just in case we miss the point, daughter sits down at the piano and strums out Chopin’s Raindrop Prelude. The water rises menacingly, under a rickety bridge that we know is about to collapse. (We know because minor characters have been telling us, every five minutes or so, since the film began.) The villainous Tuero feigns illness and does not protest too loudly when his adoring bride-to-be insists on riding in her horse-drawn buggy, across the bridge, to fetch the doctor. Cue a bravura montage of Félix looking worried, Tuero looking anguished and the hapless but frankly irritating young girl hurtling to her doom.

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In the next scene, the girl is sprawled Ophelia-like, surrounded with flowers, at her funeral in the family chapel. Félix, who is still unaware of her lover’s role in the death, does not understand why the other mourners avoid her. Tuero flees after a wholly unconvincing attack of guilt but…‘it ain’t over till it’s over’ as the song goes, and nothing in a María Félix movie is ever over until the star says so. These lovers are doomed to meet again and let’s just say it won’t be pretty. Love, as we know, is a fleeting and unreliable emotion. Revenge is a passion that lasts for life.

David Melville

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