STAR OF THE MONTH: Robert Mitchum

Robert Mitchum: Don't be deceived just because it's April 1st.

He's nobody's fool.

True story: when Charles Laughton began preparing for his first and last onscreen directorial effort-- the dark, fairy tale nightmare Night of the Hunter-- he became convinced that no one else on earth would be better for the role of the murderous "Preacher Harry Powell" than the snake eyed Robert Mitchum. He feared Robert's rejection, because Powell was an outlandish, bombastic character unlike anything the underplaying actor had ever performed. Still, he made his pitch:

Laughton: Bob, we have a story here we are hoping to turn into a little film, and I would very much like to talk to you about the leading role. The character is a bit different. He's a terrible, evil... sh*t of a man.

Mitchum: Present.

There you have it: Bob in a nutshell. Robert Mitchum kept it real. Never catering to expectations nor indulging in diva tantrums, he eschewed all forms of pretension or formality and openly indulged in his inner bad-ass. But Robert, despite being the King of Cool, was a bit of a pretender himself. His act of the cynical drifter who didn't give a damn was an exaggeration of his true self. His mask of devious detachment and impassion was a front to deter those around him from his secret vulnerabilities, his artistic drive, and his surprising intelligence. Still, girls went ga-ga for him, because he was "a little bit evil" and they dug it, and his same disenchanted, searching soul was the one that gave him incredible depth as both an actor and human being. 

Bob and wife Dorothy.

Robert Charles Durman Mitchum was born on August 6, 1917 to a Scots-Irish and American Indian mutt, the charismatic and combative Jimmy Mitchum of South Carolina, and the more easy-going and artistic Norwegian, Ann Harriet Gunderson of Connecticut. He would be equally endowed with components of both parents, inheriting the willful, fighting, liquor-loving penchants of his father and the more poetic and intellectual sensibilities of his mother. The middle child was sandwiched between elder sister Annette (who later changed her name to Julie) and younger brother John. At a mere 1 1/2 years of age, Bob's father was killed while working in Charleston's navy yard, crushed between two box-cars-- a common occurrence in those days. A deeply mournful Ann moved her family back to New England for a time, then back to South Carolina, and later to Delaware, where Bob spent the majority of his formative, youthful years. Already, the spirit of the gypsy was in him. His family would only ever know the warm, sensitive, romantic side of Bob's nature, and would be surprised when they learned that he had gotten into fights with local boys or had yet again been kicked out of school. The irony was that Bob was the smartest kid in his class. Adept with what can only be called a photographic memory and a highly intuitive, comprehending mind, he was often the one to point out the teachers' mistakes. School friends never saw him take a book home to study, because he already had his entire lesson memorized and figured. Yet, Bob was also the student to get in trouble for playing pranks on teachers, cutting class, or causing a general ruckus. As a poor kid, he had a well-ingrained distaste, not only for spoiled, oblivious people, but also any kind of authority figure. He would always carry a chip on his shoulder, yet as he matured, he at least learned how to pick his battles, probably knowing that he was smarter than any of the supposedly learned elite who were barking orders at him or making fun of his impoverished family.

Checking out the gorgeous merchandise of lifelong pal Jane Russell in

the comic thriller His Kind of Woman.

After he was expelled from his high school at the age of fourteen, Bob hopped to a train to... anywhere. There was no plan. There was no ending point. He just wanted to move around, see the country, and let it ride. He would hop trains with the rest of the hobos, often jumping off for his dear life when the cops on board discovered them and starting shooting! He would end up stranded in various places, work for a little food and money, roam a bit, then hop back on. Various poems and letters to home kept him mentally busy on quiet nights passing through the country, in addition to alcohol and a little something called Marijuana, or as he called it, "the poor man's whiskey." Eventually, he was forced to return home to his mother's care, (she was now remarried to Major Hugh Morris), after he was bitten by a poisonous snake, and his leg became infected. The doctor wanted to amputate his leg, but Ann, with her bohemian wherewithal, concocted her own natural potion of herbs and roots to save her son's life and limb. It was upon his return to Delaware, where he was limping around on crutches, that he met his brother's latest love interest, Dorothy Spence. Only thirteen-years-old, Dorothy didn't move as fast as the other girls. She was modest, unassuming, and thoughtful. Bob took one look at her and said, "She was it... And that was that." John didn't take it too hard when Bob started working his way into Dorothy's heart, but Dorothy thought Bob was a bit of a pompous nut when she first met him. Then, he started laying on the Shakespeare. And the lyrical quotations. And those thin, penetrating eyes... Soon, they were in love. 

Bob and Burgess Meredith in the groundbreaking Story of G.I. Joe.

Bob built his scrawny, slender frame into a muscular powerhouse when working with the Civilian Conservation Corp. at the age of sixteen. Then, he packed up with his family to try things out in California, where his entertainer sister was already making a go of it. He swore he would return for "Dottie," then headed for a new life as a beach bum. He had been earning a little dough here and there to support the family, including a brief stint as a boxer, when sister Annette literally pushed him on stage to audition at a local theater. Bob wasn't openly interested-- acting was for "sissies" after all-- but secretly he had a natural penchant for performance that had lain dormant for far too long. His family had also noticed his hamming, impressions, and general theatrics, and because of their influence, he accidentally earned himself a role in the play "Rebound." He would take on odd jobs and various roles after his debut, but he continued to avoid commitment to the craft. He was also making money on the side by penning songs, lyrics, and "patter" for local variety and musical acts. He was mostly focused on earning a solid living, so he could start building a life with Dottie. Yet, the signs were clear from the get go. Critics and cast members were blown away by his incredible stage presence and subtle acting style, not to mention his easy use of slang and incredibly verbose vocabulary. For now, he was getting by, so he and Dorothy got hitched, she relocated to California, and they moved into the former chicken shack in the family's back yard. (Dorothy probably had second thoughts).

It wouldn't be small potatoes for long. After his first son, James, was born, Bob nearly went blind working for Lockheed. His mother suggested he look into the picture business, and soon he had nonchalantly gotten himself an agent and a string of roles in B-Westerns, including the Hopalong Cassidy series. The laid-back, man's man world of this brand of cinema was a good place for the skeptical Bob to start. Had he been introduced to the more materialistic and inflated world of slick Hollywood filmmaking, he probably would have run for the hills. As it was, he easily grew comfortable in front of the camera. He would arrive on set, take a look at the script, memorize it in one reading, then hit his mark. Of course, more work went into it than he would ever admit, and many a director would confront him about his feigned indifference. Not only was his bold, distant, yet inviting onscreen persona getting notice and praise, but those he worked with knew that he was actually the hardest working man in show-business. He put great thought into his characterizations, making them somehow more authentic and real, whereas most studio actors gave essentially superficial, "get my good side" performances. After three years, Bob had his big break in Story of G.I. Joe, in which his human and heart-breaking portrayal of "Lt. Walker" earned him his first and only Best Actor nomination at the Academy Awards. He bounced from Westerns, to Noir, to Drama, and back again, proving his versatility and earning countless numbers of fans.

Bob and buddy Jane Greer in noir classic Out of the Past.

When he was signed with RKO, his "type" would be forever solidified. In complex thrillers and noirs, he would become the disenchanted outsider with questionable morals-- complete with cigarette and trench coat. His career would include a long list of impressive credits, including Out of the Past, His Kind of Woman, Angel Face, Night of the Hunter, and The Sundowners. These were his trophy pictures. Bob was always willing to "go there," to investigate a character with more cracks and fractures than the typical pretty boy role. He had no concern for his star power, his name above the title,  nor the size of his role. He was more interested in doing a job and doing it well. The surprisingly innocent blend of masculinity and slight ignorance he molded for Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison and the intensely sexual and sinister creature he created in Cape Fear are testaments to his profound capabilities as an actor. What enhanced his edge was his mystery. You can never quite figure Robert Mitchum out. Even his family would draw a blank when asked to sum him up or explain his behaviors. A traveling gypsy to the end, he was his own island, and this quality intensified his onscreen roles. That's not to say he didn't partake in his share of stinkers, he made quite a few of them with his career enduring its ups and downs, but in the end, he always improved whatever project he worked on just by being in it. He didn't care if a movie wasn't a hit; he didn't go to see them anyway. He was more concerned with the paycheck and putting food on the table to feed his brood of eventually 3 children: Jim, Chris, and Petrine.

Showing his true colors as the murderous "Preacher Powell" in 

Night of the Hunter.

In his personal life, Bob was also a conundrum. He could drink like a fish, and he occasionally turned violent or unexpectedly and confusedly enraged when under the influence, yet he would walk on the sound stage the next day, no worse for the wear, as if he had gotten 12 hours of beauty sleep. He was a brilliant conversationalist and orator, but he had few friends and even fewer in the entertainment business. He was able to strike up camaraderies with guys like John Wayne or Frank Sinatra, but his most enduring friendships were with women of class, substance, and smarts like Jane Russell and Deborah Kerr. He was very protective of women who were fragile, such as Marilyn Monroe or Rita Hayworth, whom he never approached in a romantic fashion but watched over like a brother. Some of his co-stars simply bored him, because they were self-absorbed "bimbos," but he worked well with and respected hard-working, down-to-earth girls who enjoyed his naughty, uncouth sense of humor-- like Janet Leigh and Jane Greer, who both adored working with him. That's not to say Bob always kept things platonic. Inheriting his father's demons and probably suffering from the lack of a real father figure, Bob would engage in many an irresponsible affair, including one with Ava Gardner and a more infamous relationship with Shirley MacLaine, with whom he fell deeply in love during Two for the Seesaw. Dorothy overlooked the indiscretions time and again, because she knew he would always come back to her with the same old excuse. Bob didn't seek out these infidelities necessarily; mostly, he just found himself unable to resist when a temptation was so energetically placed before him. Shirley was the only woman who ever accidentally threatened Dorothy's place as the only real woman in his life. Yet, as always, Bob came back. He and Dorothy remained married until his death in 1997. (He was just shy of 80-years-old).

A haunted, rare look at the cinematic tough guy in Where Danger Lives.

Bob's essential problem was his pair of itchy feet. He was a born adventurer with a fear of monotony, traps, or snares, (and he'd had his share of them with multiple arrests in his life, including the Marijuana scandal, which was coincidentally later expunged from his record after a set-up was uncovered). He would never stay anywhere for long. He was a loving father but an unemotional one. He was there when someone needed him, but he was mostly distant and lost in his own thoughts. One of the reasons he liked acting was the ability it gave him to travel-- to get going before things went stale. Back and forth, here and back, home and far and away, the native blood in him couldn't stand still. The philosopher in him couldn't sit idly nor ignorantly. His cross to bear was his need for more and his own secret fear of rejection-- his unfortunate theology that opening up fully or being truly emotional was wrong. What he felt, what he carried within him, he carried alone, wandering, seeking, and solving all of life's mysteries before his own life was over. The little snippets of his personal discoveries can be gleaned from the identities he created in Dan Milner, Max Cody, Preacher Harry Powell, Jeff McCloud, Lucas Doolin, and Charles Shaugnessey. Moviedom's master poker player, Robert Mitchum never showed his hand. But then, when you're holding aces, you don't need to.

TAKE 1, 2, 3: Blessed Virgins

Oh, Sister... Debbie Reynolds makes the sound of holy music in 

The Singing Nun.

In answer to the Roman soldier of God post I did a few weeks ago, I thought it appropriate to offer the female equivalent. At first glance, the Nun may seem like the least likely candidate for a Hollywood heroine, but this character has been refashioned for the screen multiple times, from The Bells of St. Mary's to Sister Act. We've made a habit (ha, haha) of both extolling the virtues and questioning the agenda behind a life "of the cloth." As women in film generally fall into two categories, the virgin and the whore, exposing the complicated nature of a Nun is the most symbolic way that screenwriters and filmmakers have used to interpret the good and evil in mankind. Ironically, when holding the mirror up to womankind in her purest form, we have sometimes received provocative and intriguing answers regarding the nature, not only of womanhood, but of the very soul of humanity. It was hard to choose which films to discuss for this article, since there are so many of interest-- Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison or Doubt, etc-- but in selecting the following three, I think I will more ably be able to zero in on the "three faces of Eve": the Good, the Evil, and the Human.

The Good

Cynicism has put a great dent in the faith of mankind, as has Time. Certainly, there are still practicing Catholics, Jews, Mormons, Muslims, etc, but living in the modern era, it is often difficult to be allegiant to a religion devised so long ago, which consequently instigates wars and constantly reveals itself through varying levels of hypocrisy. We fall on our knees in times of great struggle, sometimes praying without even realizing we are doing so, but the average person no longer seems to keep the concept of God in the same untarnished and unquestionable position as our forefathers. Ironically, today it is almost a sin to utter the name of "God." Have we forgotten him or outgrown him? These are questions every man must answer for himself, and they are equally questions that make films like The Song of Bernadette (1943) seem a bit peculiar by today's standards. Yet, despite the highly devout nature of the script, the film somehow transcends modernity and skepticism.  The beautiful performance of Jennifer Jones as Bernadette (left) and the surprisingly complex portrayal of the various other supporting characters in the film illuminate faith as something very real and worth discussing, and finally worth embracing. It is how we react to miracles and how we approach conflict that determines our spirit. Whether the Holy Spirit is a man made creation or an intangible presence in human life, in this film, it wears the face of true innocence and piety, making believers out of even the most mistrusting of men and evoking emotion from the stoniest of hearts.

The plot of The Song of Bernadette follows the title character as she unexpectedly finds, introduces, and renews faith in her community-- the French village of Lourdes. A soft-headed, sickly girl, "Bernadette" is generally harmless. She has vague plans of getting married some day, perhaps to the nice Antoine (William Eythe) who lives nearby, and having a family of her own. Her own family is poor and-- more often than not-- Bernadette, for all of her sweetness, is still viewed as somewhat of a burden to them. Then, one day, when Bernadette is left alone by the river, she has a vision of a beautiful woman (in a strange cameo by Linda Darnell, right). She is moved by what she sees, is totally peaceful and adoring, but only she can see or hear what the great "Lady" says. When she shares this news, no one believes her, of course,  and her claims are made even more hysterical by the fact that she has had her vision in such close proximity to the city dumping ground. Yet, she continues her pilgrimage to see the Lady, who has asked her to come for fifteen straight days. Soon, her disapproving parents, the skeptical Priest, the town doctor-- a man of science-- are all won over to her side. Whether or not they believe in her vision, they believe in her-- her purity, her innocence, and her good will.

Bernadette defends her visions to Prosecutor Dutour, and her honesty and calm reason

trump his textbooks every time.

The only sect that does not believe are the lawmen, represented most fully and of course villainously with the always elegant and sinister Vincent Price as "Prosecutor Vital Dutour." Why is it only men of man-made laws that seem to fear her? Perhaps because they are not of the earth or nature. Even Lee J. Cobb's "Dr. Dozous," who is ever-rational, is still a man who uses the earthly elements to cure the sick. Law men only have their words and personal fabrications. They are threatened by the power that Bernadette peacefully and accidentally accrues, as throngs of followers begin to join her as she kneels before the Lady in her nightly prayers. The Priest, played by the crinkly-faced Charles Bickford, too combats his own doubts and is forced to confront his apparent lack of faith in man, which he rediscovers in Bernadette. But Price's prosecutor and his fellow cronies cannot fathom what has not been written down, and they too perhaps feel a sexual need to destroy Bernadette's purity and chastity: even a modest, unassuming, agenda-less girl like herself is harmful to them for the mere fact that she refuses to demurely sit in a corner and follow their rules. To add insult to injury, she serves, not even God, but the Lady, whom she describes as "The Immaculate Conception"-- a title that leaves the community bewildered.

In time, and due to much business that I won't go into, a spring erupts that brings with it mystical healing powers. Bernadette is now looked upon as a Saint. Her contact with this strange Goddess, whom she cautiously never refers to as the Blessed Virgin, has resulted in a much in-demand, natural elixir that heals the sick, cures the blind, and allows the crippled to walk. Bernadette carries no pride or honor for her deeds. She, simple-minded as she is, sees nothing strange about what she has done, nor does she feel the need to claim any sort of reward or glory for it. Jones, in her portrayal, is the epitome of innocence-- of goodness. She is selfless, kind, uncomplicated, but real. We never believe that Bernadette is immaculate herself, just that she, as a real girl, was chosen to be a vessel through which holy information comes. The accidental way that her natural knowledge always undoes the learned lawmakers and their own brand of reason is also continuously comical. Finally, when she is encouraged to continue her Godly work by becoming a Nun, she takes pause. She is not totally certain that she wants to leave behind a life of earthly love to continue seeking the divine. Yet, she is easily convinced that it is the proper path. She has been "called," and as a simple girl, she will follow where she is led. (Bernadette walks away from a life and love that could have been, left).

For many years, Bernadette does not see the Lady again, and her hours are spent in prayer, reflection, and staving off the icy attacks of fellow Sister "Marie Therese," (Gladys Cooper, right), who is insulted that all of her years of servitude have not been rewarded with the enriching visions that the novice Bernadette has attained. The work of a Nun is not a vacation. It is a hard life of isolation and obedience. Bernadette, of course, never complains, not even when it is discovered that she has a painful tumor growing on her leg. She is also continually tested about her prior claims by religious authorities, who still do not believe her tales and visions, but she steadfastly maintains her stories. As she finally dies, she sees the Lady once more. One wonders, as she shudders with her last breath, if all she gave in her life was worth it? What, in the end, did it all mean? The spring she once brought to life eventually became a gimmick for the local lawmen to draw in travelers, and the "holy" water is now sold as a product. The miracles that she worked-- except in the memories of those who knew her-- will seemingly die with her. Yet, it does seem worth it, and director Henry King's handling of the story convinces viewers that such simple things of beauty, such innocent creatures as Bernadette, such selfless actions, and above all, such messages of love, are all that count in life. The "song" of Bernadette may have only been understood by those nearest her in her own lifetime, but if we listen closely, we can still hear the music in our own. The trick is to avoid hypocrisy and abandon all rules but the golden one. If we live openly with the heart of a child, we can have a paradise on earth of our own making.

The Bad

Black Narcissus (1947) couldn't disagree more. If Bernadette was about how faith renews life, Narcissus is about how faith kills. The essential ingredient needed to make faith palatable-- and a shared experience between the earthly and the divine-- is people. Community. Brotherhood. This is why faith grew and thrived in Bernadette's small town of Lourdes. The plague of Black Narcissus is the plague of isolation. The Nuns are not sisters of Man, they are servants of God-- detached, cool, lifeless. Deborah Kerr leads the cast as "Sister Clodagh," and her usual stunning beauty is paled and starched to show the absence of flavor in her life. She is given the righteous task of being the youngest Sister Superior to manage her cohorts in Mopu, where they will form a hospital and school for children and young girls. It feels more like a punishment than a reward. The castle in the sky to which the Sisters arrive stands on a great precipice, (which gives one vertigo even from the comfort of the couch, see left). The sole sound of life that echoes from the Old General's donated Palace-- which used to house his ancestors' many mistresses-- is the large bell that tolls the hour and calls the sisters to prayer. Looking down as "Sister Ruth" (Kathleen Bryon) rings the bell as part of her daily task, it is strange to note that, though high above the village below, it seems that the Sisters are the ones in Hell. Peace and life are found with the local people, including the new, younger General (Sabu), whom the sisters take to calling "Black Narcissus." His presence is not welcomed at first, for he is a man, but as he cleverly points out that Jesus was too, Sister Clodagh agrees to take him in as a student.

Another snake in the grass is "Mr. Dean" (David Farrar), who at all time tests the faith of the sisters and flirts with them as well, making fun of their faith and counting the days until their lifeless isolation forces them to abandon their pie in the sky ideals. The sexual tension between him and Sister Clodagh is very poignant, but initially, his charms and chauvinism have no effect-- except on Sister Ruth. All the sisters are effected by Mopu in different ways, it seems. The Palace stands not as a place of healing nor peace, as they had intended, but in time it comes to serve as a test for their own faith and stamina. This far away from people-- in this heightened experience of isolation, the constant wind, and the constant cold-- each nun is left alone with only her own thoughts for company. No matter where they turn, each woman is forced to come face to face with herself. 

The results manifest themselves in different ways. The good in some is brought to the surface; the evil in others. Sister Ruth is suddenly ruled by an incurable lust and an obsession with Dean. "Sister Philippa" (Flora Robson) is filled with guilt over her own memories, which make her lose track of time and botch her gardening duties. The past brings her pain, and she lacks the courage to face it. She begs Sister Clodagh to send her away to no avail, for Kerr's hard-lining and hard-nosed Sister Superior won't allow any of them to bow to weakness. However, her Sister Clodagh is also forced to face her past, but when she does, color begins to return to her face (right). In her flashbacks, we see Sister Clodagh as a young woman in love, with her childhood family, with dreams... She slowly rediscovers her own humanity and her passions, and as a result, she eventually comes out from hiding behind her orders, dictates, and structures. The parts within that all sisters attempted to bury, thus, come to the surface. They tried to use faith as a shield from themselves, and now they are to be punished.

The tension that all of these revelations cause is harsh to the senses. In fact, the film is at times difficult to even watch, because the horror and dementia each Nun undergoes is so perfectly communicated by the at times taut, at times languid, at times beautiful direction. The entire story unfolds as a tease, as if one were falling asleep bored only to find oneself suddenly in the midst of a bad dream! The only moment of true vibrancy comes from the sinful and vain "Kanchi," played without a word by the always stunning Jean Simmons (left,with Sabu). She eventually steals the equally pompous but charming young General away for a sexual escape, and when these tokens of colorful life disappear, all Hell breaks loose. Indeed, when a young child dies in the Sisters' care, the entire village abandons them, thinking them cursed, or hexed, etc. Now, they have only each other to face, all with their spirits breaking and their convictions shattering. 

Sister Ruth brazenly decides to leave the convent and goes through the wilderness to reclaim her forgotten womanhood with Dean. Unfortunately for her, he wants no part of her maniacal seduction. He has clearly fallen in love with Sister Clodagh, whose stubborn defiance and forgotten self has touched him. (Even nuns, it seems, can get involved in the occasional cat fight). And so, Sister Ruth-- in full lipstick and civilian regalia-- climbs the long way back up the mountain to paint the Palace red-- with blood. Sister Clodagh waits, sweating, as if knowing her fate is approaching. Sister Ruth could even be read as the most evil, highly sexualized, gluttonous half of Sister Clodagh's character. Sister Clodagh fears her, because she sees a self that has remained a dormant threat to the vows that she took before God so long ago. The nearly psychologically broken Clodagh goes to ring the mighty bell for the last time, as the desperately creepy and menacing Ruth (right) lunges for her, trying to push her into the abyss! Sister Clodagh triumphs; Sister Ruth plummets to her death. The evil parasite has been exorcised.

The stunning photography of the notorious Jack Cardiff blends the beauty and 

horror of the infamous palace of mirrors.

Despite Sister Clodagh's triumph, the time has still come to abandon the Palace on a hill. The message seems to be that one should not attempt to grow closer to God as the cost of losing your humanity. God created life so that people could live it, not hide from it, as the sisters learned during their sojourn in Mopu. As the Nuns descend the mountain, the castle gets swallowed up by the clouds, as if it never existed-- as if they were in an intangible place and have been spit back into the real world. Despite everything that Clodagh has faced, she has been reconfirmed in her commitment to the cloth. Yet, we see shades of her young self as she extends her hand to Dean during their final goodbye. Demoted from her position, she has a long way to go in repairing the damage and shame that she has brought to the Sisterhood during the tragedy of Mopu, but she is willing to start over. Then, she and the sisters disappear into the fog from Dean's view, again, as if they had never existed. He has learned something of his visceral cynicism too-- that there is a state of being more intense and pure than the one that he chooses to recognize. The idea is that salvation is found in combining the two mindsets to find the perfect formation of life on earth.

The Human

This brings us to The Nun's Story, and it is indeed a Nun's story. The film's tremendous success can be attributed to both the intelligent and complex performance of Audrey Hepburn (left) and the depth and realism of the plot. Unlike Bernadette and Narcissus, who merely grazed the surface of what it means to leave one's life and one's self behind to enter into a life of religious servitude, The Nun's Story is all about that decision: the sacrifice, the obedience, and the harsh reality. Throughout history, the reasons of entering the nunnery have been that of necessity (a landing place for an unmarried girl who is a burden to her parents or is being punished for deviant behavior) or naive piety. From the outside, it seems easy. The church is a safe haven away from man's temptations and issues. Money is not a concern, sex is not a concern, and while one must get by with very little luxury or comfort, the reward for devoting one's life to God is believed to be enough. We have imagined these women quietly pacing behind the convent walls-- some of them angelic, some old and crotchety-- but never before this film has the harsh duty, discipline, and psychological torment that they endure been brought to life. The cliches are broken. Nuns are neither flawless super-humans nor dried-up spinsters with no other haven. They are your run-of-the-mill, fallible mortals, and the human battle that they endure on a daily basis is not some meek challenge to be sniffed at. Leaving one's life behind may be easy; but leaving one's soul is not.

Gabrielle sheds her vanity with her hair.

The film opens with Audrey's "Gabrielle" (soon to be "Sister Luke") entering the convent. Everyone tries to stop her: her father, her siblings, etc. They don't understand why someone such as herself-- so rebellious, it seems-- would give up her life to be, as they see it, tucked away from the world. Her father (Dean Jagger) tries to talk her out of it, but Gabrielle has made her decision. Her rebellion, her strength, is surprisingly what draws her to the sisterhood. She is a young woman with something to prove. Her determination to accomplish, perhaps in her family's eyes, the impossible is what appeals to her. She seems almost to be a masochist, and while her father warns her that the call to obedience will be a hefty chore for someone such as herself to follow, she quietly considers this a salivating challenge. She wants to conquer all doubt and conquer her self. We know little of her life outside the convent, other than the fact that she is leaving some pining man behind. Her decision to give him and her freedom up is the result, apparently, of nothing more than her iron will. 

Gabrielle undergoes all the usual processes and steps in becoming Sister Luke. She must learn to empty her head of selfish thoughts, she must employ only modesty-- which includes hiding her hands in her robes-- and most difficult for her, she must conquer her own pride. The Nunnery seeks to dilute all traces of vanity, thus all traces of individuality, personality, and color. There is no Sister Luke; there is only the body that operates as God's servant. Sister Luke finds these tests hard to take (see, right). She has countless sins to record in her prayer book every day. Her pride becomes a major factor, particularly when she is training in medicine, so that she may attend patients in hopefully a foreign terrain-- her dream. Like her father, she wishes to be a doctor, but better than him, she wants to serve both God and man in doing so. Yet, when she excels in class, it evokes the envy of another Sister. She goes to her Superior to ask for advice and is told that, to aid her Sisters better, she must show humility and fail her next exam. To Sister Luke, this is a sin greater than even she can accomplish. To deny this last vestige of herself-- her intelligence and her ability to help others-- is a submission she will not undergo. She passes her exam with flying colors, but is punished for this vanity when she is not immediately sent abroad to the Congo as she wishes. Still, she digs in her heels and keeps going. Not everyone is so patient nor so brave. Sisters-to-be drop like flies. Sister Luke makes it to the end of her training, and as is her wish, she is finally sent to the Congo.

Much like Mr. Dean in Narcissus, "Doctor Fortunati," played superbly by Peter Finch (left), fills the role of the masculine, sexual advancer in the film. He is Sister Luke's counterpoint. He challenges her beliefs with his science, he evokes her forbidden sexuality, but mostly he tries to wheedle out the passions of her former self. The sexual tension between them is never overt nor sensual. It is all subtlety. The misunderstanding and irritation that they have for each other quickly turns to mutual respect, as Fortunati realizes that Sister Luke is no ordinary Nun. If nothing else, she is a great nurse and medical aid. What's more, he can see the woman inside, as well as her constantly battling conscience, which leaves her tired, weak, and eventually bedridden. There are no come-ons. There is not even any touching. But, you see in their mutual body language and attentions to each other that, in another life, in another dimension, they would have been soul mates. Then again, perhaps Sister Luke's protective habit, which separates them, is the only thing keeping them together. When she pulls away from the Congo in the train, sent back to Belgium, and you see the disappearing figure of Fortunati watching her go, it breaks the heart.

War comes, and it tears everything to shreds. Sister Luke's hopes of serving God by serving man go unfulfilled as battles ensue. Consistently during her career as a Sister, Luke's obedience has been tested. She does not always stop to pray when the bell tolls, particularly if she is in the middle of helping a patient in need. She becomes too personal and emotionally involved with the men and women she cares for in Africa (right). Now, the world outside is raging, and she is locked away as if the sisters are in hiding when they should be out fighting, helping their fellow man, and trying to piece the broken world back together again. She makes a final act of defiance in allowing a new, young Sister to get out of the convent in order to help some soldiers. It is what she would have done at her age. It is what she wishes that she could do now. Then, word reaches her that her father is dead-- her father, whom despite herself she loves more than the Holy Father. It is the final straw that breaks her world-weary back. 

She makes the fatal decision to leave the convent. Just as when she first entered, many try to stop her and beg her to rethink herself. But her self is just what she is returning to. Her dismissal is a shameful display. She is treated like a woman with the plague, sent to a little room to remove her robes-- revealing the streaks of gray hair around her once young face. She is given her dowry back and her old belongings, and then... she exits. A door almost magically opens, and she walks out, growing smaller and smaller in the camera's view. The moment comes like a wave of relief to the viewer, who has endured her nerves and agony and has longed for this catharsis. Gabrielle, as she is named again, turns and walks away. Where she goes, no one knows, but for the first time in a long time, her path is her choice.

The isolation of the Nuns in Black Narcissus makes them seem hard

and "unholy." They only truly serve God when they come

in contact with the people of the village.

If the three discussed films have any commonality, it is the lesson they preach that there must be a unity of both God and Man. Anything in extreme is dangerous. If indeed there is a God, He created life so that we could live it. He created joy and love so that we could enjoy it, (and overcome all of those dangerous hurdles Satan unlocked when he tempted Eve with that damn apple). When the people of Babel built their tower in the sky, they got too close to God and were sent crashing down. So, the women of these films, while they have ethereal aspirations, cannot totally outgrow their human surroundings, nor should they. The point is not to be divine, but to be alive-- to do service to your fellow man in whatever mode one finds appropriate, whether as a Priest or a civilian. Abandoning your brethren for high ideals is, thus, the greatest sin of all. Celestial faith has a price, but goodness can be found and evil defied on earth. That is the challenge we have inherited and the one we must live with and endure together. All films are wonderful in their own way, but if you only see one, see The Nun's Story. I was shocked by how much I loved and responded to it, and I'm sure you will be too. Peace out.

TAKE ONE, TWO, THREE: Sweet Jesus!!!""

This year, in addition to revisiting all of the old holiday classics as Christmas approached, I decided to get right to meat of things and bone up on the big guy himself: good ol' JC. Investigating the way Christianity has presented itself in film over the years is quite the task. There's the epic route (Ben-Hur), the biographical route (The Greatest Story Ever Told), or the satirical route (The Miracle Woman). I couldn't help but notice, however, that there is a very specific trend in cinema that contrasts the majesty and power of Ancient, impenetrable Rome with the growing insinuation in the Republic of the all-powerful, omnipresent, Alpha-and-Omega God. Now, before I scare any non-believers, let me assure you that this is far from a "preachy" article, as my personal brand of religion is malleable but faithful at best and head-scratching and cynical at worst. My agenda here is to unlock the mystery of faith in film, not to attack you with my personal testaments. That being said, a lot can be learned from Jesus Christ, the way he reached the masses, the way his messages of love and peace encompassed them, survived monotheistic persecution, and continue to thrive today. As the following movies will show, God is good, but men? Men are bad. The formula to bring this evidence to the fore is fairly simple and unwavering. There is a pompous Roman soldier in conflict, a virginal woman who wins his heart, a power-hungry monarch, a prophet, and (most often) a whore. Mix the aforementioned with historical events, cast accordingly, and depending which director's Godlike hands the entree is entrusted into, the effects can be quite miraculous... or a miraculous waste of time. God be with you:

To begin at the beginning, on the first day in Hollywood, Cecil B. DeMille recreated good and evil in man's image and called it film: deliciously sinful and utterly devout. DeMille catches a lot of flack sometimes. People think he was a pompous, right-wing Bible banger who used his movies to spread religious propaganda. This is not true. Not wholly. Others think that DeMille merely used religion as an excuse to inject eroticism, nudity, and debauchery into his otherwise inadmissible, nearly pornographic films. This is not true either. Not wholly. DeMille too was holy and not holy. His genius was in giving people what they wanted while interpreting them as they were, as they fantasized themselves to be, and as they guiltily fretted. People were depicted as just as complicated as any of his intricate and textured mise en scenes. He can be accused of preaching a message, but the message preached is not always the one you would expect, yet he always preached in such a way that both a pious person and a sinner would find what he or she was looking for in the text. Hence: The Sign of the Cross (or That Movie Where Claudette Colbert Takes a Nude Milk Bath).

The film begins with the burning of Rome. The perfectly cast Charles Laughton stars as the infamous "Emperor Nero," who strums contentedly on his harp (or cithara perhaps), which history popularly remembers as a fiddle (left). With his cosmetically enhanced Roman nose, Laughton's roly-poly, immature, and deranged Nero is at once childish and dangerous. Sadly, there is too little of him in the film, but what moments he has on screen, he typically savors. Nero has burned Rome, it seems, simply "because." Because he, as the current Caesar, is basically ruling over his own personal tinker toy city and, like a small boy, he smashes his fist into it simply to see it topple. The only trouble is that the city is bound to rebel (after it douses itself), a fact that the simple-minded Nero has not considered-- he is much more perturbed when the string on his instrument breaks than by the sight of his kingdom in flames. Not to worry, he will point the finger of blame at the Christians, who have brazenly been worshiping a God other than He. (The Roman Emperor was worshiped as a deity in this era). The Christians irk him and insult his vanity, so he turns his city against them. Christians are to be found, executed, or sent to the arenas, where they will be brutally murdered before the hungry eyes of their supposed polytheist enemies. Already the war has started: do you worship a false God, an invention of a certain sect of brainless, meek people, or do you worship the true God of Rome, who sits before you on his throne, licking his fat fingers? Tough choice. Naturally, bigotry, prejudice, and blood lust spread as the Roman people seek to eradicate the Christians from their city.

Enter the Prophet, a man named "Titus" (Arthur Hohl), who has been schooled under none other than the great apostle Paul, and has come to spread his word. To find those like minded, he makes his identity known by making the sign of the cross in the dirt. The only problem is that this alerts the authorities to the interloper's presence, and soon he and his peer, "Favius Fontellus" (Harry Beresford) are being rounded up by a couple of beefy, Roman goons. Enter the Virgin, named "Mercia" (of course) and portrayed by Elissa Landi. Mercia defends Favius, who has acted as a father to her, and when Roman Prefect "Marcus Superbus" (Fredric March) intervenes on the ruckus, sparks fly between them. Looking less like an ancient Roman maiden and more like a modest flapper in a period costume, Mercia is an attractive proposition for Marcus. As he immediately wants to sleep with her, he can't muck things up by killing her foster father, and so he sets the corrupt Christians free. Unfortunately, Marcus's nemesis "Tigellinus" (Ian Keith) is looking for any way to usurp his power, and thus sets about locating the party that Marcus freed and finding out just why it was that Marcus freed them. The answer, sex, is quickly discovered, and Tigellinus will later use this to his advantage. The Empress "Poppea," the always amazing Claudette Colbert, too has it in for the lusty Marcus, but in a very different way. In mid-milk bath-- DeMille's testament to his own opulence and that of the absurdity of wealth in the Roman monarchy (right)-- Poppea is told that Marcus has refused her latest summons, which makes her certain that he has found another woman to warm his bed. 

Lust in ancient Rome is apparently a big thing, which is why this film and many in the same genre tend to establish the acceptance of Jesus Christ as synonymous with the domestication of the male animal. The goal of every human being, thus, is elevation: to rise above lust and find love, to rise above greed and find generosity, and to rise above death and the fear of it by creating new life in the name of God. The Romans, as depicted by DeMille, have no interest in this nonsense. They worship better Gods and Goddesses. They indulge in wine and orgies. The human experience is meant to be visceral, sensual, and encouraged by the persistent pursuit of pleasure. Marcus knows nothing of modesty or moderation. As the second most powerful man in Rome, he knows only that he gets what he wants, which is accordingly a bottomless pit of women. What attracts him to Mercia is her unattainability. Unlike Poppea, who possesses no virtue nor scruples and throws herself mercilessly at Marcus, Mercia has already given her heart to another: Christ. Ah, the un-gettable get. Yet, Landi's interpretation of Mercia is not the typical, doe-eyed innocent. Her attraction to Marcus is palpable in her eyes and manner. As he chases her, she openly flirts back. Interestingly, sex does not seem to be a sin to her, and she lets it be known that she is interested, though she holds back just enough to tease him (left). So tantalizing is her appeal, that Marcus's conquest to obtain her blinds him to his own safety, but his heart has not yet reached a place of love where her religion can claim him. When he comes for her at her home, he is halted by Favius and Titus, whom he chides as being ignorant fools that want to destroy the world. Titus corrects him: Christians merely want to make the world "spiritually free." This falls on deaf ears.

This idea of religion as freedom is shared by all films of this genre. Men in shackles, men enslaved, impoverished men, and as ever freedomless women, will all be utterly free in the Kingdom of God. This is the appeal of the faith. It delivers, not so much God or Heaven, but Hope, which is essential to any man, if he is to survive the life experience with any amount of joy. This is what Titus preaches to his followers in their secret meeting place. Without hope, mankind turns ugly. Without hope, man ceases to try, to succeed, to innovate. The idea of a reward for goodness, the idea that suffering will end, is the only reason for anyone to keep going. This is where Cecil's brilliance interjects. The story he is telling is not one of God, but one of Man. God may indeed be a spiritual force in our universe, he may not; but if he did not create the first cavemen, they invented him. Man needs Hope. Our defenselessness without these religious myths to soothe us is quite pitiful; but the reality, even with this hope, is really no better. DeMille reveals this when Titus's speech is interrupted by attacking Romans. As he preaches that "there is no death," one of his flock is unceremoniously and brutally stabbed. It appears that, despite prayers, there is no salvation in life. In life, God can't help you. God can't stop life nor death from happening. Under attack, a woman cries out to God for help, and the scene is so devastating that it makes her plea, not heartbreaking, but pathetic. Still, she needs that hope. God is great, certainly, but he is also far far away from where we are-- from where we are killing each other in his name or in fear of his name. The way the flying daggers take these Christians down is almost comical. Titus's paltry little cross too is not grand or heroic. The presence of God is thus not an awe-inspiring monument in this film. He remains intangible, hypothetical, and secondary to the human characters, and in particular the bad characters.

Everyone loves a martyr, but I spent most of this movie wanting to see more of Colbert and Laughton. As Alexander Pope said, "To err is human, to forgive divine." We, as human, are incapable of divine acts. It is above us. Erring is in our nature. Sinning is in our nature. Regret and guilt are in our nature, and after these things, we fall to our knees and pray for that aforementioned and unreachable divinity. Fredric March is much more alive in his scenes with Colbert, who is dripping with human, erring sensuality (right). Poppea's desire for Marcus is no secret. She wants him, and his refusal of her hurts, not only her pride, but her heart. This is where Colbert gives her character more depth than the typical villainess. When Marcus crashes his carriage into hers on his way to save Mercia from the Roman ambush, he rushes off despite Poppea's orders to stay. As he departs, her voice cracks as she calls for him: "Marcus!" It is not a yell, so much as a little girl's shocked pain at desertion. Later, she uses all her wiles to obtain him, and again her vulnerability is shown when Marcus rolls his eyes at her typical tactics-- he's been here before, and she is no different from any other desperate woman. Yet, he is ready to be enlightened. He wants a "virtuous girl," though he still does not understand why, (Time to settle down boy-o?). Poppea is pissed. Thus, she puts Mercia on Nero's radar, and her child-husband is easily manipulated into doing her bidding. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and Poppea when scorned wants Mercia's head. 

Meanwhile, to protect her, the lustful Marcus has taken Mercia back to his home, where she is shocked to learn that he means to make her his concubine. Sex would be one thing, but the fact that he is asking her to turn her back on her Christianity is unforgivable. Marcus is equally shocked when she won't put out, and tries to convince her that it is her religion that is holding her back. He claims that Christianity is "vicious" for convincing her not to do what is natural to her. He is also ticked that he is expected to share her heart with this dead Jesus dude. Mercia is missing out on life! Marcus tries to convince her of this by having one of his gal pals (Joyzelle Joyner) perform a homo-erotic dance around her-- which was quite scandalous in its day, and is still uncomfortable to watch (left). However, any attempt to "warm" Mercia is halted when she hears the sound of her fellow Christians singing outside. The Roman guard interrupts the party on Nero's orders, and Mercia is taken to the arena where 100 Christians will be executed as a gift from the Emperor and Empress to their loyal people-- still frothing from the fire. After Mercia is taken and the doors closed behind her, Marcus assumes the pose of the Crucifixion, his arms draped upon the dead-bolts. His martyrdom is very different from Christ's. What Marcus feels isn't a sudden understanding for Mercia's faith, the faith that Christ died for, but a pain at the loss of Mercia-- a symbol of Hope and the woman he slowly is learning that he loves. He suffers not for a metaphorical God, but for the flesh and blood woman that he wants. In this way, DeMille interprets that Marcus's pain is somehow more real, and definitely more relatable, than the religious icon's.

Throughout the film, while Mercia is devout to the point of bland, the earthy guttural suffering of Marcus, and also Poppea, are much more believable. As the Christians are slowly sent to die-- by tigers, elephants, and gators-- they rise to meet their challenges still with hope in their eyes, but their faith doesn't stop the sounds of violent screaming from erupting from their bodies as they are torn to shreds (right). Mercia's death, by Poppea's vengeful order, is saved for last, and Marcus agrees to die with her, not for her God or his God but for himself. He tells her that, in a moment of desperation, he tried praying to her God, but He didn't hear him. Instead, Marcus prayed to her-- Mercia, the woman he loves. It is his new found faith in her-- that desire for hope and elevation that he could not comprehend until it was too late-- that has made a new man of him, and one even willing to die. Still, he begs her to renounce her God, keep him in her heart if she must, but publicly denounce him so that she and Marcus may live together and for each other. One almost wants to slap her across the face when she refuses. Marcus is offering her a chance at life; but she goes to the God of her dreams, one she deems so close, just on the other side of the arena door, where she will consequently meet her demise. Marcus is life; God is death. Mercia is immovable, so the lovers will die together. As Marcus climbs the stairs with her into the light, which makes the duo appear as if they are going indeed to heaven-- deceitful, considering what awaits them-- he does not look upward but at her.

Going to their deaths for the love of God.

Thus, the conundrum. DeMille served us up a movie about Jesus, yet ends the film with the vaguely insinuated idea that God ain't everything. Of course, this is a very harsh analysis. By the film's end, when we have witnessed every measure of humanity-- the pious, the bloodthirsty, the envious, the peaceable-- the one thing that all these beings exhibited was love. Love, whether in its most tortured or triumphant state, is the most intense and lasting thing about life. Jesus spread the word of love to mankind, but love wears many faces, and we as human beings constantly trip on ourselves when trying to find the right one. For this, we are not wholly sinful. Yet, no matter how far we have fallen, we can find redemption, not necessarily in God, but in the embrace of pure, selfless love for another human being. This is when love righteously wears the face of God. DeMille, despite his constant Christian rhetoric, therefore presents the idea that life should not be wasted on the worship of God, but should be spent in the worship of each other.

This theory could arguably be shared by the next film, The Robe, although this time around, the presence of and necessity of an almighty God in one's life is much more fixed and magnificent. What DeMille presented with a side of naughty, director Henry Koster presents with total piety. Unlike the silent spirit of Christ in The Sign of the Cross, the presence of God in The Robe is mighty (as evidenced even by the awesome opening score). He is also visible.  The film begins over 30 years prior to the burning of Rome. The Christians' numbers are slowly growing due to the public orations of someone known as the "Messiah" or Jesus the Christ. All of this is secondary and not too fretful where our protagonist, the Roman Soldier, is concerned: "Marcellus Gallio," played intelligently and passionately by Richard Burton in his break-out role. Youthful, curly-headed, and vain, Marcellus has the intense displeasure of serving under the fussy, infantile, and annoying "Caligula" (played with very little intrigue by Jay Robinson). The notorious gluttony and greed of Rome become apparent as Marcellus makes his way through the crowds on slave auction day. Scantily-clad and well-formed women are held up for buyers to drool over, and Marcellus has his eye on a couple of twins, (I mean that literally). It is to be assumed that Marcellus is just like the other ignorant and savage Roman beasts, trading flesh and swimming in wine, but there are indicators that Marcellus actually has a soul. He proves this by stopping an altercation when Greek slave "Demetrius" (a beefy Victor Mature) tries to escape. Marcellus then purchased him (left), thus saving Demetrius from a life of Hell with the also bidding Caligula. When Marcellus loses the twins to Caligula, the audience is also surprised to learn that he was purchasing the women for his mother and not himself. The way he and the openly corrupt Caligula banter, and the way Marcellus runs mental circles around his Emperor, also convinces the viewer that this Marcellus is not a bad guy at all.

Of course, he's not perfect, a fact that is made clear when a random woman (the Whore, with a blink and you'll miss it part in this film) chastises him for getting drunk and embarrassing her the previous night. A decent man and soldier, Marcellus may be, but a man he is nonetheless. However, the sudden appearance of the beautiful and pure "Diana" (Jean Simmons)-- a girl he knew in his youth-- and his instant attraction and affection for her are symbolic of the fact that he may be ready to close the book on his ruffian days and embrace the good man inside himself in toto. The honor of becoming Marcellus's wife is something that Diana has been dreaming of since her girlhood, and the duo quickly make plans (right). Unfortunately, Diana is being kept in Caligula's care, and after the earlier insult at the slave market, Marcellus and his new slave Demetrius are thus sent away to deal with a minor nuisance that is cramping Caesar's style in Jerusalem: Christianity. Before he departs on this punishment mission, Marcellus is instructed by his father to "take nothing on faith" and to "trust no one." It is dangerous where he is headed. Man must protect himself, and a man from a faithless society, that worships only the deities that can give the most enticing rewards, thus sails into the fray with nothing but instinct, orders, and smarts to protect him. 

In fact, he goes to murder faith.  Soon enough, Jesus Christ, whom Marcellus has only vaguely heard about, has been identified and sent to be executed by Crucifixion, which Marcellus will dutifully oversee. The audience sees it too. The faceless icon carries his cross through the streets, his arms are nailed to the wood, and he is left to die. It is all a sideshow to the Roman soldiers who perform the murderous act and proceed to play dice below his slowly dying body. Only the impoverished and the poor little children, including Demetrius, are taken in by the death of this man, whom they deem somehow magnificent beyond words. Demetrius bundles the Christ's discarded robe into his arms (left), but it is soon taken and used as a bargaining chip in the gambling game of which Marcellus has taken part. Marcellus wins the piece of cloth. Jesus dies. A storm begins. The winds have changed, and they are howling, and suddenly Marcellus is fearful and he knows not why. As he and Demetrius run for shelter, he tells his slave to cover him with the robe, but the minute the fabric touches his skin, he quivers in fear: "Take it off!!!" The spirit of God has become encapsulated in the threads of the robe of the Holy One, and Marcellus shrinks under its power and from the feelings of his own guilt. In his heart, he knew to crucify a man for nothing but words of peace was a sin, but a faithless man cannot sin, can he? Apparently, indifference and inaction was his crime, a crime shared by all the people who played their own small part in Christ's death-- Caligula, Pilate, the throngs watching Jesus crawl to his death, and even Demetrius, who received word that Jesus was to be betrayed and tried to find him and warn him, though he was too late. In his quest, Demetrius met only Judas, soon to pay for his sins. Marcellus has yet to pay for his.

Marcellus is summoned back to Rome, thanks to Diana's intervention, but he is a changed man. Scared, hollow, and mad, he is constantly tortured by the sound of pounding-- the pounding of nails into Christ's palms. The solution to his malady is to find the robe again, which has clearly "bewitched" him, and burn it. So, he searches far and wide for Demetrius, who has betrayed him and run off with the piece of cloth. Demetrius has freed himself through faith, and taken all power from his master and thus the mastery of Rome. On his quest, Marcellus bears witness to the miracle of the spreading Christian faith. He is puzzled and even angered like a child by the idiotic people who believe in the beauty of life when they are blind and crippled, unhealed by their departed God. Their faith reaches him through music, and something inside him, a window in his heart is being opened. He learns that Demetrius is with Simon Peter, Marcellus tracks him down, and tries to toss the robe with his sword into the fire. Yet, it falls into his arms and overcomes him in a fit of hysteria. Now, the power of the one true God is in his heart. He is bewitched no more; he is penitent (right). After Marcellus performs an act of mercy, stepping in to stop an ambush where many Christians will certainly be massacred, the Prophet, Simon Peter, asks him to join their crusade. Marcellus says that he cannot, because he is responsible for the death of Christ. Peter then shares the story of how he denied Christ three times on the day of his death. Peter obtained forgiveness by preaching his word; Marcellus will do the same in defending the Christian faith.

The rest of the movie is spent with Caligula trying to hunt down the Christians and most importantly his betrayer, Marcellus. Diana is not easily taken in by these myths of Christ, but she follows her beloved Marcellus gallantly wherever he dares to tread-- not dissimilar from Marcus Superbus's devotion to Mercia in the last film. Demetrius is captured and tortured by Caligula, then saved from death by the miracle of Simon Peter's healing prayers: more proof that there is a God who is more than any man can comprehend. Marcellus is eventually put to the ultimate test. He stands before Caligula and is given the option to either renounce his faith in God or be killed. He swears allegiance to Rome, but cannot recant his new faith. It is bigger than him, and worth dying for. Diana vows to die with him. The two march off to their deaths with looks of glory on their faces, and soon they are walking in the clouds of heaven. Thus, this movie presents the beauty that comes of accepting the Christian faith and the dishonor that is sure to follow if one does not. There is no gray area, as in DeMille's film. While the presence of the Lord is sometimes presented as sinister almost, in the way he haunted and eventually overcame Marcellus's obstinacy, there is only peace everlasting in the embrace of him. Christians are portrayed as nearly untouchable, and the brutality and savagery with which Caligula attempts to exterminate them is nothing compared to their triumph. 

A Walk in the Clouds...

Freedom through faith is the message. Faith is not the issue of fear in Rome. Freedom is. If the little people break their bonds and rise up against their masters, structure will be destroyed. Christianity is thus viewed as a dangerously spreading organism or disease that must be stopped before the nation is infected and order undone. This is the seed that when sprouted will cause Rome to fall, which it will, and God to rise. This is the opposite theory as postulated by The Sign of the Cross, where we were to look to each other for peace. Here, God is all. Yet, the two films do share and spread the ideas that we should try our best to make a Heaven of life on earth, that doing good to each other and acting toward our brothers as we would ourselves is the ultimate goal. The Robe presents this theory as much more attainable and glorious. While the film is not as interesting as The Sign of the Cross, it moves quicker and the performance of Burton-- with his eloquent, lyrical, staccato speeches and ever-present intensity-- is something worth witnessing. It too is a sweeping, spreading narrative, enticing to the eye and clearly worthy of being the first film made using the new CinemaScope process. The film also manages to fairly escape the cheesy factor, which is not easy when dealing with such subject matter. It succeeds perhaps because the presence of God is presented in such mythic and horrifying proportions that the audience feels as compelled to convert as Marcellus.

The same cannot be said of Quo Vadis, which is nearly all cheese. Quo Vadis is a fitting title, beings that I was indeed wondering where the Hell this movie was going since it was taking so long to get there. Nearly three hours in length, it is a tedious bit of work, so I won't dedicate as much time to its diagnosis. It had its good points, mind you. Bearing basically the same plot at The Sign of the Cross, it lacked in poetry what it made up for in pomposity. Visually, it is a splendor, ever moreso than The Robe. However, part one of the film is wasted as "Marcus Vinicius" (Robert Taylor) tries to creepily seduce "Lygia" (Deborah Kerr, both left). Kerr is so beautiful that she literally glows, and her piety to her faith, again Christianity-- identified in this film by The Sign of the Fish-- is so decadent that one can understand Marcus's incurable erection over her. Unfortunately, Taylor is terribly miscast, and he seems old and tired in the role. The boyish charms of his A Yank at Oxford days do not work here, and Kerr has to work overtime to make her attraction to him believable. His sexuality is sinister, overbearing, and clumsy, an error that Kerr cleverly tries to compensate for by making her interest in him seem more maternal than erotic. However, even her performance can't improve the chemistry, which is never on par.

The uncomfortable sex game is turned asunder by "Emperor Nero," this time played by Peter Ustinov, a comic light spot in an otherwise overbearing film. Ustinov's interpretation of Nero is not as calculatingly insane as Laughton's; he presents more of an overgrown boy who knows no discipline and thus no bounds. He is, essentially, an idiot. He thinks himself an artist, and is constantly writing atrocious poems and singing songs while his right hand man, "Petronius" (Leo Glenn, another plus) manipulates his mind in order to somehow keep Rome running (right, Leo stands, Peter sits center). Soon, Nero decides to burn Rome as an artistic statement, for only in the destruction of his art can he see it rise again anew and totally in his name. The fire is a test of his own power. Ustinov tends to go a bit too far, chewing the scenery as the infantile Nero, but he also seems like the only one in the film truly enjoying and stretching the limits of his role. After Rome burns, Nero is again convinced to put the blame on the Christians, a fact that the "Empress Poppaea" (the Whore, played by Patricia Laffan) suggests because she wants Marcus (God knows why), and she knows that the Christian girl Lygia is a threat to her conquest of him. The Christians are rounded up and sent to the slaughter, and their massacre is very long and overdrawn, as opposed to DeMille's equally sexual and frightening interpretation of the arena. The singing of the Christians as they go to their deaths is incredibly annoying to Nero, who wanted to hear screams and is very taxed by their apparent lack of fear. 

Lygia is saved for last, and Marcus (who is performed better at the end when Taylor gives up on the chest-beating and eyebrow raising) has come to her to die by her side. The two are married, again by the Prophet "Simon Peter" (Finlay Currie) who is soon Crucified upside down for his insinuations that there is a God higher than Nero. Lygia is tied to a post center-ring (left), and her loyal bodyguard fights a bull to protect her. If he can defeat the bull, Lygia will be freed. Surprisingly, he does, but Nero makes an error when he still gives the "thumbs down" signal to kill her anyway. This enrages the masses, who have witnessed already surprising courage in their supposed Christian enemies. They have been swept away by their fortitude and consequently turn on Nero. Marcus, who has been sitting by Poppaea's side, forced to watch his beloved's attempted murder, jumps into the pit and cries out for justice. The Roman legion too jumps to his defense, less out of anger or questions of faith than because they think it was rude of Nero to try to kill Marcus's girlfriend in front of him. Soon, the arena is in uproar, the lovers embrace, and Nero flees to his castle, where his favorite concubine convinces him to kill himself. He does. An interesting moment, either a wise move or a very unfortunate one, by director Mervyn LeRoy was to reveal the blood lust of the masses as they come to Nero's castle like a colony of angry ants. Despite the messages of Christ that have just been died for, man still seems to have learned nothing. One assumes that LeRoy meant for these bloodthirsty vermin to be interpreted as the brutish, unenlightened Romans and not as the recently freed Christians. Lygia and Marcus ride off into the sunlight, an unfortunate and sugary Hollywood ending that renders the film a total waste, and the film closes on an image of flowers blooming-- hope and beauty where there was none before.

I cannot say that I liked the film, but I too can't say that I hated it. In many ways it was impressive, including a brilliant live action recreation of Da Vinci's The Last Supper, but the story was stylistically over-exaggerated in terms of performance, the message was one note and uncomplicated, and the interpretation of God's power was not as effective-- He is construed as so loving and peaceable via the work of Simon Peter that He does not possess the same awesomeness and threatening nature that made his power so obvious in The Robe. Here, God can only assert himself through the faith of his people and not on his own, which is a worthy enough statement, but one never learns the value of believing in him. In fact, in many ways, LeRoy-- again, perhaps purposefully-- portrays the Christians as just as mindless for following their God as the Romans for following Nero. Give a group a leader, and away they go. At the end of the film, a new Emperor is announced, and the masses are just as fanatic for him as they were mere moments ago for Nero. 

Eunice and Petronius die for Love and Country.

The plus of the film is the concept that God, the true God, can only be found in Love. Again, women are portrayed (just as in all the previous films) as already being receptive and knowledgeable about the purity of love, so just as Mercia and Diana, Lygia is ready and willing to accept it when this message comes. She merely sits and waits for her chosen man to discover it, while he trips over the hurdles of whores in his way and matures into a man worthy of her virginity and spirituality. Marcus finds this lesson of love too, as does a very surprised Petronius, who finds himself in love with his slave girl "Eunice" (Marina Berti) who adores him, the highest being she knows, with the same faith of Lygia following her God. This love of a good woman makes more faithful, better men out of both Romans, but so cliched and over dramatic are the acts of devotion that one cringes at Eunice's ignorance and shakes the head in pity for Marcus's future, in which he will be sharing a bed with both his wife and Jesus. (One assumes that Lygia will spend most of the night praying and too little comforting her still horny husband). So, where The Robe had God and where The Sign of the Cross had humanity, Quo Vadis had neither. Yet, if you put the thing on mute and just look at it, it's pretty visually engrossing.

Well, after many many many words, I bring this to a close. Many thanks for reading, if you made it through, and my best (belated) wishes to you this Christmas. God Bless!