THE REEL REALS: Elsa Lanchester

Elsa Lancester (Shelley)?

Elsa Lanchester would forever be overshadowed by two things: her most famous characterization "The Bride" and perhaps the even more ominous presence: her husband, Charles Laughton. On the one hand, she had the role that would make her famous but that would equally eclipse any other work she later did that had, in her estimation, more merit. On the other, she was never held is as high esteem as her husband, considered one of the greatest actors of all time. (She was "shocked" to learn that her hubby was actually a closeted homosexual, but their union lasted a lifetime as they enjoyed an open and unabashed relationship). Fortunately for Elsa, she was imbued with a sharp sense of humor, keen intellect, and personal ambition and lust for life that made such irksome facts trivial. A native of London, she was raised with the compulsion for utter independence by her forward thinking parents. Her early study of dance educated her well on the movements that would later help her cultivate more physically articulate and alive characters, and her experiences dancing in and even running her own Club gave her ample opportunity to practice playing for and to an audience. 

Elsa was always in it for the sensation. She took her craft seriously but never herself, and her intellectual appetite kept her in good company with many of the greatest artists of her day. Her open and liberal-minded ways allowed her to transform from one character to another with seeming ease, and though an attractive woman, she would find her niche as a character actress of great verve, spirit, and often humorous abandon in films like Witness for the Prosecution, Mary Poppins, and Bell, Book and Candle. Her great talent allowed her career to continue with minimal interruption over the course of over 30 years, though she always admitted that she was more in love with the stage. An unabashed ham, it was the live performance and the interaction with an audience that truly inspired her, but her work in film and television is nothing to sneer at-- or should I saw shriek?

Elsa's Bride in The Bride of Frankenstein had no dialogue, but she was able to communicate everything within her patched up heroine's borrowed mind with her quick, birdlike movements and iconic hiss-- both literally borrowed from her studied observations of swans. The not too thinly veiled subtext in James Whale's masterpiece of horror painted a portrait of the absurd, macabre, and even hilarious roles of both the male and female in the ever popular mating ritual of life. Though Elsa's time on the screen in the picture was very brief, she still stole the show, and with the incomparable Boris Karloff, she enhanced the film that has come to be known as perhaps the greatest offering of the Universal Monster era. She considered this piece of her career a bit of a lark and but one chapter in a long narrative of experiences and performances, but to us it is one of the most intriguing, sexually potent, disturbing, and glorious moments in the realm of horror.

TAKE ONE, TWO, THREE: Yen's "Sin" - [Part 2]

... continued from Part 1's focus on Broken Blossoms-- an examination of the Chinese lover in classic cinema.

Some very daring poster art for the provocative classic,
The Bitter Tea of General Yen.

Everyone's favorite American sentimentalist, Frank Capra, left his small town ways to enter the big leagues when he pushed the themes of interracial romance to the brink in The Bitter Tea of General Yen (1933). The plot of this film is not too far removed from Broken Blossoms-- the white woman comes under the Chinaman's care-- though this time the woman is a passionate missionary out to rescue orphans, and the man is an uncompromising warlord who essentially orchestrates her abduction so he can make her his concubine. Despite appearances, the attraction between "Megan Davis" (Barbara Stanwyck) and "Gen. Yen" (Nils Asther) is mutual, but the racist ideologies that Megan possesses make it just as equally brutal. Her shame over her attraction to the "dirty Chinaman" is hidden behind her cutting, prejudicial denial of Yen's own scintillating desires. In his case, his insecurities are compensated for by his strange blend of stoic and sensual tyranny. The initial effect Yen s on Megan is shock. She seems utterly confused by the fact that he actually appears civilized-- aka  "white" in behavior-- when she and Yen meet by happenstance in an automotive collision that locks them fatalistically together. Under Capra's direction, the story is a near visual portrait of S&M.

Who else but "Stany" could portray a heroine with equal parts smoldering pleasure and pain? An actress of boiling intensity and sensual confidence, she gives Megan a depth and curiosity that slowly seeks to overcome her own misunderstandings coupled with an increasingly volcanic sexual appetite. An adventuress on her way to a boring life as a missionary's wife, it seems that Megan's only reason for choosing her fiancé was the proximity a life with him might bring her to danger and excitement-- foreign places, existential exposure, intense exploration. Dressed essentially as a wolf in lamb's clothing, Megan's thirst for life could easily lead her to a dangerous addiction, and her struggle becomes on of concealing her passion for propriety's sake. She would be labeled a perverse whore  and social disgrace were she to admit her fetish for her mysterious captor. Megan knows that her emotions, or more honestly her primal urges, are viewed as "wrong." It is incorrect to want a member of the other race. She has been taught this all her life, and she spouts the rules of decent behavior even as her eyes and body language communicate that she doesn't believe them.

Babs draws her silken robe closer to her body in Yen's presence, but
she also always looks like she's 3 seconds from ripping it off.

Nils Asther brings an interesting twist to his take on Yen. In his career, he was often chosen to play the "other" foreigner, because of his exotic, almost androgynous features and Swedish accent, which I suppose sounded Asian to  studio producers (???). He played the part of the tempting Indonesian with fellow Swede Greta Garbo in Wild Orchids (1929) and the Turkish police chief "Kadar-Pasha" in Abdul the Damned (1935) to name but two examples. His slithers into his role as the sadistic Yen well, who uses his poise and confidence to cover his learned feelings of inferiority to the white race. However, through  his over-eagerness to please Megan, Yen occasionally shows his hand, his vulnerabilities, and equally masochistic tendencies. These breadcrumbs leading to the torrent of his desire emerge in moments of desperation. Still, Yen is a mystery-- a man difficult to make out. He is part calculating, emotional strategist and part little boy who has just had his hand slapped. He is secretly intimidated by Megan just as much as he is drawn to her, thus he presents himself as an unapologetic, compassionless, and sinister beast, utterly confident in the fact that he will conquer her without having to force himself upon her. This, in turn, arouses the suppressed sex-kitten in Megan, just as her superiority and refusals arouse him.

Yen's still waters are kept calculatingly cool in order to camouflage the intensity
of his underlying passions. He appears as the token "dragon man," but he has
incredible class and patience. His mind games are traps that are impossible
to escape, because one doesn't realize she's in one until it's too late.

The sexual chess game of clean, white beauty vs. dark foreigner is one of worthless resistance. Both players refuse to be the submissive victim, and both are too tough to admit their true desire for each other. It is becomes a taut "wait out the clock" situation to see who will break first; who will first kneel to kiss the foot of the victor. As compared to Lillian Gish, Stanwyck is no girl; she's a woman, and a tough one. She may not be totally aware that her unconscious decisions have led her here, to the place of her unspoken pleasure, but she's not a fool. While she feels her fortifications falling to Yen's curious hold over her, she too knows the repercussions such an affair would bring her, and as a worldly dame she's not about to surrender her reputation for one night of objectification. With a piece of the bigotry chip on her shoulder, she is also a bit disgusted by Yen, but his strange spiritualism and mind-boggling philosophies-- which both adhere to and contradict his actions-- slowly reveal the flesh and blood man beneath the fetish. He is the dark knight of fairy tales, and it is by touching her mind and exposing it to the open world she craves as a human being that he starts winding his way around her heart.

The win of Megan's desire over her prejudice is brilliantly evidenced in the infamous dream sequence. Yen approaches her as a hideous creature of racist stereotypes-- a rat-like face, long nails, a hunched walk-- creating a terrifying, nightmarish blend of xenophobic horror. Moving like a twitching insect, he comes to her bed and puts his claw-like hands upon her. She shrinks away, but she is just as sexually fueled by the indefinite polluting of her body as she is disturbed. Her acceptance of what has been described to her as utterly filthy will actually be her ticket out of the life she finds so bland and constraining.  She partially wants to destroy herself. But, before this happens, a savior arrives as if on the apocryphal white horse to save her. Indeed, he is even dressed in white-- the pure color. The masked hero defeats the Yen sub-creature and then tosses off his own mask, which reveals Yen the man. Truth has defeated stereotype. In her fantasy, Megan abolishes all bigotry, enfolds herself in Yen's arms, and thus acknowledges the fact that He is Man, She is Woman, and the only line between them is that which she draws herself.

The Yen creature accosts Megan in her bed, a representative of all her disgusting
prejudices about the "yellow" sexual villain.

The duo are never permitted to kiss, but thanks to the films release prior to the 1934 production code, the implications of this scene are pretty damn bold and certainly made contemporary audiences of the time... uncomfortable. Though Asther is a Caucasian in make-up, stating a blatant message that a biracial relationship was A-Ok was not yet to be. Thus, the total fusion of these two very representative characters-- the Yen and the Yang (bad pun)-- had to be halted. The road block to their union is, of course, death. After Megan's eventual supplication before Yen, the reality of the game hits home. She comes to him dressed as one of his heavily make-uped and bejeweled concubines, and Stanwyck's tearfully broken performance as she applies these goods to her body, as opposed to washing herself clean, delivers perhaps the most obvious message of all. Yen, at the end of the day, is still a thing, whose touch will contaminate and make her a thing. Megan gives herself up to this. Yen, surprisingly, does not. He fixes himself the titled 'bitter' cocktail that takes his life and ends his beloved's suffering.

In truth, the story never really feels like one of love. This could be because the chemistry between Stanwyck and Asther does not have much fire, the source of the heat coming only from the independent tortures that both are suffering alone. (Hate and love are very closely linked). More particularly, it is a story about man's sexual nature. It is a tale of primal eroticism and pure lust, not romance. Human affection and human desire are too very different things, which is perhaps why Yen sacrifices himself to keep from damaging the girl he respects but who he can't be certain will ever give him her heart.

Yen drinks a toast to his 'bitter' end.

The end is complicated, however. Yen may decide to destroy himself to release his lover, but he may also do so because he has conquered her willpower by earning her submission, and the mental destruction of her is more important than the physical. This could have been the entire goal: to prove through this victory that his manhood is just as potent and effective, if not more so, than a white man's. Therefor, he has justified himself above his level as an 'other' and can now die a man. Still, one is unsettled, as if this film is an incomplete thought whose true fulfillment is not hampered by the director nor the actors but by the time within which it was made. In the end, whether he chooses to or not, Yen must die because he must not touch a white woman. Death is his punishment. for even considering the idea. The fact that he is the one to drink from the well of death is loaded with the implications of his own lingering feelings of inferiority over his heritage. Megan, meanwhile, returns to life as if waking from a dream and entering a nightmare-- forever haunted by a lost and unfulfilled passage to ecstasy.

~     ~     ~

Anna May Wong dances dangerously close to the edge of acceptable, interracial
behavior in Piccadilly.

The final chapter of this (overly long) analysis is a bit different, for in Piccadilly (1929), the punished, exotic Chinese character is a female. Anna May Wong herself could represent the Asian prototype in American cinema, both in terms of her onscreen presence and the way she endured and overcame the constraints of the industry as implied by her race. A Chinese laundryman's daughter, Wong was very much the modern, "American girl" in every way-- minus her parents' heritage. Rebellious, ambitious, sexual, prone to slang, and thrilled by the invigorating changes enjoyed by young men and women of the roaring twenties, had Anna been born white, she could have been one of the biggest leading ladies in film. Being of Chinese descent, her triumph of reaching stardom is not only remarkably impressive, it was unprecedented. This is a testament to her talent and charisma, which broke barriers in the industry. Unfortunately, successes like The Toll of the Sea and Shanghai Express are evenly matched by the never-ending slaps in the face she was to receives. Caucasians actresses were consistently given the roles that should have gone to her. Her place in cinema was that of the perpetual, exotic harlot-- always the concubine, never the bride.

Hence, Anna May's escape to Europe, where life and art were a little more liberal and accepting of varying cultures, perhaps because so many diverse peoples were and are more closely clumped together on the continent. Piccadilly was an incredible success for Anna in Britain. The unarguable star of the film, the story that could very well have revolved around the Piccadilly Club owner "Valentine Wilmot" (Jameson Thomas) and his dancer lover "Mabel Greenfield" (Gilda Gray), is totally usurped by and overshadowed by Anna's performance as "Shosho." A washerwoman at Piccadilly, Shosho is witnessed dancing on a tabletop in the kitchen and entertaining her friends when Valentine walks in and sees her. It is perhaps one of the most beautiful character reveals of all time. Valentine is immediately smitten by Shosho-- the graceful movements of her body seem to glide through the air like the literal steam surrounding her. She instantly intoxicates both him and the audience. 




Valentine selects Shosho as his next concubine, but she will prove to be much
more than the complacent, delicate flower he expected. It will be he
who is tamed by her. 

Naturally, after firing her, Valentine makes her a conquest. This time, however, the shame of the affair will all be on him. While a man is more generally forgiven for his sexual deviances, the idea that Valentine has totally fallen under the spell of a member of an "inferior race" is humiliating to him. Thus, he keeps it a secret, particularly from his public paramour, Mabel. Had Mabel merely been replaced by a new, white lover, Valentine would have easily cast her off; however, as Shosho is the living embodiment of the ultimate sin, his attraction to her is dehumanizing to him. She is his dark side, his 'other,' other lover, so Mabel will be kept on as the dutiful beard of sorts for his social self while he indulges his fantasies otherwise.

 

The dangerous but desired perception Valentine has of Shosho is at first the product of his own superficial invention, but later Shosho adopts this false characterization and wears it as armor to both conquer him and trump Mabel. The instigation behind Shosho's transference to a villainess is a both financial and vengeful. She is poor and wants the financial support of Valentine, and she is also aware of her inferior standing in society. Her early efforts to rise above both her situation and the social stigma attached to her are later become insufficient. She later craves more than equality-- she wants domination. Thus, when Valentine offers her a chance to perform at the club, Shosho doesn't foolishly grab at the offer nor fall into his sexual trap. She sets one of her own. Before she surrenders to him bodily, she must possess his soul. Longevity will give her a stranglehold over him, and she does not want to be brushed aside as any of the many previous women he has surely gone through like cigarettes.

Shosho takes a fatal swing at the mass of salivating men around her and
makes them her willing suppliants. 

Her winning play is her initial performance, for which she has managed to custom order a gorgeous, expensive outfit for the show, already revealing the power she has gained over her patron. The dance sequence itself is a breathtaking number in which Shosho acknowledges the power of her sexuality and uses it to her advantage. In this moment on stage, with her entrancing, ghostlike movements, she doesn't just own Valentine; she owns all of London. As Shosho continues to spin Valentine into her seductive web, Mabel inevitably catches on and confronts her enemy with a gun. To steal a man from a white woman, the same one who once looked down on her as a mere peasant, is the true jewel in Shosho's crown. Unfortunately, her scandalous ladder-climb ends the only place it can: in death. When she is shot, it is assumed that jealous lover Mabel pulled the trigger, however-- shocker of shockers-- Shosho's friend "Jim" (King Hou Chang) steps up to admit his own guilt and saves Mabel from blame.

Jim's heroism in this act of defending Mabel is also the ultimate insult to his race, as he chooses the protection not only of the white woman but the white race's superiority over the life of Shosho, the woman he loves. However, his murder of her-- a disturbing and gloriously shot sequence-- was one committed less out of jealousy and more as that ever necessary racial punishment. Using the white man to "get by" is something he for which he could forgive Shosho, but she became too greedy. She tried to escape her place in the caste system. Had she become but another one of Valentine's submissive whores, her actions could have been forgiven, but her refusal to obey the laws of alleged modest Asian attitude and social acquiescence was not to be borne. She dared to cross racial lines, and even her brain-washed brethren believed that she had to be stopped. 

Shosho's single eye communicates her sheer shock and terror at witnessing her
friend take aim. One can see how Anna May's performance as a sexual
infection influenced the Asian horror villainesses to come in later films
like Ju-on, Audition, and Ringu.

Despite the dismal ending, this film is spectacular. Beyond the resonating thematic questions it poses, the photography by Werner Brandes and smooth direction by filmmaker/producer Ewald Andre Dupont, are still impressive and transcend the majority of the over-packaged visual stimuli that we're met with on the modern screen. (There is also a surprise Charles Laughton appearance-- never anything to sniff at). Best of all, the film is all Anna, and even as the moderately innocent girl metamorphoses into the Tiger Woman she becomes, you don't blame her. You empathize. In fact, you envy. The success of Piccadilly rests on the fact that the audience is rooting for the villainess because, beneath it all, the villainess is the true victim of the scenario.

~     ~     ~

Lon Chaney as "Yen Sen" in Shadows. The plot of the film concerned the
Christianizing "the heathen," yet Chaney's depiction of the moral and
strong-hearted laundryman did more to reveal the prejudice and
cruelty of the white race and their unjust, uncivilized natures.

All three films depict the societal imposed fate of the Chinese race to be one of inescapable servitude. The culture of the times in which these films were made, particularly the silents, were pleased with and un-intimidated by the people whom they viewed as automatically inferior. The Caucasian majority treasured this minority's modest ways, strict customs, and unobtrusiveness. They did not want these images to change in reality, so they made films perpetuating and perhaps even enforcing them, however subconsciously. Unlike other racial groups, Chinese characters in film were often allowed certain liberties, despite the derogatory way in which they were portrayed. In part, these films project our fascination with them and their beliefs, which we find strange and unusual, yet we simultaneously envy. They are seen as a "simple people" in touch with another, purer level of existence, and they also seem to know something that we do not. Perhaps for this reason alone-- for the questions they raise about our own morality, our values, and our own idols (from movie stars to Jesus Christ)-- the Caucasian ruled industry punished them cinematically. The line in the sand was therefore drawn, and the warning given. While we may live in an multi-racial world, at least in the old days of cinema, there was no room for interracial romance.

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 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!