Tag: Reginald Denny

Rebecca (1940, Alfred Hitchcock)

Rebecca opens with protagonist Joan Fontaine narrating, establishing the present action as a flashback—which is kind of important considering how much danger Fontaine will be in throughout. She’s got to make it since there’s the narration. Some of that danger is in Fontaine’s head. Or, at least, she sometimes apprehensive of the wrong person. Sort of.

Rebecca is a passionate romance, a suspenseful thriller, and a reluctant character study. Fontaine’s nameless protagonist isn’t the one being studied, but rather her new husband, played by Laurence Olivier. Olivier’s a little older and a lot richer. He’s a relatively recent widower (Rebecca is the first wife), and he sweeps naive Fontaine off her feet.

The narration establishes the eventual setting—Olivier’s seaside estate—before heading to Fontaine and Olivier’s version of a meet-cute. They’re in Monte Carlo; she’s out sketching and comes across him on a cliff. She’s sure he’s going to jump. So, technically, maybe not a meet cute.

They soon meet again under formal circumstances. Fontaine is a paid companion to obnoxious rich lady Florence Bates. Bates knows Olivier socially, but he can’t stand her. However, once Bates gets a bug, Olivier and Fontaine become vacation buddies. Fontaine’s performance during these sequences is fantastic; the various emotions play out on her face as she observes Olivier, trying to figure out what’s happening.

What’s happening is a whirlwind romance; they leave Monte married. They’ll go on a honeymoon, which we see later on in home movies, but the action cuts from vacation to the estate. In the opening, director Hitchcock does what he can to make it not look too much like a miniature, but… it looks like a miniature. When Fontaine and Olivier arrive home, however, there’s this great composite shot of them driving up. The estate is a miniature, we won’t get any significant, closer exterior shots, but with that composite shot, Hitchcock makes sure the audience knows not to hold that kind of status against the film.

The film quickly introduces the new supporting cast—Judith Anderson as the imposing housekeeper who loved Rebecca, Reginald Denny as the estate manager, Gladys Cooper as Olivier’s sister, and Nigel Bruce as her comic relief husband. Olivier looses Fontaine to figure out how to run the house with Anderson’s help.

At this point, Olivier will orbit further and further away from Fontaine until they have their big second-act blowout. He’s busy being back but also actively neglecting to tell Fontaine anything about the house itself and how Rebecca liked it to be run. Much of the film during the second act is just Fontaine finding out more and more details Olivier really should’ve told her about. Why did he ever bring her there if Rebecca was so amazing? Since Olivier doesn’t confide in anyone, all the characters have a different impression of how Fontaine is supposed to function as the new lady of the estate. And since they all assume Olivier’s told Fontaine, no one gives her any context, with that lack knocking her between bewildered, overwhelmed, and frightened without any rest.

Hitchcock mounts whole set pieces just to showcase Fontaine’s discomfort and possible danger. There’s lots of beautiful work from Hitchcock, photographer George Barnes, and editor W. Donn Hayes. Fontaine acts the heck out of the scenes—and she’s the one who continues the character arc after the scenes forebodingly fade to black—but they’re technical marvels. Rebecca’s a great-looking (and sounding) film.

Just as Fontaine starts feeling like she should exert some agency, she tries to bond with Anderson over a favor—George Sanders, Rebecca’s favorite cousin, visits one day when OIivier’s out of town, and Fontaine promises to keep it a secret. Assuming she and Anderson share any kind of bond will be one of Fontaine’s worst mistakes.

Sanders is an abject delight. Rebecca’s got lots of great performances—while Fontaine gets a great showcase for the first three-quarters, Olivier then gets to play leading man for a bit and overshadows her—but Sanders is always a reliable scene stealer. He appears, takes over, then returns control on exit. It’s a fabulous balance. The three share a particularly great scene together.

The film has two major plot reveals to answer all the questions, tie up all the loose ends—one comes before the third act, one finishes off the film. In between those two reveals, Rebecca metamorphizes.

What follows is a very different film—still a romance and thriller, but with a different pace and narrative distance. Hitchcock changes things up for the finish, turning it into a race against time, then another, then another, all while bounding along the razor’s edge of melodrama. It’s a phenomenal success, delivering on many last-minute promises and giving the cast even further ranges to essay.

Hitchcock relies on a special effects set piece to close things out (did we forget there’s a narration safety net?), which has the added benefit of calling a draw on the performances. Fontaine has the most character development, while Olivier gets to do a great reveal and then excel further. Sanders and Anderson also have their singular qualities. Maybe it’s right no one can overshadow anyone else… they (and we) are all trapped in Rebeccas magnificent grasp.

This post is part of the Second Master Of Suspense Blogathon hosted by Maddy of Classic Film and TV Corner.

Of Human Bondage (1934, John Cromwell)

The best performance in Of Human Bondage is Frances Dee; despite doing a lot of close-up one-shots with the actors staring directly into the camera, the only time director Cromwell ever gives one anything to do is Dee. She’s mooning over Leslie Howard, which just draws attention to how little Howard mooned over anyone in his previous close-up one-shots. And since Bondage is all about how Howard’s “bound” to Bette Davis, it’d have helped if he’d done some mooning. Instead, at best, he seethes in his close-ups, jealous Davis is giving all the other fellows the attention he apparently craves.

“Apparently” because his attraction to Davis never makes any sense, other than wanting to force her into social situations where she’s subservient to him. The film opens with Howard in Paris, having studied for years to be a painter only to turn out to not be a great one, just a mediocre one. So instead he goes to medical school. Presumably even as a mediocre painter he’s got the fine motor required for surgery.

Other than his professor making Howard exhibit his club-foot for the class, he seems to be doing all right until he meets Davis. “Seems” because there’s nothing the film avoids like providing any character development for Howard outside his pursuing Davis’s affections.

Howard’s got two pals in medical school—Reginald Denny, the class Casanova, and Reginald Sheffield, the filler first act sidekick. Sheffield’s got a crush on Davis and brings Howard along to tell her jokes. All of Howard’s jokes are at Davis’s expense, which shockingly doesn’t endear the two men to her. She’s far more comfortable with flirtatious businessman Alan Hale.

The film soon establishes a pattern, which it’ll keep going through the entire (quite lengthy) eighty minute runtime. Howard will be jealous of Davis and some other dude, Howard will go on a date with Davis, Davis will throw him over for the other dude, Howard will vow never to see her again, Davis will return to Howard once the other dude throws her over. The movie goes out of its way to call it “human bondage,” this relationship between the two, but since Howard’s so stone-faced and the script’s so muted, we never get much insight into his actual feelings. In the salad days we do get some misguided dream sequences, which also reveal Howard wishes he didn’t have the club-foot.

There are some pseudo-character developing romantic misadventures with other women for Howard. Kay Johnson gets a crap part as his first rebound and then Dee. There’s very little development with Dee, who’s mostly in the film as at home waitress to father Reginald Owen. Owen’s one of the patients on Howard’s rounds and they take a liking to one another; Owen’s an old fashioned, fallen on hard times blue blood, who lives in squalor with his family—nine children and counting. Owen’s old fashioned values extend to keeping women barefoot and pregnant, promising Howard that kind of service if he’ll marry Dee away. Only Dee’s too young for Howard. Presumably. There’s a line about it, but given Howard’s got no chemistry with Dee past their flirtatious first scene, it seems like a throwaway not a major plot thread running through the montage heavy third act. The third act takes place over years, with maybe four full scenes and everything else in montage. Director Cromwell’s got some great techniques, which don’t accomplish very much, but he and editor William Morgan’s montage work is not one of those great techniques. They’re tiresome admissions the film has become too tiresome to sustain actual scenes.

It’s a surrender.

Davis is all right. It’s a crappy part, with her character intentionally portrayed in the worst possible light—she’s full caricature in Lester Cohen’s screenplay, every time, even in Howard’s dreams. Howard is barely middling. He’s more vapid than bland—at one point Davis asks him for medical advice and it seems unlikely anyone should trust his doctoring. Dee’s fine. She also doesn’t get a good part. Denny’s good, Hale’s good, Johnson’s fine (and deserves better from the film); Owen’s blah, so it’s good he’s barely in the thing.

For the first third of the film, it seems like Cromwell’s directing might carry the thing, but Bondage never adds up. The messy third act failure seems more inevitable the longer it plays.

The Phantom (1961, Harold Daniels)

“The Phantom” is horrific. Between Lon Chaney Jr. trying a Cajun accent and Paulette Goddard’s hilariously bad turn as a Ms. Big, there’s no good acting. But these two guest stars aren’t even the worst–lead Roger Creed is unbearably awful. I’m sure he was hired to put on the purple jumpsuit but still… he doesn’t deliver a single acceptable line.

Daniels’s direction is no help either. He’s a little classier than the rest of the production–which just makes one realize how far Chaney and Goddard had fallen since Hollywood. Another particularly bad element is George W. Merrick’s inept editing. It’s like he tries to cut away from Creed’s deliveries, but just makes it worse.

Thankfully, the pilot never went to series–saving co-star Reginald Denny some amount of embarrassment I’m sure–but it’s terrifying enough on its own.

Unless you love Richard Kiel, avoid at all costs.

1/3Not Recommended

CREDITS

Directed by Harold Daniels; teleplay by John Carr, based on the character created by Lee Falk; director of photography, Jack Taylor; edited by George W. Merrick; music by Gene Kauer; produced by Robert Gilbert.

Starring Roger Creed (The Phantom), Paulette Goddard (Mrs. Harris), Lon Chaney Jr. (Jed), Reginald Denny (Commissioner Mallory), Chaino (Chaino), Richard Kiel (Big Mike), Morgan Lane (Lt. Hartwell), Robert Curtis (Johnson), Glen Marshall (Deek), Mike De Anda (Jim), Ewing Miles Brown (Barney) and Allan Nixon (Doc Sanders).

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Remember Last Night? (1935, James Whale)

I wish I knew if Remember Last Night? is supposed to be a knock-off of The Thin Man or if it’s just a highly coincidental release, coming a year later, with a similarly intoxicated, ritzy couple solving crimes as they get more intoxicated (Robert Young and Constance Cummings play the couple in this film). Remember Last Night? is based on a novel, which suggests the latter.

The film’s about a bunch of facile rich party animals getting involved with murder–imagine “Sex and the City” with couples, set in the thirties, with murder investigation thrown in.

It’s a nearly unbearable film. While completely unsuited for comedy, Whale does have some amazing crane shots, just beautiful work, but then he’s got these terrible inserts and all of his close-ups look somewhat off. His direction of the actors is also problematic, but some of those failures might just be the script.

The script’s entirely contrived–when they need a detective, they call one (Edward Arnold), who isn’t supposed to be investigating, mind you, just helping them out. The same goes for a psychic (Gustav von Seyffertitz). It’s never explained why socialite alcoholic Young knows detective Arnold.

The acting’s not bad. Young has his moments and Cummings is excellent. Sally Eilers, Robert Armstrong and Reginald Denny are all strong, though the script gives out on them all eventually (well, except Armstrong, only because he’s barely in it).

The film misuses Edward Brophy, which I hadn’t believed possible before seeing this one.

Thunder Birds (1942, William A. Wellman)

Thunder Birds runs just under eighty minutes and if one were to subtract the propaganda, both narrated and in lengthy monologues–not to mention the flashback to the stoic Brits–he or she would have a fifty-five minute love triangle set at an Army flight training base. The whole reason one leg of the triangle is British (John Sutton) is to rouse up support for the British.

Luckily, the movie’s love triangle is mildly effective, which makes the propaganda digressions tolerable. All of the credit for that success is surprisingly not Gene Tierney. Tierney’s great in the movie, bringing a combination of playfulness and maturity to the role. What’s surprising about the movie’s treatment of her is the constant sexism. There’s a terrible sequence at a Red Cross training with all the volunteers–all female–coming off as man-crazy and incompetent. Worse is Tierney’s grandfather, George Barbier, frequently deriding her (she’s “still a woman,” after all).

But that paragraph was supposed to be positive. Sutton’s quite good in the film, bringing a thoughtful sense to his role (an acrophobic doctor turned RAF cadet). He and Tierney have excellent chemistry; big surprise. Leading man Preston Foster is the last leg of the triangle and he and Tierney too have good chemistry. But when Foster’s with Sutton, the scenes are just bad. Foster’s very Hollywood acting doesn’t mix well with Sutton’s subdued, introspective performance. Either Tierney just worked well with Foster–her performance is a mix of charm and intelligence–or she manages to get good scenes out of anyone.

Since there really is less than an hour of story, there’s not much time for a supporting cast. Barbier’s good as the chauvinist pig (what makes it so disturbing is how he’s siding against his granddaughter’s wishes, which is a bit surprising in a Lamar Trotti script, but I guess Trotti is a servant to his source material). Richard Haydn’s great as Sutton’s friend who disappears way too fast. But Dame May Whitty’s brief, flashback role is a waste of time both for her and the film.

Where Thunder Birds really excels is in the Technicolor cinematography and the action sequence at the end. Ernest Palmer’s cinematography is great and the aerial photography is fantastic. But Wellman is just churning it out during these scenes. It’s all fine, but it’s never particularly significant. The end sequence, featuring Sutton (in a plane) saving Foster from a sandstorm is amazing. Great stuff, with some fine editing from Walter Thompson.

The story–the standard Fox war movie love triangle–does take an unexpected turn at the end. Wellman successfully milks the anticipation for the last five minutes, but then gets stuck with that narrated propaganda for a close. In the last ten minutes, I’m not sure Sutton even has a line–odd for the protagonist. The Fox propaganda movies were always decent and Thunder Birds is fine enough as one; it’s just a little emptier of actual content than I would have guessed.

1/4★

CREDITS

Directed by William A. Wellman; screenplay by Lamar Trotti, based on a story by Darryl F. Zanuck; director of photography, Ernest Palmer; edited by Walter Thompson; music by David Buttolph; produced by Trotti; released by 20th Century Fox.

Starring Gene Tierney (Kay Saunders), Preston Foster (Steve Britt), John Sutton (Peter Stackhouse), Jack Holt (Colonel MacDonald), May Whitty (Lady Jane Stackhouse), George Barbier (Gramps), Richard Haydn (George Lockwood), Reginald Denny (Barrett) and Ted North (Cadet Hackzell).

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Escape Me Never (1947, Peter Godfrey)

Until now, I’d seen all of Eleanor Parker’s readily available films (the ones on VHS, laserdisc, and DVD) except Escape Me Never. She made two films with Errol Flynn, playing the lead in the other, Never Say Goodbye, and a supporting role in Escape Me Never. Ida Lupino plays the lead female. Parker plays the other woman, who’s married to Gig Young, who’s playing Flynn’s brother. It makes little sense and the whole film hinges on an agreement with the viewer never to question Flynn being irresistible.

The film is set in Venice in 1900. While the Venice sets, gondolas, canals and all, are quite nice, Lupino spends her first scene talking in 1940s slang. I’ve never seen Lupino in anything before and Escape Me Never certainly encourages me to be wary about seeing her in anything again. It’s not just the slang–or the special lighting she gets–or even her accent appearing and disappearing… she’s just really annoying (though her ludicrous costumes might contribute). Flynn is bad as well, somehow he’s impossible to take seriously as a tortured composer. Gig Young is fine, but looks and acts like he belongs in a different movie–one actually set in 1900….

Eleanor Parker–in one of her most glamorous parts–is so completely lost I can’t even mount a grand defense, which is fine, since it’s the studio’s fault. A few years before, Warner had given Parker the villainous role in Of Human Bondage (which she essayed brilliantly), but in Escape Me Never, her character’s not responsible for her objectionable actions and so the character has no depth. It’s probably Parker’s shallowest role, but it fits the film’s opinion of women. Women, it observes, are only of value for the reasons Flynn (and Flynn alone) says… There’s even a line about it. More than one, probably.

It’s impossible to imagine anyone speaking the film’s dialogue and conveying any sense of quality. Thames Williamson’s script is occasionally so ludicrous, along with Lupino’s shoddy performance, I was convinced the film was a farcical comedy. The scenes of Flynn, Lupino, and Young walking through the mountains, dressed in lederhosen certainly seems like it belongs in a farce. When the film moves its focus to a mountain resort (incredibly modern-looking for 1900 in Italy), the farce stops amusing and the viewer realizes it’s supposed to be serious. Escape Me Never came at the end of the studio system–Flynn and Lupino were on their way down while Parker and Young were moving up–and it’s a fine example of the system’s failings. It’s another one of those films I always had available on hand, but never watched for no good reason, only to watch it and wonder why I ever did, the original avoidance turning out to be fortuitous.