The Invisible Man (James Whale, 1933)

 

The Invisible Man (James Whale, 1933)

Cast: Claude Rains, Gloria Stuart, William Harrigan, Henry Travers, Una O’Connor, Forrester Harvey, Holmes Herbert, E.E. Clive, Dudley Digges, Harry Stubbs, Donald Stuart, Merle Tottenham. Screenplay: R.C. Sheriff, based on a novel by H.G. Wells. Cinematography: Arthur Edeson. Art direction: Charles D. Hall. Film editing: Ted J. Kent. Music: Heinz Roemheld. 

Of all the superpowers, including strength, speed, and flight, I think invisibility may be the most desired – and the most dangerous. The only obvious inconvenience is that for it to work, you’d have to be naked. (And as Claude Rains’s Dr. Jack Griffin suggests, you’d have to have a completely empty intestinal tract.) But the H.G. Wells novel and the 1933 film based on it seem to be designed as a warning to be careful what you wish for. The potion that gives Dr. Griffin his superpower also drives him mad, freeing him from any inhibitions against mayhem and murder. This may be my favorite among the classic Universal horror movies, more polished than Dracula (Tod Browning, 1931), less campy than Frankenstein (James Whale, 1931). Its chief flaw is that the part given to Gloria Stuart as Griffin’s girlfriend calls for her to do little more than fret and shriek. She does both well, but the role adds nothing to the narrative or the suspense. Much better are the gaggle of character actors assembled to play the villagers freaked out by the Invisible Man, especially the invaluable Una O’Connor as his landlady, whose own fretting and shrieking almost seem like a parody of Stuart’s. This was Rains’s American film debut, the more remarkable in that his face is seen only at the end of the film. He’s forced to do all of his acting with his voice, which would not have been familiar to the original audiences though it’s certainly recognizable to us today. It was enough to launch one of the great film careers. 

This Land Is Mine (Jean Renoir, 1943)

Cast: Charles Laughton, Maureen O'Hara, George Sanders, Walter Slezak, Kent Smith, Una O'Connor, Philip Merivale, Thurston Hall, George Coulouris, Nancy Gates, Ivan F. Simpson, John Donat. Screenplay: Dudley Nichols. Cinematography: Frank Redman. Production design: Eugène Lourié. Film editing: Frederick Knudtson. Music: Lothar Perl.

Charles Laughton plays a cowardly mama's boy schoolteacher in a Nazi-occupied country not unlike director Jean Renoir's native France. Albert Lory is secretly in love with his fellow teacher, Louise (Maureen O'Hara), but she's engaged to George Lambert (George Sanders), the administrator of the local railway yard who thinks the best way to proceed under the occupation is to submit to the Nazis under the command of Major von Keller (Walter Slezak). But Louise's brother, Paul (Kent Smith), is a member of the Resistance who tries to assassinate von Keller, provoking reprisals -- and a good deal of plot complications -- when he fails. Some dubious casting -- Sanders and O'Hara make an odd couple -- and a too-heavy reliance on melodramatic posing undermine a film that seems aimed more at Renoir's compatriots than at American audiences, though it was a box office success. 

Murder! (Alfred Hitchcock, 1930)

Norah Baring, uncredited actress, and Herbert Marshall in Murder!

Sir John Menier: Herbert Marshall
Diana Baring: Norah Baring
Doucie Markham: Phyllis Konstam
Ted Markham: Edward Chapman
Gordon Druce: Miles Mander
Handel Fane: Esme Percy
Ion Stewart: Donald Calthrop
Prosecutor: Esme V. Chaplin
Defense Counsel: Amy Brandon Thomas
Judge: Joynson Powell
Bennett: S.J. Warmington
Miss Mitcham: Marie Wright
Mrs. Didsome: Hannah Jones
Mrs. Grogram: Una O'Connor
Jury Foreman: R.E. Jeffrey

Director: Alfred Hitchcock
Screenplay: Alfred Hitchcock, Walter C. Mycroft, Alma Reville
Based on a novel and play by Clemence Dane and Helen Simpson
Cinematography: Jack E. Cox
Art direction: John Mead

Hitchcock's third talkie, after the commercial success Blackmail (1929) and the comparative flop Juno and the Paycock (1930), is a solid start toward establishing his reputation as a master of the thriller, or in this case the murder-mystery subgenre. Hitchcock's direction of it is full of innovative touches: an opening sequence in which a scream is heard and the camera pans across a series of windows from which curious heads emerge; a neatly staged scene in which the investigation of the murder takes place in the wings of a theater, where people being interrogated sometimes interrupt their testimony to make their entrances; a scene that takes place in the jury room and lingers there as we overhear the sentence being delivered, with only a janitor tidying up in the actual frame; a voiceover by Herbert Marshall as we see his reflection in a mirror -- accomplished in those pre-dubbing days by playing a recording of Marshall speaking his lines. But frankly, Murder! is a bit of a mess, filled with improbable twists. For example, Marshall's character, Sir John Menier, an eminent actor-producer, winds up on the jury even though he has a prior acquaintance with the defendant, Diana Baring. And somehow, even though he believes her to be innocent, he is bullied by the other jurors into voting guilty. He then turns detective to try to overturn the verdict. The motive for the murder is equally muddled: something to do with the fact that the murderer, who turns out to be a circus trapeze artist who performs in drag, is "half-caste" -- a secret that he is willing to kill in order to protect. But this muddle has its moments, such as the one in which the dignified Sir John spends the night in a house near the murder scene, to be awakened by the landlady (the always valuable Una O'Connor) and her gaggle of noisy kids. Better, tighter scripts were to come, but Hitchcock gives this one better than it's due.

The Informer (John Ford, 1935)

Time has not been kind to The Informer, though it was celebrated as a masterpiece at the time, and won four Academy Awards: John Ford for director, Victor McLaglen for best actor, Dudley Nichols for best screenplay, and Max Steiner for score.* Today, The Informer looks a little stiff and stagy and McLaglen's performance vastly overdone. The film invites comparison to much better manhunt films like Fritz Lang's M (1931) and especially Carol Reed's Odd Man Out (1947), which also takes the Irish revolution for its subject. Ford has a way of overstating things, such as the constant visions that Gypo Nolan (McLaglen) has of the "Wanted" poster that inspired him to inform against Frankie McPhillip (Wallace Ford). And the final scene in the church now feels impossibly mawkish: Frankie's mother (Una O'Connor), veiled and -- thanks to cinematographer Joseph H. August's lighting -- as beatific as a Raphael madonna, forgives Gypo, who then expires before a crucifix proclaiming, "Frankie! Your mother forgives me!" It has to be said, though, that The Informer is full of great energy, and some of the supporting performances, like J.M. Kerrigan's Terry, who sponges off of the newly flush Gypo, or May Boley as the madam of a Production Coded brothel, are vivid and colorful. McLaglen's performance lacks the kind of nuance that would help us see Gypo as more than just a drunken loudmouth with no moral compass, which would make the ending feel less unearned, but you can't take your eyes off of him even when you wish you could. Legend has it that Ford kept McLaglen liquored up throughout the film to get the performance he wanted, but there are many long takes and ensemble scenes that suggest to me that McLaglen was more in control of himself than the legend suggests.

*It also contributed to Oscar statistics: This was the first of Ford's record-setting Oscar wins as director. The others were for The Grapes of Wrath (1940), How Green Was My Valley (1941), and The Quiet Man (1952). (None of Ford's wins were for the genre with which is is most associated, the Western.) And Nichols became the first person to decline an Oscar: As a member of the Screen Writers Guild, Nichols was suspicious of the Academy because it had been founded in part as an attempt by the film industry to reduce the influence of unions. After the Academy began to disassociate itself from union-busting efforts, Nichols quietly accepted the award.

Bride of Frankenstein (James Whale, 1935)

Funny, campy, occasionally scary, and featuring over-the-top performances by Ernest Thesiger, Dwight Frye, and Una O'Connor, Bride of Frankenstein may also be the saddest of all horror movies. Much has been made of a perceived subtext of the film, based in part on the knowledge that its director, James Whale, and Thesiger were openly gay, and it's possible to see the plight of the monster (Boris Karloff) as analogous to that of the gays of their time, subject to ridicule and repression from a hostile society. In this reading, Whale and Thesiger adopt camp attitudes as a way of thumbing their noses at a hostile, uncomprehending society. But that's an unnecessarily reductive interpretation. The monster is the ultimate outsider, an anomalous and inarticulate being, whatever his sexuality. He briefly finds companionship in the blind hermit (O.P. Heggie) who begins to teach him to speak -- including the word "friend" -- but their relationship is doomed by the intrusion of the world of ordinary humans, a world he can never be part of. In the end, when the mate (Elsa Lanchester) who has been created for him rejects him, his only recourse is self-destruction. "We belong dead!" the monster proclaims. To see Bride of Frankenstein as some sort of parable about gays in society would then be an endorsement of suicide as the only option. Subtexts often reside only in the mind of the beholder, and Whale was too much of an artist to turn his film into any kind of message, however latent in the fantastic tale he is telling. Better instead to relish Karloff's ability to give a subtle performance that shows through pounds of makeup. Or Lanchester's remarkable control and timing in bringing the bride to life, including the squawks and hisses that she claimed to have developed by watching swans in the park. Or John J. Mescall's classic black-and-white cinematography, Charles D. Hall's set designs, and Franz Waxman's score. Yes, Colin Clive and Valerie Hobson are a most improbable couple as the Frankensteins. Clive was far gone into alcoholism and looks it, but nobody could have delivered the line "She's alive! Alive!" more memorably.

Cavalcade (Frank Lloyd, 1933)

There are lots of forgettable best picture Oscar winners: Who today watches The Great Ziegfeld (Robert Z. Leonard, 1936), The Life of Emile Zola (William Dieterle, 1937), or Gentleman's Agreement (Elia Kazan, 1947)? But Cavalcade may be the most forgettable (and forgotten) of them all. Based on a play by Noël Coward adapted by Reginald Berkeley and Sonya Levien, it's the saga of 33 years in the lives of a wealthy London couple, Robert (Clive Brook) and Jane Marryot (Diana Wynyard). Its portrait of their lives and the lives of their servants may have inspired the popular British TV series Upstairs Downstairs, and through it the even more popular Downton Abbey, both of which cover pretty much the same time period. In Cavalcade, as in the two TV series, the families suffer losses from the sinking of the Titanic and from World War I, and experience the social upheaval of a changing class system. But Cavalcade tries to cram it all into less than two hours, and tends to be more blatantly nostalgic about the passing scene. Unlike the creators of the later TV series, Coward and his adapters didn't have the benefit in 1933 of seeing what effect the events of the first third of the twentieth century would have on Britain and the world. It settles for a bit of prophecy in the form of a montage in which various talking heads rant about disarmament, communism, atheism, Christianity, and other ideologies, including a rather corny scene in a louche night club where same-sex couples seem to be on the verge of making out. (The film is pre-Code, so the strictures against depicting homosexuality haven't kicked in yet, though it's clear that the film -- despite Coward's own sexual orientation -- disapproves of it.) In addition to the best picture Oscar, Cavalcade also won a second Oscar for its director, Frank Lloyd, who had been the first director to be so honored, for The Divine Lady (1929). Wynyard also received a nomination for best actress, losing to a newcomer, Katharine Hepburn in Morning Glory (Lowell Sherman, 1933). Wynyard had a more successful career on stage than in movies. In Cavalcade she tries to register emotion by staring meditatively into the middle distance, which often looks like she has spotted something troubling on the wallpaper. The rest of the cast includes Herbert Mundin and Una O'Connor as the Marryots' servants, and Frank Lawton as Joe Marryot, the younger son, all three of whom would be reunited in a much better movie, David Copperfield (George Cukor, 1935). For the record, some of the films that Cavalcade beat for best picture include 42nd Street (Lloyd Bacon), I Am a Fugitive From a Chain Gang (Mervyn LeRoy), and Little Women (Cukor).