Saboteur (1942): A Look At Thematic Concerns

by Paul Batters

He’s noble and fine and pure… So he pays the penalty that the noble must pay in this world: he’s misjudged by everyone. Charles Tobin (Otto Kruger)

Alfred Hitchcock rightfully deserves his place in cinematic history as the master of suspense. From the silent era through to the 1970s, Hitchcock made some of the screen’s greatest films that still shock and thrill audiences. His name is part of the pantheon of great directors, and he was also one of the few directors whose name went above the film’s title and was enough to draw in an audience. As with all filmmakers, not all his films are perfect and indeed have flaws but even his weaker films are entertaining and still have great moments.

Saboteur (1942) is not a film that cinephiles, film historians and fans of the great director would list as one of his best. Hitchcock himself did not consider it one of his best either and would make several criticisms about the final product. Despite this, the film did exceptionally well at the box office, which may reflect the mood of audiences in 1942 and the context of the film as well. Yet it is a film worth looking at and one whose thematic concerns are fascinating, at least to this reviewer. Indeed, the film’s thematic concerns are ones which Hitchcock himself would examine more than once, in some of his finest films. This article aims to not so much review Saboteur but rather look at those thematic concerns.

The story follows the character Barry Kane (Robert Cummings) who is accused of starting a fire in a defense plant that kills his best friend. Despite his protestations of innocence, he is forced to go on the run, pursued by the police and the real saboteur, who is attempting to frame him for a series of attacks of sabotage across the United States. Along the way, Kane will seek refuge with a blind man who helps him, although his niece Patricia Martin (Priscilla Lane) initially aims to hand him to the police before becoming his ally. Both will evade capture and criss-cross the country, with Kane trying to clear himself and foil the Nazi conspiracy that is targeting American industry for the war effort. The film builds to a thrilling climax on the Statue of Liberty, where Kane confronts the true villain and clears his name. Overall, Saboteur is a classic example of Hitchcock’s mastery of suspense and storytelling.

Saboteur is a product of its time; in that Hitchcock was making a film that had strong overtones of ‘patriotic propaganda’ as Robert Harris and Michael S. Lasky suggest out in their 2002 work The Complete Films Of Alfred Hitchcock. Both point out that it was his contribution to the ‘war effort’ but it was far beyond the usual fare that sold war bonds and boosted morale. The film tapped into the themes of loyalty to country and the need to defend America’s freedom and democracy, which resonated with audiences at the time. Saboteur also celebrates the American spirit of ingenuity and resourcefulness, as Barry Kane uses his wits and his skills to outsmart the saboteurs. While trapped in a basement, he triggers a fire alarm to get free. When Barry and Patricia are trying to evade the police, they end up at a circus. Barry improvises by putting on a clown costume and makeup in order to blend in with the performers and escape detection. Thus, it can also be described as an ‘American’ film, distinct from his prior work, as it reflects the nature of patriotic fervour that existed on the home front of wartime America. Hitchcock was also making his film in America, initially for David O. Selznick but eventually for Universal, and the leads were what Hitchcock had hoped would represent the ordinary American caught up in extraordinary circumstances. The main character’s journey takes him across America and its well-known cultural and historical landmarks; with the final landmark in the climax perhaps being the most significant and powerful in its symbolism. Nicholas Haeffner would describe Saboteur as a ‘picaresque thriller’; one which is ‘romantic’ in the original meaning of the term and Guy Cogveal adds that the theme of flight leads shapes the narrative into ballad form.

William Rothman quite accurately describes Saboteur as an American remake of The 39 Steps (1935) – and of course it’s here that an examination of the thematic concerns can begin. Like Richard Hannay, Barry Kane is the hero falsely accused and the lone, innocent man trying to prove his innocence against incredible odds. Unable to go to the police to clear himself, Kane is caught in the unenviable position that the only way to prove his innocence is to investigate and follow the trail of the actual villain. The cross-country chase becomes Kane’s odyssey and ordeal by fire, and as Haeffner illustrates must endure ‘a series of interlinked and colourful situations and episodes, confronting danger through various adversaries and life-threatening situations.’ Haeffner adds that Kane is like the ‘plucky and adventurous’ character following the tradition in the aforementioned The 39 Steps and Foreign Correspondent. Additionally, the character of Barry Kane is a further step in the development of what Cogveal describes as the ‘Hitchcockian hero’, that will finally crystalise in North By Northwest; a ‘rover’ escaping the clutches of the past, evading the police, society, or himself. Thus, the key theme sees ordinary people leading ordinary lives confronted with a political threat to their country and becoming actively involved in a struggle against fascism.

Hitchcock, as always, plays with his audience and inverts the concepts of trust and whom can be trusted. Again, like Hannay, Kane seeks help only to find he is in the hands of the very men seeking to destroy him. When tracing Frank Fry (Norman Lloyd) to the ranch of Charles Tobin (Otto Kruger), Kane discovers that Fry and Tobin are both saboteurs. An audience can find itself complacent in terms of the relationship of trust with the characters on the screen; feeling we know ‘the truth’ and yet being led up the garden path in the same way as the protagonist. In an interesting turn of events that parodies The Bride Of Frankenstein (1935), Kane seeks refuge with Phillip Martin (Vaughan Glazer), a blind man who believes in Kane’s innocence. Yet he faces danger again when Martin’s niece Patricia threatens to give him up. Barry manages to persuade her to believe his story by explaining the circumstances that led to his being falsely accused. He tells her that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time and that the real saboteur is still at large. They work together to uncover the real culprit behind the sabotage, and Barry’s persistence and resourcefulness in pursuing the truth begins to convince Patricia that he is indeed innocent. Additionally, as they spend more time together, Patricia begins to develop feelings for Barry, which also contributes to her growing trust in him. Here, there is an inversion of how the audience experiences trust and it also brings home the concept of the heroic loner; trying to prove their innocence whilst catching the actual villain. Of course, trust becomes an extremely rare and valuable commodity during wartime and in the context of World War Two, audiences would certainly have understood the problems with being too trusting, in the face of Nazi infiltration and sabotage.

Hitchcock’s ever-present desire to shock and exploit remains on display in Saboteur, to the point where the authorities had their misgivings about particular moments in the film. The best example of this is well-known to Hitchcock fans – the shot of the capsized Normandie – which was used in the film in a way that suggested sabotage. The U.S Navy were not happy with this, as the Normandie had suffered an accidental fire, not sabotage, as inferred in the film. As a result, the shot was edited out in some parts of the U.S, which is understandable given that it was wartime, and the fears of sabotage were very real. Hitchcock claimed, ‘it just happened to be there’ and it wasn’t planned but this reviewer casts doubts on this claim. There are brilliant moments of wry humour that appear to be Hitchcockian but probably owe more to the great writer Dorothy Parker, who was brought in to assist with the script. During the circus sequence, the Siamese twins argue over whether to help our hero, and at one point refuse to talk to each other. There’s even a discussion over insomnia between the two!

Haeffner also makes the interesting observation that Hitchcock often uses a fascinating cinematic tool, ‘where art and life become interwoven as the barrier between spectacle and spectatorship is breached’. It is also a key theme that in in the DNA of Hitchcock’s films; the unexpected occurring in the least expected places and moments of one’s life. Before the stunning climax, Fry is chased into a cinema where he attempts to get away by running across the screen, appearing as a small silhouette with a gun in his hand. In the next instance a gun is fired onscreen just as the saboteur fires into the audience, killing a man who slumps into his wife’s lap. She assumes he’s laughing with the rest of the audience but when discovering he’s dead, she lets out a loud scream which sets the audience into a panic. The film continues to echo the real-life situation. The cuckolded husband on the screen says ‘Get out before I shoot you’, as audience members run out of the cinema. This confusion and discombobulation of reality and imagination is unsettling and, in this situation, horrific, yet it touches on Hitchcock’s own take on suspense and the building of tension:

‘We cannot experience sufficient thrills at first hand. Therefore, to prevent ourselves becoming sluggish and jellified, we must experience them artificially. The screen is the best medium for this’.

Perhaps the most celebrated moment in the film is the aforementioned exciting climax, which would later be replicated in North By Northwest and certainly uses symbolism to deliver one of the central themes of the film. Barry Kane pursues Fry to Bedloe Island, where Fry ironically hides inside the Statue of Liberty. The pursuit sees Fry fall from the platform on Lady Liberty’s torch, desperately hanging onto the statue’s hand. Kane’s attempts to save Fry will be in vain, as the Nazi saboteur plummets to his doom. It takes little to see the importance of the scene and the significance, particularly in 1942, of Hitchcock’s use of The Statue Of Liberty in the film’s climax. As a symbol of freedom and the values of democracy, this would have powerfully resonated with audiences in 1942. The irony of a Nazi desperately holding onto the hand of liberty to be saved becomes heightened by Kane’s efforts to save him as well. Hitchcock may have been making his ‘patriotic picture’ but the themes of loyalty to country and fighting against tyranny were more than tokenistic.

Saboteur may not be one of Alfred Hitchcock’s greatest films standing alongside North By Northwest, Rear Window, Psycho and Vertigo. Robert Cummings and Priscilla Lane were not Hitchcock’s choices and were ‘forced on him’ by the studio and Hitchcock would not speak fondly of the film. Yet, it’s a tense and highly dramatic thriller that still excites an audience.

This article is written for The 2023 Master Of Suspense Blogathon run by Maddy at Classic Film And TV Corner. Please make sure to visit the link and read some other wonderful articles on films that depict visions of the future. A huge thank you to both for the opportunity to take part!

Paul Batters teaches secondary school History in the Illawarra region and also lectures at the University Of Wollongong. In a previous life, he was involved in community radio and independent publications. Looking to a career in writing, Paul also has a passion for film history.

Murder: The Ultimate Crime In Film Noir

by Paul Batters

‘How could I know that murder can sometimes smell like honeysuckle?’  Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray) Double Indemnity (1944)

In any society, murder is the most horrendous crime. It is a betrayal of trust, goes against the concept of a safe and secure society and steals the greatest gift that any human has – life itself. As a result, society demands justice when murder is perpetrated and indeed, even vengeance for such a transgression. In a modern, ordered and civilised world, that justice is processed through a legal system. In film noir, murder is a normal part of its dark and twisted world. In film noir, business partnerships aren’t dissolved by being bought out or through a legal process. Lovers or spouses don’t break up or get sent a ‘Dear John’ letter. People cheated out of money don’t get a visit from the police or face a civil suit. Those who have transgressed in any way are not dealt with in the usual ways. In the world of film noir, all are dealt with using a .38.

In the pantheon of film noir, murder is an ever-present trope because it is the ultimate crime. The characters who walk the streets of the film noir universe know it is present and even expect it to come their way. Having written previously on Death As Redemption In Film Noir, there are those who even welcome murder as a reprieve from the pains and sufferings of the world, or in particular as justice for their own indiscretions and crimes. The aptly named The Killers (1946) is a perfect example of the ever-presence of murder as a trope in film noir. Murder is the key tool used by professional hitmen, with their initial target Ole Anderson (Burt Lancaster), the key target. Interestingly, Anderson, after becoming aware that two professional hitmen are seeking him out, makes no attempt to escape or dodge his fate. He accepts what is going to come and acknowledges that his death is a form of redemption, and that murder is par for the course of a life of crime.

To describe murder in film noir as an occupational hazard, sounds like an understatement as well as a cliché. Yet it is not only an occupational hazard but a tool of the trade for the gangsters, hoodlums and killers that stalk the streets, occupy the cheap bars and hide in shadowy alleys in the world of film noir. The quintessential heist film and a sterling film which exemplifies this is John Huston’s The Asphalt Jungle (1950). Focused on a diamond robbery put together by ‘Doc’ Riedenschneider (Sam Jaffe), violence is an integral part of the preparation for the heist. Doc recognises that the need for a hoodlum willing to commit violence is as integral as a reliable wheelman and a top-notch safe cracker. Dix Handley (Sterling Hayden) is the man they need and whilst not a killer, he is a man that will use violence where necessary. Complications with the heist and a double-cross from the heist’s financial backer, corrupt lawyer, Alonzo D. Emmerich (Louis Calhern), sees that violence become a necessity. Whilst not strictly cold-blooded murder, Dix shoots and kills Bob Brannom (Brad Dexter) during the double-cross. It is a situation where the threat of murder is part of the business bargaining and an underlying reality to the dealings in the criminal world.

The same threat of menace and danger which pre-empts murder and death is as present for those working the legal side of the fence. This is especially evident in Anthony Mann’s T-Men (1947). The threat of murder is forever present as two U.S Treasury agents go undercover to infiltrate and bring down a counterfeit gang. In one particularly brutal scene, Moxy disposes of one of the gangsters by cooking him alive in a steam-room. It certainly gives new meaning to turning up the heat. With its brilliant use of deep black and stark lighting, the oppressive sense of violence is heightened and the sense of panic and terror likewise in the moments before death. To protect their business interests, murder is a powerful tool and one which in the world of film noir could be visited upon anyone. Likewise, the private detective, the knight in dented armour, is also more than aware that murder is a reality in his or her world. They certainly spend a great deal of their time investigating it and likewise avoiding it. The ‘gumshoe’ or ‘shamus’ walks a difficult line; they seek truth and justice yet are not part of the police. At times, they drift into illegalities and do not have the legal protections that are afforded the authorities. Indeed, they often annoy and irritate the authorities who see them as obstacles. As evident in The Maltese Falcon (1941) and Murder, My Sweet (1944), the dangers of murder are always around the corner. To avoid it, they work by their wits and experience.

But murder in film noir is not merely an occupational hazard, it becomes a way of solving problems and removing obstacles. In John Stahl’s brilliant Leave Her To Heaven (1945), writer Richard Harland (Cornel Wilde) marries socialite Ellen (Gene Tierney). Her obsessive and jealous nature is at first passed off by Richard as simply a love that is too strong. However, Ellen looks for ways in which she can isolate Richard from anyone she sees as a threat, including his family. In one of the most horrific scenes on film, Ellen encourages Richard’s younger, crippled brother Danny (Darryl Hickman) to swim deeper into the nearby lake, as she follows him in a rowboat. She watches as he struggles and lets him drown as he begs for help. Passed off as an accident, Ellen initially seems to have gotten away with murder and she has managed to remove what she deems to be an obstacle in her path to have all of Danny’s love and devotion. In Sorry, Wrong Number (1948), Henry J. Stephenson (Burt Lancaster) arranges the murder of his wife Leona (Barbara Stanwyck) to pay off his debts to gangsters. Stephenson sees murder as the only way to solving his problems and getting out of the mess that he has created. Likewise, in Billy Wilder’s Double Indemnity (1944), insurance salesman Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray) sees murder as the only way to extricate himself and ‘get off the trolley car’, from the mess he has gotten himself into; ironically after himself committing murder for femme fatale Phyllis Dietrichson (Barbara Stanwyck). He will finally realise that Phyllis intends to use murder to get rid of him as well. After all, he is not only a liability to her but he is no longer of any use to her.

Which brings us to the femme fatale, perhaps one of the most recognised characters in film noir. We’ve already had a brief look at two and it’s already noted that murder is a modus operandi for the femme fatale. Either they are murderers themselves or entice and seduce others to commit murder for them; whatever the reason. Two of the finest examples of the femme fatale are present in two films that this writer feels are two of the best example of film noir, particularly from the 1940s: Double Indemnity (1944) and Out Of The Past (1947). In Double Indemnity, the aforementioned Phyllis Dietrichson (Barbara Stanwyck) is a cold and despicable femme fatale. As Walter Neff discovers, Phyllis uses murder in numerous ways, either enticing others (like himself) to kill or to commit murder herself. In Out Of The Past (1947), Kathie Moffat (Jane Greer) is likewise a cold and despicable woman, who betrays the men in her life. Murder is also an MO for Kathie, and she has no problem using murder to get her way, let alone throwing someone under the bus to save her skin. In. both cases, the fatal mistake that men make is that they fall in love (or lust, to be more cynical). Neff is dazzled at first sight and through a fatalist lens declares that he knew he would fall further for her. Indeed, Neff will suggest that he never knew ‘that murder could sometimes smell like honeysuckle’. The beauty, warmth and scent of the Spanish-style Dietrichson home on the outside hides the moribund, dusty and mundane interior. Phyllis, likewise, is beautiful on the outside but dead with corruption on the inside. Likewise, Jeff (Robert Mitchum) falls in love with Kathie and can understand why Whit (Kirk Douglas) does as well, even forgiving her double-crossing: ‘And then I saw her, coming out of the sun, and I knew why Whit didn’t care about that 40 grand’. It is the perfect line to describe the allure of the femme fatale, and how she can secure a man to commit murder for her.

As part of the audience, we all shake our heads in disbelief that these people would think that murder would get them out of trouble.  It’s easy to ask the question – what makes them think they will get away with it? Yet the answer is clear. They all think they can buck the system and that they will not get caught. No-one, including the audience after leaving the theatre (or in this new brave world, turning off the wide-screen smart TV) can say that they have not fantasised about beating the system, breaking a mundane and boring life or ached to fulfil a desire that we know we cannot fulfil. The difference of course is that in the real world, the audience (mostly) is driven by values, morals, ethics, laws, fears etc to keep the law and steer the course of ‘normal’, mundane lives. In film noir, the audience seems characters make an ‘existential choice’, as Robert Porfirio suggests where the mundane is rejected for authenticity and that means freedom embodied in ‘sex, money, power and the promise of adventure’. However, as the characters in film noir discover, the attainment of these things stepping into the darkness and that often means murder. After all, in the world of film noir, murder and death are the norms.

This article is a proud entry into the CMBA Fall 2022 Blogathon – Movies Are Murder. Please visit to read some fantastic articles from great writers on classic film. Please remember to like, share and leave your comments – it’s important to respect, honour and support the work!

Paul Batters teaches secondary school History in the Illawarra region and also lectures at the University Of Wollongong. In a previous life, he was involved in community radio and independent publications. Looking to a career in writing, Paul also has a passion for film history.

The Red House (1947): A Classic Of American Gothic

by Paul Batters

‘Did you ever run away from the scream? You can’t. It will follow you through the woods. It will follow you all of your life’. Pete Morgan (Edward G. Robinson)

Cinema is filled with films that are celebrated and considered as timeless classics. Many are deserving of such celebration, yet there are many (at least in the opinion of this reviewer) which are not so deserving. More to the point, there are too many films that stand in the shadows and go unnoticed or unheralded. These unhidden classics need to be brought out into the light and celebrated. They are not always conventional and may even be unpolished and raw, yet that gives them an authenticity and value that makes them classics. Delmer Daves The Red House (1947) is one of those ‘hidden classics’ that deserves to be honoured.

The Red House has been described as noir although it is perhaps closer to the mark being described as a ‘horror film. Yet my contention is that this cinematic gem is a classic of American Gothic. The film’s strength lies in its unique approach to the conventions of the Gothic genre, conveyed through brilliant cinematography and delivered by a solid cast, underpinned by Miklos Rozsa’s musical score. Ultimately, it is a thriller where the audience is torn between the possibilities of the supernatural and the powers of suggestion. This Lewtonesque approach melds beautifully with the storyline and, like the protagonists in the story, we are led through winding trails in the woods trying to discover what the truth is.

Dawes transforms George Agnew Chamberlain’s 1943 novel of the same into a tale which perfectly traverses rural Americana with traditional Gothic tropes, in a fresh and interesting way avoiding cliches that would often turn up in far more celebrated Gothic films. Dawes establishes this in the opening scene, where the narrator describes an idyllic American farming community, where the farmers raise ‘good apples’ in ‘fine soil’ – a beautiful metaphor for the young people, who are a ‘healthy lot…where the girls don’t come prettier anyplace’. The wholesomeness of this salt-of-the-earth farming community, however, also contains a deeper secret. The mystery is already suggested by the ominous presence of Ox-Head Woods, where civilisation has yet to penetrate, with its deep, dark woods criss-crossed by broken trails leading to nowhere. Immediately, the audience is placed on a trail which will symbolically lead into a darker mystery.

The Morgan farm is described as having ‘the allure of a walled-castle…which few have entered’ accessed only by one road. Even in a rural America of farms, warm sun and the film’s focus on youth, the link to classic Gothic themes is beautifully linked. The symbolism of the Morgan farm as secluded and distant from the rest of society, suggests secrets, family trauma, tragedy and hidden tales. Here live Pete Morgan (Edward G. Robinson) and his sister Ellen Morgan (Judith Anderson) with their adopted daughter Meg (Allene Roberts). They are ‘self-sufficient’ with little need to interact with the outside world, ‘content with how things are’ and no need for outsiders to ‘spoil things’. Pete has a wooden leg from an old accident which also reveals a sub-plot involving Ellen and her unfulfilled love for the valley doctor who helped Pete when he lost it. Meg loves her adopted parents and she doesn’t question how she came to be adopted. She loves Nath (Leo McCallister) who much to Meg’s dismay is going steady with Tibby (Julie London). Dawes will take this seemingly simple orientation immediately into darker Gothic thematic concerns and build tension with a deft hand. 

Dawes also touches on subjects which the Code must have shuddered at and yet incredibly still find their way onto the screen. Teenage sexuality and relationships are both more than overtly looked at and indeed become a central theme connected to the storyline.  From the opening scene on the school bus, Nath is told by Tibby to bring his swimming trunks to their ‘swimming date’ so they can ‘change at the reservoir, just the two of us’. Next to them, the shy, innocent and pretty Meg sits disappointed but silent, knowing full-well what is being suggested. It becomes clear that Meg loves Nath but it is a love from afar and she says nothing as she treasures their friendship. 

But Meg’s love and affection for Nath reveals something darker in Pete Morgan that the audience recognises goes beyond the normal concerns of a father or guardian. When Meg begs Pete to give Nath a job on the farm, Pete gives in to Meg because he could ‘never turn her down’. All seems friendly enough after a hard day’s work as Nath sits with the Morgans for supper but as he’s about to leave for home, Nath mentions taking a shortcut through the Ox-Head Woods. Suddenly, Pete’s manner changes and he argues with Nath that it would be foolish to take that shortcut. Nath ignores Pete’s pleading which becomes more frantic. As Nath steps out into the night, the howling wind and darkness barely drowns out Pete’s near-mad rantings of the ‘screams in the night’ from the ‘red house’. The complexity of Pete’s deep psychological pathology emerge in waves of panic and near-madness, revealing his fears as he calls out ‘did you ever run away from a scream?’ As Nath disappears into the night, across the wind-swept fields, Pete goes back inside looking near-mad, eyes wide as he mutters away to his sister and himself. Ellen knowingly looks on but Meg is confused as well as afraid. Here, Dawes takes a brilliant turn into the fine line between supernatural and human fear, as Nath becomes scared and disoriented in the Ox-Head Woods. Is there some supernatural force conjured up the wind? Or is his own primeval fears fuelled by Pete’s rantings? Are the screams coming from some terrible presence in the woods? Or the result of the wind in the trees accentuated by a highly charged imagination? What does the red house have to do with all of this? At any rate, terror overcomes Nath, who makes his way back to the farm. Pete seems to regather his wits and dominance, his fears and concerns abated by Nath’s return and his secret therefore safe for the meantime.

Nath is the boy Meg loves and he will become the agent of change for not only Meg but the Morgan household. Like a lord who dominates his estate and sits all-powerful in his castle without question, Pete sees Nath as the great outside threat to his power and hold over Meg. Nath is a young boy becoming a young man, wanting to assert himself. Pete blames Nath for Meg’s change but as Ellen points out to her brother, Meg is growing up and has a right to her own life. She will begin to ask questions which emerge after the first fateful night, and as any teenager on the cusp of adulthood, will seek her own autonomy. This will also push Pete over the edge, as she disobeys his demands that she not ask questions. Nath and Meg will both seek out the red house, seeking answers to deeper questions which for Meg will reveal far deeper truths than she anticipated. In their quest, they will grow even closer together. Pete uses all manner of means to pull Meg closer to him and drive Nath apart from her, from giving gifts to Meg and even threatening her, as well as doing what he can to encourage Nath and Tibby’s romance. Pete will go so far as use Teller (Rory Calhoun), the local no-account school drop-out to inflict violence and keep Nath (and Meg) out of the Ox-Head Woods. It seems that Pete will stop at nothing to hold onto Meg.

Pete’s jealousy will not only border on the incestuous but almost cross it, enough for the kind Ellen Morgan to ask Meg if Pete has ever touched her. Pete’s now tender grip on reality will see him calling Meg another name which Meg seems to recognise but is unsure where to place. In one disturbing and alarming scene, the audience watches Pete standing at the lake’s edge on a small pier watching Meg swimming. As she approaches with an innocent smile to the edge, Pete stands suggestively over her, looking at her strangely and calling her ‘Jeanie’. Meg is obviously scared and disturbed, as she is also vulnerable in her swimsuit. Later, as Meg is in her bed at night, Pete will come into the room and stand at the doorway calling her Jeannie. Again, the dark secret and mystery that underpins Pete’s growing madness is a long-repressed truth which is too big to be hidden for much longer. The red house becomes the powerful focal point for that truth and Nath and Meg’s search for it will enrage Pete.

The terrible secret is not one which only haunts Pete, as Ellen has sacrificed her own happiness to try and protect the people she loves and cares for. The rumours and gossip about the ‘mysterious Morgans’ perhaps also asks the question about the relationship between brother and sister, and if something more is going on. Long-suffering Ellen tries everything to convince Pete that he needs to let Meg live her life and save him from his madness but it is all to no avail, as Pete descends further and deeper into the chasm. The lesson that Ellen tries imparting, that everyone has their Ox-Head Woods, falls on deaf ears. The darker Gothic overtones of seclusion, growing madness and the oppressed sexuality channelled into darker outlets all emerge in The Red House. 

The climax is still powerful high drama, even if the audience has put most of the puzzle’s pieces together. The red house itself becomes more than a symbolic focus for Pete’s madness or Meg’s search for truth. In the red house itself, all will finally be revealed as history is repeated in the ruins of the old house and the mystery finally see its denouement. 

The cast of The Red House is solid and the younger cast who hold a fair amount of the screen time do a commendable job. Leo McCallister does well as the farm boy and he has some solid mo ments on the screen. Allene Roberts, in her film debut, is particularly interesting as Meg, who is reminiscent of the kind of roles sometimes taken by Cathy O’Donnell or Teresa Wright. Conveying an ‘innocent beauty’, with her slightly breathless voice, Roberts carries the role with an unexpected strength. Julie London, also in her film debut, is incredibly sensual as Nate’s girlfriend and smoulders with her suggestive glances and claims that she is ‘already a woman’ after excitement and adventure beyond the valley. Whilst initially looking down her nose at Teller, she is also excited by him. The earliest screen encounter when Tibby gets off the school bus shows Teller waiting for her, looking like a proto-50s rocker with his tough stance and long rifle pointing at her, with obvious Freudian overtone. Teller smiles lecherously telling Tibby that he’s ‘learned plenty of things they don’t teach in school’ which scares her but also entices her, betrayed by her backward glance at him. Eventually, Teller’s prophecy that when Tibby ‘decide(s) on a man, you come to me’, will prove correct and see Nath rejected by Tibby. Rory Calhoun takes on a minor role as a plot device to drive the story and does enough with it as the bad boy who will lead Tibby into trouble. 

Of course, Robinson and Anderson are the veterans who bring their superb skills to the fore. Dame Judith Anderson supports the story with her usual depth and gives room for everyone else to deliver their performance. But for this reviewer, Robinson gives one of his finest performances and is evidence for The Red House as a hidden classic. He never chews the scenery and tempers the character’s descent into madness with well-timed fits and starts that mesh perfectly with the psychological decline of the character as well as the plot. He seems to have a permanent weight on his shoulders befitting Morgan’s tortured soul. He uses not only physical movement beautifully but expresses emotion through facial expression and even voice, lurching between his character’s love for Meg, the desperation to keep his madness in control and the defeat when it overwhelms him completely. 

The Red House is wrongly described by some as a ‘haunted house’ story, but it certainly is one of a man who is haunted; by his past crimes, by the pain of unrequited or ‘stolen’ love and the terrifying and twisted love he feels towards the young girl in his care. In essence, it is a pure Gothic tale of secrets which would tear all down around them if revealed, as well as free those bound by them. In the climax of the film, Pete himself asks that he could be free of the screams as his ‘castle’ collapses around him. It will mean final peace for his tortured spirit. But it will also mean that Meg finds her questions answered and she takes a step into a future no longer determined by Pete or the terrible secret which has them all prisoners of the past. 

The Red House has suffered from the unavailability of a decent print for years, as well as its presence in the public domain meaning cheap VHS and DVD releases or compilations with B-features. As it is in the public domain, it has also been available online as well. As a result, it is easy to dismiss it as a B-feature and one to be overlooked. Yet it deserves far greater attention. It was a ‘sleeper hit’ upon its release and received solid notice. Dawes’s direction is tight, even if there is a little fat that could use some trimming, and its unique as an American rural Gothic tale. More to the point, The Red House is an American hidden classic which deserves its’ place in the pantheon of films from the classic era. 

This article is an entry in the Hidden Classics Blogathon run by the Classic Movie Blog Association. Please click onto the link to read other wonderful entries!

Paul Batters teaches secondary school History in the Illawarra region and also lectures at the University Of Wollongong. In a previous life, he was involved in community radio and independent publications. Looking to a career in writing, Paul also has a passion for film history.

All The King’s Men (1949): The Power of the Political Drama

by Paul Batters

Do you know what good comes out of?…Out of bad. That’s what good comes out of. Because you can’t make it out of anything else. You didn’t know that, did you? Willie Stark (Broderick Crawford)

The ‘political drama’ is a concept fraught with trip-wires and potholes. It can lose its’ impact over time, either through the context becoming lost on newer audiences or simply because the story loses impact, particularly if it pales against current events. Neither rings true regarding All The King’s Men, a film whose key character and context runs almost too close to the events of the political sphere of 2020. Of course, the political drama can also be controversial, particularly if it is dealing with the corridors of power, politicians and leaders (real or supposed) and the machinations of governments.

Released through Columbia Studios and written, produced and directed by Robert Rossen, All The King’s Men was based on the 1946 Robert Penn Warren novel of the same name. In hindsight, it’s incredible that the film was made. The very nature of the story, the Code (which forbid any condemnation of government and the political system) and the soon-to-dawn McCarthy Era in a fervent era of Cold War paranoia makes for a courageous production. (Rossen would find himself dragged before HUAC and questioned). It’s controversial nature also lies in its brutal honesty and cold realism, with a powerful and all-encompassing cynicism from which there is no redemption.

In the discussion of All The King’s Men, this review will not hold back from political discussion nor apologise for making political comment. Indeed, the nature of the film was to confront it’s audience with the dangers of populism, demagoguery, corruption, nepotism and how idealism can become stifled and destroyed by realpolitik. As a result, All The King’s Men cannot be discussed, in this reviewer’s opinion, without that political discourse, particularly in the current climate of not only U.S politics (on which the story draws from) but indeed politics around the world. Ultimately, All The King’s Men is a story of the rise and fall of Willie Stark and his character arc is a fascinating one. But Rossen was also making a comment on the very system which allowed for that rise to occur and what would follow in Stark’s wake.

Despite the obvious nods to the infamous Louisiana governor Huey Long, the fictional character of Willie Stark (Broderick Crawford) is a complex individual who initially appears as a possible hero. Initially, the audience discovers a man who wants to do good and make positive changes to his community, yet finds himself alone, stifled and bullied into submission and failure. His apparent decency may very well be part of his undoing but it is also his naivety of the political game that marks his early political failures. However, he is a very quick learner and after an attempt by the local party machine to use him, Stark gets wise and knows what he has to do to win.

The power of populism as a force to gain political power is employed by Willie Stark, driven by an instinctive understanding rather than the seasoned nuances of a politician. Stark understands whose support he needs – the average Joe, the ‘hicks’ – and he is smart enough to include himself as one of them. As Governor, he distances himself from the party machinations and usual political shylocking whilst involving himself in them with an all or nothing approach. Yet he is also open about the need for deal-making, if he can achieve his aims and objectives for the people of the state. The extremes that Willie Stark will go to are simply a means to an end; case in point, his impeachment which will see him tell his supporters that the impeachment is not an attack on him but an attack on them. In another instance, he tries to find ‘dirt’ on Judge Stanton (Raymond Greenleaf), the attorney-general who has resigned with disgust from Stark’s administration. The parallels to the current political climate need not be drawn out.

The tragedy is that Willie Stark was a man who sought to fight the good fight but sold out his principles and values for power and influence. Any semblance of good has been supplanted by the poison of cynicism and the harsh realities of the political game. Yet he has a loyal base of support and the voters believe in his program, despite his many sins, and appear totally accepting of the man who speaks their language. But the fact that the newspapers and radio have been manipulated also suggests the dangers of a monopolised media – and again, the relevance of this to today is clear. The newsreel which Stark and his inner circle watch which asks is he ‘messiah or dictator?’ highlights the polarisation of politics in Stark’s state and the problems that emerge from such a polarisation. There are some terrifying, prophetic images of Stark’s base marching with torches and backed by Stark’s own private force. Rossen’s commentary on the dangers of fascism are more than evident.

As William Brogdon pointed out in his 1949 review in Variety, ‘the politics practiced, in the story were not Long’s alone’. Interestingly enough, Columbia’s infamous boss Harry Cohn would become almost obsessed with the character of Willie Stark, seeing traits of the man within himself and perhaps recognising the modus operandi that he himself employed in his own studio. Like Stark, Cohn was a self-made man and also used punishment and reward as a means of executing his power and authority. To Cohn’s credit, he gave Rossen plenty of freedom and went with Rossen’s decisions, particularly with the key decision of casting Broderick Crawford as Willie Stark (Cohn had wanted Spencer Tracy, Rossen stuck to his guns).

Production-wise, Rossen crafts a film with a starkness, obviously inspired by the Italian Realists. The documentary-style shooting, however, is also crossed with elements of noir, as much in rich tones as cinematic technique. Particularly effective are the use of montage sequences to track his rise to power and the election process as he gets there. The audience watches a man with a strong solid compass slide into a man thirsty for power. Despite the monstrous things that Willie Stark does, as Governor he actually does some amazing things for his state; incredible infrastructure programs, better education and health opportunities and in all of his megalomania he never loses touch with the people. Nevertheless, Willie Stark uses his touch with the people to use and abuse his mandate, as well all the vestiges of democracy including the judiciary, the electoral system and his position as governor.

The question also arises if Willie Stark was ever the moral man and always a man wanting power just waiting to emerge. It’s a compelling argument aided and abetted by Rossen in subtle ways, as much as by the blunt realism of the camera work. The montage that truly highlights Willie Stark’s road to Emmaus moment is his fairground speech. Intercut with real townspeople (from around the North California state) and again shot in the documentary/newsreel style, it is the powerful turning point where Willie Stark the idealist and naïve political pawn becomes Willie Stark the political realist and head-kicker.

The story is told through Jack Burden (John Ireland), a reporter who will become very close to Stark and part of his inner circle. His idealism, too, will take a steep nose-dive and his bitter cynicism will eat away at him, as he also watches the girl he loves, Anne (Joanne Dru), become Willie’s mistress. Ireland is solid in his performance but perhaps the most telling character in the inner circle is Sadie (Mercedes McCambridge). Sadie is also cynical and hard, initially part of the scheme to use Willie but she falls for him and remains loyal, hoping against hope that Willie will leave his wife for her. But she cannot compete physically with the younger and more beautiful Anne. The hard and tough secretary looking in the mirror and lamenting the scars of childhood smallpox is a sad and difficult moment to watch. McCambridge is outstanding as Sadie and deserved the Best Supporting Actress Oscar for her efforts.

The film though belongs to Broderick Crawford and despite a magnificent cast, he carries the heavy weight of the film with drive and determination. It’s a heck of a character arc to build and deliver from social crusader to a monstrous political beast, particularly in a film that was highly controversial. Cohn and the studio wanted a big name to assure the film’s success and Crawford was a relatively unknown quantity. It’s perhaps his greatest performance, one that is genuine and authentic and Crawford would be rewarded with the Best Actor Oscar as a result.

The greatest irony of all is that Willie Stark becomes what he first claimed to detest, and the family he sought to look after and protect is abused and used for his political purposes. His son Tom (John Derek) pays a terrible price and though not explicitly portrayed, the sense of a son filled with admiration for his father collapsing into disgust and hatred, is certainly part of the overall tragedy. His wife Lucy (Anne Seymour) who has loved and supported him through the difficult times is cast aside and plays along with the façade. Her stoicism and love for her son shows a greater strength of character than initially supposed. Willie betrays those who have given their lives to him and ultimately betrays himself as well, as he gives himself over to drink, thirst for power and a fall for his own megalomania. In this sense, All The King’s Men is as much a Greek tragedy as it is a political drama. Stark is a fallen king intoxicated by his own hubris as much by the alcohol he consumes.

All The King’s Men would also win Best Picture and whilst Rossen missed out on Best Director, his vision was realised. Sadly, Rossen would face greater pain by being blacklisted and despite later success with The Hustler (1961), would fall ill and die in 1966.

The parameters of Willie Stark’s character perhaps do not seem so extreme in the modern era where a man like Donald Trump becomes the U.S President. But the film does make the dangerous point that the machinations of the political machine allows for the creation of such people and that corruption, nepotism and the opportunities for populists are endemic to the system not the people that it creates. Stark is a product of the system and learns that for him to benefit from it, he needs to work within it and even corrupt it further. As outlined earlier, this was a dangerous and highly incendiary commentary on American politics for the time, though also understandable against the backdrop of post-war cynicism.

William Brogdon’s 1949 Variety review stated ‘the chicanery of politics as have been practiced in the past… may crop up again’. Truer words were never spoken as we scan the political landscape of the last five years.

This article is an entry in the CMBA Politics On Film Blogathon for October 20 – 23. Thank you so much for the opportunity to take part. I encourage to visit the link (above) to read some interesting articles on Politics On Film.

Paul Batters teaches secondary school History in the Illawarra region and also lectures at the University Of Wollongong. In a previous life, he was involved in community radio and independent publications. Looking to a career in writing, Paul also has a passion for film history.

The Dark Underbelly Of Americana: ‘Kings Row’ (1942)

by Paul Batters

“I only know that you have to judge people by what you find them to be and not by what other people say they are” – Madame von Eln (Maria Ouspenskaya) 

Every small town has its’ secrets and stories and Hollywood has found no shortfall in material in telling those stories nor directors wishing to tell them. Usually, Hollywood had depicted small towns as idyllic places, where values and morals to be admired where prevalent and family life created a world of stability and normality. This is certainly true in the Andy Hardy series, the then popular Henry Aldrich series and films such as Meet Me In St Louis (1944) and Our Town (1940), which was incidentally directed by Sam Wood. Capra’s films certainly celebrate the small American town, untainted by the complexities of the big city, as well as ‘the people’ characterised as being the ‘salt of the earth’.

Kings Row (1942) stands tall as a tale of an American Midwestern town at the turn of the 20th century, with all the A Grade production values that were a staple at Warner Bros. Directed by Sam Wood (A Night At The Opera, Goodbye Mr Chips, Pride Of The Yankees), Kings Row is a powerful film, with outstanding performances from its’ principal players and a talented supporting cast. Whilst certainly not a forgotten film, Kings Row is often overshadowed by some of the other big releases from Warner Bros. around the same time such as Now Voyager (1942) and Casablanca (1943). It certainly deserves our attention, as it is one of Warner Bros. finest productions and despite the surface themes of romance, relationship, loss and tragedy, there are far deeper concerns that are addressed in the film. At its’ very core, Kings Row is a story that reveals the uglier and darker undercurrent of the American Midwestern town, tearing down the façade of respectability, polite society and propriety to reveal hypocrisy, perversion, familial dysfunction and corruption.  This essay does not aim to avoid spoilers but to discuss these issues and examine their purveyance in the film. (So readers be warned!)

From the opening scene, punctuated by Erich Wolfgang Korngold’s excellent score, perhaps one of the finest ever written for the silver screen, the focus is on the town. The audience’s focus is drawn to a sign which declares Kings Row is a ‘good town’, one which is a ‘good town to live in and a good place to raise your children’.  The camera moves across tree-lined streets and picket fences before being drawn to the characters. But the inference is quite clear, as Wheeler Winston Dixon points out, that the film intends to be ‘a stinging indictment of American society…and a dystopian vision of the dark underside of Midwestern small- town life’.  

As the audience is going to discover, to go against the small-minded and morally suffocating rules and expectations of society means a heavy price must be paid.

The story has a two-fold focus in terms of the protagonists; specifically the close friendship of Parris (Robert Cummings) and Drake (Ronald Reagan), though it is Parris  with whom the audience connects with first and foremost.  Parris and Drake share a friendship since they were children and though different in demeanour, they are similar in their strength if character.

Parris is a young and gifted student being raised by his grandmother Madame von Eln (Maria Ouspenskaya) whose values and beliefs she has bestowed upon Parris, as well as her love and kind nature. Unbeknownst to Parris, his grandmother falls ill with cancer but she covers it up, not wanting to cause worry for her grandson. Parris, too, is a kind, thoughtful and passionate young man who begins studying medicine with the brilliant yet reclusive Dr. Alexander Tower (Claude Rains). His childhood friendship with the doctor’s daughter Cassie (Betty Field) will eventually develop into love and they pursue their passions despite the doctor’s warnings and Cassie’s growing anxiety. The two will consummate their love, although naturally this is only suggested in the film but the results will have dire consequences for Cassie.

However, these ‘star-crossed lovers’ are doomed to a greater tragedy than Parris’ initial concerns for Cassie could anticipate. Cassie fears that she is going mad, as her mother did, and it appears that her insanity is not entirely an unfounded fear. As the audience discovers later in the film, Dr. Tower also suspects that Cassie has gone mad.  What follows is a shocking turn in the tale (which incredibly survived the Breen Office), is the murder-suicide that occurs in the Tower household. Cassie is killed and Dr Tower then turns his murderous hand on himself.

Parris is horrified and wracked with guilt that he earlier dismissed Cassie when she declared her fears to him. He also discovers that the authorities want to speak to him but before he races to the Tower house, Drake stops him and goes instead, claiming he had been seeing Cassie. Drake sacrifices his own reputation in the presence of Dr. Gordon (Charles Coburn) the father of Louise (Nancy Coleman) the girl he has been ‘seen’ with. Yet his faux declaration turns out to be unnecessary as Parris discovers that he is the recipient of something he never expected. Nevertheless, it adds further condemnation of Drake’s moral character (or lack thereof) in the eyes of Dr. Gordon.

Parris will face greater challenges, with the death of his grandmother who, along with the tragedy of the Towers, spurs him to leave the town and seek something greater. Yet Drake also senses that Parris needs to leave and, sharing the deeper sentiments of Dr Tower, does not want to see his friend stay in Kings Row to become a mediocrity, with his potential drowned by the town’s darkness. Parris does leave for Vienna where he will pursue his career in medicine but specifically the new field of psychology.

Drake, will remain in the town and face his own challenges, not the least of losing his family fortune to an unscrupulous banker. Yet it does result in finding something stable and lasting in Randy (Ann Sheridan). The no-nonsense and tough Irish girl comes from the other side of the tracks and her hard-working family accepts Drake without judgment, indicating that the ‘poorer’ part of town has rejected the hypocrisy and double standards of ‘respected society’. 

Kings Row spans a period of approximately 20 years, from the childhood of the principal characters into their adulthood. Of course, the tale being told is not only that of the people in the town but of the town itself. The divisions that exist in Kings Row are marked not only in the town’s psyche and fabric but by the very physical differences, classically signified by the train tracks. Drake’s ultimate slide from society is marked not only by his financial fall but also primarily by his moving over the train tracks to be with Randy. Ironically, his ‘punishment’ for doing so, is the horrific accident (and unnecessary operation that follows), which will give Ronald Regan his most famous scene in film history and a heck of a line of dialogue.

When Parris does return home, the expectation from the town is that he will set up a practice in Kings Row but Parris is not so sure. However, he will discover something that may keep him there and may give him the peace and stability that has eluded him.

His reunion with Drake is bittersweet and the love that they share is certainly undiminished by time apart. Yet Drake’s problems runs deeper than his physical trauma and Randy is hopeful that Parris’ return may help. The momentous climax is powerful and emotional, not only placing the cherry on top of Reagan’s performance but also reaching a finality for the key characters in conquering their own obstacles and defeating the very forces of the town, which had sought to crush their individuality.

Stylistically, Kings Row is a dark melodrama, with Gothic undertones and is beautifully shot by legendary cameraman James Wong Howe, whose perceptive eye finds the inner emotions of the characters, as well as the nature of the town. The wide-eyed panic in Cassie is disturbing and her anxiety and terror reflects an undertow of repression in the town. Terrified of her own thought processes, Cassie tries to reject Parris but her love for him initially prevails only to be de-railed by her own dread and the final act of horror that will befall her. The camera focuses on her face, illuminated in the moonlight like a phantom and the accompanying score not only enhances the tragedy of Cassie’s mental state but also foreshadows the final moment of madness to come. Later, Louise will also face mental illness and instability, also impacted on by a cruel and domineering father. Again, the repressive climate of the town, which discourages individuality and demands subservience to what is considered ‘decent society’, has meant terrible repercussions.  Insanity is a long-running convention of the Gothic genre and in Kings Row it seems to be way too prevalent. But more pointedly, the town of King’s Row seems almost totalitarian in its’ societal laws and expectations. Patriarchy may be the most obvious reason for the power system in place but men also fall prey to the claustrophobia of the town’s façade of propriety; Drake pays a heavy price for his individuality and refusal to bow to the town’s societal norms and Dr Tower faces isolation (even if partially self-inflicted).  Parris will declare Dr Tower as a brilliant man whose intelligence and forward thinking is wasted in King’s Row. What compels him to remain in a hick town with such narrow-minded and stifling repression? It takes great strength of character and true principles set into foundations of integrity to withstand the onslaught.

Certainly the town of Kings Row understands the art of the cover-up – so much so that even the ‘best’ that the town has to offer, i.e. Parris, has learned how to do it. Parris is more than happy to commit Drake’s former flame Louise to a mental asylum, to protect Drake from Louise revealing the truth behind her now-dead father’s operation on Drake. Parris would know full well the horrors of such a committal yet he is initially happy to humour Louise into a false sense that he will help her. In truth, this is not the act of a honourable doctor and our high opinion of Parris is rattled. But it fits perfectly with the very atmosphere of the town. To protect Parris from scandal when Cassie is murdered, Drake is happy to lie that he was seeing Cassie and ruin his own reputation, which he claims is ruined anyway.

Perhaps the darkest element of the story deals with the secondary characters and the plot device upon which the film will turn and provide Drake’s character arc. The sadistic Dr. Gordon is later revealed to a self-appointed judge and jury within the town, abusing his position as a doctor and committing unspeakable and abominable operations upon those he considers due punishment for their transgressions. The fact that the good doctor is never questioned suggests the nature of the town protecting him and his activities – and it seems that his practice as a doctor is not exactly unseen by others. Parris, when discovering his grandmother is unwell and being treated by Dr Gordon, questions his mentor Dr Tower about Gordon’s reputation, professionalism and practice. The tone in which Parris asks his questions and the nature by which Dr Tower answers certainly suggests that rumours exist and Dr Gordon is whispered about. But Gordon’s abuse is not merely the act of a wayward or ‘mad’ doctor; it becomes the allegory for the abuse of power and authority by those who have it. Gordon is not only a doctor but in some sense a ‘respected’ leader within the town and its’ high society. His wife will certainly not question him and when his daughter threatens to expose him, he suggests how he will deal with her and seems more than ready to commit her.  The power of patriarchy is more than evident. 

As a result, Drake’s ability to disempower what Dr Gordon has done to him, with help from Parris and Randy, is a great victory over this long-established patriarchy and becomes a moment of courage as Drake takes ownership of his liberation, breaking the imprisonment of his condition.

It is actually quite a feat that Kings Row was made from Henry Bellamann’s 1940 novel in the first place. Upon its’ release, the novel was a massive success, with studios engaging in an intense battle for filming rights. However, turning Bellamann’s novel into a film that would meet the requirements of the Production Code would be extremely difficult. Not only does the murder-suicide occur but also the original motive behind it is far more sinister and darker than what anticipates the heinous act in the film. As critic Tim Dirks points out, ‘Cassie was afflicted with nymphomania, not insanity. Dr. Tower’s diary revealed that the warped doctor had eliminated his wife and then committed incest with his daughter in order to study its psychological effects. He then killed Cassie when she threatened to leave him and go to Parris’. Parris and Cassie are certainly in love and there are allusions that the two are consummating their love. In the film, Dr. Tower’s motives are designed as almost valorous and noble. Parris interprets the doctor’s act as an attempt to ‘save’ Parris from the same fate as Dr. Tower – marrying an unbalanced woman and finding himself locked for life in a small town with small-minded people. Indeed, Parris even calls Dr. Tower a ‘brilliant man’ for his foresight, as well as his genius as a doctor. Murder-suicide is a heinous act and not one of brilliance or courage, yet there is a twisted logic in Kings Row, which has even reached Parris.

Arguably, these considerations may not necessarily condemn Parris as a character and the difficulties and complexities of situations that we all encounter in life may have to deal with choosing the lesser of two evils. Nevertheless, it may appear that in Kings Row, such choices become very apparent and if the audience looks carefully, a darker and more sinister reality exists behind the picket fences and claims of being ‘ a good town’.

 Kings Row is a superb film which allows the audience to become consumed in the drama and absorbed by the depth of its’ characters. The quality of production typifies Warner Bros and Hal Wallis, then Head Of Production at Warners, knew how to build a picture and shape it to its’ finest results. The pedigree of Sam Wood as director is well known although by all reports he was less concerned with the visual impact of the film (still beautiful by James Wong Howe’s impeccable standards) and more so with the building of the key characters, particularly Parris.

There is a great courage in the production of this film, as already discussed and the more explicit themes and concerns of the novel are still present in the subtle and nuanced development of the story. Ultimately, Kings Row is far more than a melodrama but a revelation of the darkness of some places, where facades of propriety, community and ‘goodness’ are stripped down to reveal hypocrisy and abuse of power. On a larger scale, Kings Row becomes an allegory for the sinister corruption and hypocrisy that may not only exists in our own towns and cities but within our society as a whole. As an audience we learn that there is a price to pay if we care to challenge it, ignore it or even escape it; and we may well ask if that price is worth paying if it means our integrity and sense of self remains intact.

Paul Batters teaches secondary school History in the Illawarra region and also lectures at the University Of Wollongong. In a previous life, he was involved in community radio and independent publications. Looking to a career in writing, Paul also has a passion for film history.

Death As Redemption in Film Noir

by Paul Batters

If there is one aspect of the noir universe which is a norm, it is the presence of violence and death. The dark streets are not only literal but metaphorical realities, where all manner of individuals become drawn into, seduced and even captured by the shadows of their own pathology. Anyone who has watched a noir film knows that there is a stark, cold fatalism with little empathy for those who test it. Everyone pays for their sins and indeed they may do so with interest. Like the loan shark who has their mark on a hook, the individual continues to pay and escape seems impossible.

There is another harsh reality that the only form of escape is ‘the big sleep’ – death. It is an inevitability that haunts all in the film noir universe and one that they are desperate to escape, despite this fatalist understanding. Having written on the nature of fatalism and futility in film noir before (see link here), this article will try to avoid these themes were possible and focus on the concept of death in film noir as also being a form of redemption – an understanding that sins must be paid for.

At the ultimate moment, it is arguable whether we seek redemption for past sins. There are enough stories of ‘death-bed confessions’ to fill a multitude of stadiums – and whilst on the face of it, such confessions seemed cliched, the truth is that such confessions are made during the last gasps of someone’s life. At the other end of the scale, even the most reticent to admit fault and seek forgiveness (at least in film noir) WILL pay the ultimate price.

Death as redemption in film noir is accepted at different stages in the arc of a character. Perhaps one of the most celebrated examples of this, is in a film noir classic and a template for its’ tropes, Billy Wilder’s Double Indemnity. Fatalism is evident at the start of the film, where a badly wounded Walter Neff (Fred MacMurray) goes into the insurance office he works at, to spill his guts on the Dictaphone of his boss and close friend, Barton Keyes (Edward G. Robinson). His opening lines are clearly the beginning of a confession; a mea culpa which will drive the story right to the very end. Neff doesn’t look for excuses nor does he try to explain away his sins by blaming others. Walter’s sins are his own and he takes full responsibility for them. True, in the dying moments of the film after being discovered by Keyes, Walter asks his friend to turn his back as he makes his getaway. But the truth is that it’s a half-hearted appeal for mercy, like a man on the scaffold hoping against hope for a pardon. As Walter collapses at the doorway, Keyes stays with him. Smoking a cigarette (and a beautiful touch with Wilder reversing the motif of Keyes never having a match), Walter waits for justice and redemption to arrive.

The ending is slightly ambiguous in terms of the nature of that justice. The audience never learns Walter’s fate – does he bleed to death in the doorway? Or is he taken to hospital only to recover and be executed for murder? In a now famous image amongst classic cinema fans, Walter Neff stands grim-faced in the gas chamber as Keyes looks on outside. But the scene was cut and the audience is left with a far-better ending. Walter seems to accept his fate and the acknowledgement that he needs to pay for what he has done.

Out Of The Past (1948), one of the finest examples of film noir, employs a similar approach to death as redemption. Jeff (Robert Mitchum) is a private detective who has been hired by bad guy Whit (Kirk Douglas) to find his girlfriend Kathie (Jane Greer). But whilst Jeff initially believes he has found happiness with Kathie, he discovers the truth too late and that Kathie is a classic femme fatale, who has duped both Jeff and her former lover. In the end, there is a chance for escape but Jeff takes a different option. Rather than running off with Kathie and her former lover’s money, he instead betrays her to the police. Despite her threat that she will throw him under the bus as well, Jeff still betrays Kathie, who fatally wounds him with a bullet. It is Jeff’s moment of redemption; he has ‘done the right thing’ in the face of so many wrongs and paid the ultimate price. Kathie will now face justice but the irony of course is that he has been redeemed through her murderous act of revenge. As Mark Conard points out, Jeff has made a ‘presumably redemptive sacrifice’.

But for Jeff it is also the end of great misery and unhappiness. Tortured by his choices, death has now removed all his pain and misery as well. In The Killers (1946), the Swede (Burt Lancaster) is a former boxer whose story is one which sees bad decisions made to impress a woman. His involvement in a bank robbery, even after a stint in prison, further exemplifies how far he slides into the darkness. All he finds is incredible misery and the woman he loves, Kitty (Ava Gardner) has used and duped him as well. When death finally comes to him in the form of the killers, the Swede accepts his fate and indeed even welcomes it. There is a relief in death, as an escape from the pain he has endured.  However, though he does not seek redemption per se, he doeshave regrets and acknowledges that he must accept the consequences for his choices. Whilst it may not be a question of a strict code of right and wrong, the Swede “got in wrong” and strayed from who he was. His death will now right that wrong, and again he will make payment for his crimes.

Tay Garnett’s The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946) is an excellent example of the protagonist finding redemption, and incidentally relief, through his own execution. Frank Chambers (John Garfield) is a man haunted by the murder he has committed for Cora (Lana Turner), the woman he loves. Their passionate relationship is one which is punctuated by betrayal, mistrust and sexual desire, and they are both riddled with moral corruption. Both will also pay for their sins – Cora through a car accident whilst Frank is driving and Frank as he sits on death row awaiting execution. Ironically, he is tried and convicted for Cora’s death and whilst initially protesting his innocence, Frank accepts that he has to pay for the murder he did commit. But of course, redemption runs deeper in the world of film noir. Frank believes that both he and Cora are paying for her husband’s murder and his acceptance of this acts as his redemption as well. Even more so, Frank is also devastated that Cora died not knowing how much Frank loved her and he prays that somehow her spirit will know this. In the end, Frank and Cora both pay and Frank’s final prayer is that by accepting his fate, redemption will mean that they are together in the next life.

In Anthony Mann’s Raw Deal (1948), Joe Sullivan (Dennis O’Keefe) escapes from prison with the help of his girlfriend Pat (Claire Trevor) but facing the complication of a dangerous mobster Rick (Raymond Burr) who wants Joe dead. In the finale, Rick and Joe, both wounded in a gunfight, with Rick thrown to his death. However, Joe also dies in the street with an acceptance of his fate and Pat noting that “This is right for Joe. This is what he wanted.”In essence, Joe’s dying face is not one contorted by fear, pain or panic but one filled with contentment. In some way he has found redemption, through the understanding that he needs to pay for his sins and that his death makes things right.

Of course, the deep-rooted cynicism of film noir would suggest that redemption is never available. The hard and bleak reality is that attempts at happiness (or perceived happiness) through crime are futile and hopeless. Yet an extension of that hopelessness and futility is a final desire for redemption and the desperate need for it. It also needs to be remembered that those caught up in the dark shadows are not necessarily professional criminals, gangsters and cops/private detectives (who are used to walking tough streets) but ordinary people who are drawn into the depths. In Sorry, Wrong Number (1948), Henry Stevenson (Burt Lancaster) is drawn into a world of crime because of his deep-rooted dissatisfaction in both his personal and professional life. At the very last second, he desperately realises what he has done but its’ too late to turn things around.

Ultimately, everyone pays a price. Femme fatales rarely walk away and even the innocent are wrongly accused or face prison or death. Yet death brings a finality which cannot be reversed. As a result, it brings a new dimension whilst drawing on tropes as old as religion – that redemption is possible, if the price is paid. In the world of film noir, that is the ultimate price.

Paul Batters teaches secondary school History in the Illawarra region and also lectures at the University Of Wollongong. In a previous life, he was involved in community radio and independent publications. Looking to a career in writing, Paul also has a passion for film history.

 

This Gun For Hire (1942): The Film Which Won Alan Ladd His Stardom

by Paul Batters

Gates: “You must have a girl or…friend?” 

Raven: “Why?”

Gates: “Live alone, work alone, hey?”

Hollywood will often cater film around its’ stars – after all, it’s a business wanting to make profits and a sure-fire way of doing so is give audiences what they want. The studio system drove but was also sustained by the system of stars that audiences clambered to see on the silver screen. Hollywood has also faced the criticism of being conservative (and perhaps even more so today!) where films that were safe, focusing on star personas rather than taking risks, were suffered by stars who hated being pigeon-holed. There are many stories of actors such as Humphrey Bogart and actresses like Bette Davis who either felt stifled or even fought the system for better roles.

But there is something else that excites audiences and that is the emergence of a new star, especially when that emergence was unexpected. Alan Ladd was such a star and the war era film noir classic This Gun For Hire (1942) was the film.

The title of the film itself speaks volumes in terms of the usual tropes to be found in film noir. And if it reflected any of the characters in the film, it without a doubt is both the calling card and epitaph for Phillip Raven (Alan Ladd), a professional hitman who is double-crossed by his employer Willard Gates (the brilliant Laird Cregar). After Gates pays Raven in marked bills, the crooked businessman claims the money as stolen and police detective Michael Crane (Robert Preston) is put on the case. Crane’s beautiful girlfriend Ellen Graham (Veronica Lake) is a nightclub performer, who ends up working for Gates in one of his L.A clubs but will discover more than she bargained for.

As in all things noir, the film develops into a tale driven by fear, mistrust, misunderstanding and the paranoia which was all pervading in the climate of World War Two. Raven not only becomes a man on the run from the law but a man with nowhere to go. His past is one of pain and personal anguish, enduring betrayal and hardening to its’ impacts. Raven is a man seemingly not given to warmth or sentimentality, yet his interactions with a stray cat, which he feels an affinity with, suggests something more. Like a cat, Raven is a loner, not relying on anyone to survive and walking in the shadows. Forever the loner, Raven is not the society type.

His moments with Ellen are ones where he almost sheds his armour, suggesting a man who is not completely far gone. True, some of the pop psychology a la Freud bleed into the development of Raven’s character – the poor abused boy who is a victim of circumstance at every turn – and there is the danger of cliché. Yet somehow it works, and Ladd has us believing his personal narrative. In essence, Ladd is portraying one of the first anti-heroes, and is a trailblazer for the next generation of actors who would make their name playing the anti-hero. In many ways, it would also be a problem for a Hollywood firmly under the auspices of the Code.

Phillip Raven is also a man who is immersed completely in his dark world as a killer and has no qualms about pulling the trigger. His gun is the only thing that he trusts, and he has found this out the hard way. In this case, the betrayal of his employer will catapult him into a more dangerous world, where espionage will test his mettle. But the audience is under no false pretences of the nature of Phillip Raven. In essence, he is a terrible individual who has killed innocent people as well as those who perhaps ‘deserve’ their fate. Ladd’s portrayal is cold and brutal when we see him carry out his first hit. His eyes are piercing, betraying at hint of triumph just before he dispatches his victim. The cold professional is even more marked when the victim’s mistress enters the room and with a chilling monotone, Raven says “They said he’d be alone”,before he shoots the woman through a door she has found refuge behind.  Even Ellen, the woman with whom he has formed some connection, is only saved from being killed by a timely turning point in the story.

Both Raven and Ellen are drawn together through the element of fate, a powerful trope in film noir, by their association with Gates – Raven as a hired killer for the man, Ellen hired as a singer in one of his clubs. Both are thrown into circumstances neither have asked for and yet their fates are intertwined. He becomes her rescuer and then her captor during the film’s later desperate moments. Yet Ellen still tries to help him, moved by his personal revelations as well as hoping to appeal to something deeper within him.

Ladd carries the weight of the film from a lower-billed position, way above his tournament ranking. The cliché that he ‘steals the picture’ rings true, with a performance finely tuned into the lone killer, driven by personal fears and mistrust. Despite the knowledge that Raven is a professional killer, the audience is hoping for his eventual escape from his predicament. Indeed, despite Raven being a killer, he is not an anomaly in the world of film noir. He may be an outlaw on the run, but he is betrayed by a so-called respectable businessman and drawn into a world of corruption, espionage and blackmail.

And despite everything – all the toughness, cold-heartedness and gunplay, Raven shows that he cares for Ellen.

The chemistry between Ladd and the gorgeous Veronica Lake works wonders on the screen. Lake is more than a one-trick pony and this reviewer has seen some unkind remarks about her ability as an actress. She proves those critics wrong, playing the singer with a loving and sympathetic heart, and looking gorgeous all the while. It’s no mistake that the two would be paired again in other film noir classics.

The storyline for This Gun For Hire is slightly preposterous and the coincidences hard to swallow. Yet the audience is content to put that aside, thanks to Ladd and his interactions with Veronica Lake. Director Frank Tuttle does keep the film tight and well-paced, as well as beautifully shot. Robert Preston is solid, as are the supporting cast, although Marc Lawrence as Tommy is perhaps underused.

However, Ladd deserves all the attention he received for his performance. It would be ground-breaking for the young actor and the critics raved about the emergence of this new star. His partnering with Veronica Lake would become the basis for some other great films and one of the hallmark partnerships in the pantheon of film noir. This Gun For Hire will keep you riveted till the very end, thanks to the iconic performance delivered by Alan Ladd.

Paul Batters teaches secondary school History in the Illawarra region and also lectures at the University Of Wollongong. In a previous life, he was involved in community radio and independent publications. Looking to a career in writing, Paul also has a passion for film history. 

Scarlet Street (1945): Joan Bennett – The Dangerous Femme Fatale

by Paul Batters

How can a man be so dumb… I’ve been waiting to laugh in your face ever since I met you. You’re old and ugly and I’m sick of you…sick, sick, sick! Kitty March (Joan Bennett)

Film noir has always fascinated me. It’s grip on my imagination and my love for classic film has become intertwined, for a whole combination of reasons. Perhaps one of the most fascinating themes that emerges in film noir is how ordinary, everyday and even boring people are drawn into the web of a darker and more dangerous world. It’s why Fritz Lang’s Scarlet Street (1945) is one of film noir’s best examinations of that very theme. And why it is also one of Joan Bennett’s exciting roles as the femme fatale, Kitty March, which this article will specifically focus on.

The master director had used the three principal actors – Bennett Edward G. Robinson and Dan Duryea – the previous year in the superb The Woman In The Window. Such was its’ success and so effective was the combination of the three that Lang brought them back for his screen adaption of Georges de La Fouchardière’s 1931 novel, La Chienne (The Bitch). What Lang created was a film noir masterpiece, with a delving into darkness that leaves the audience breathless in its’ audacity, despite the Breen Code firmly in place. Jeffrey Anderson has claimed that Scarlet Street is perhaps the darkest of Lang’s American films – and he’s probably right.

The story tells of a quiet, meek and placid cashier, Christopher Cross (Edward G. Robinson) who is also henpecked and bullied by his domineering and difficult wife Adele (Rosalind Ivan). Caught in a loveless marriage and an uneventful life, Christopher dreams of a life where there is some affection, love and excitement to break the dull life that he leads. One of the few escapes and joys that he has is art, particularly painting. 

Fate steps in one afternoon, when he comes across Kitty March (Joan Bennett) being menaced by a hood on the street. Assisting her during this altercation, Christopher then offers to take her home, first stopping somewhere for tea, where he reveals to Kitty his love of painting. Kitty mistakes him for an art dealer of sorts but there is also more than meets the eye to Kitty. Whilst the Code strangles out what she actually is, there is enough left to insinuate that Kitty is a prostitute and the man who had earlier assaulted is her pimp/boyfriend Johnny (Dan Dureya). The two come up with a plan for Kitty to fake romantic feelings for the hapless Christopher, as well as offer her place for him to paint there in peace.

It doesn’t take long for Christopher to fall in love with Kitty, who leads him along, as they sell his art. But Christopher is also drawn into crime, stealing from his employer as well as his wife. Christopher, drawn in by Kitty’s play, drifts further and further into her plans; even happy enough for her to take credit for his art and not seeing a penny for his troubles.

But further complications will arise, and Christopher will try to save his relationship with Kitty by asking her to marry him. What follows is one of the most shocking scenes in classic film and still shocks by its’ raw violence, savagery and sheer audacity. And this writer will not divulge anything further.

Kitty March is an interesting femme fatale and one which Lang examines brilliantly through a seasoned performance from Joan Bennett. As already mentioned, there are strong insinuations that she is a prostitute. Yet there is far more going on. Like any relationship based on exploitation and dominance, it becomes hard for the audience to understand what hold Johnny has on Kitty. Interestingly enough, Johnny comes across almost as ineffectual as Christopher and there is nothing physical, ‘manly’ (for want of a better term) or particularly roguish about him. Yet Kitty loves him despite it being a one-sided love, where Johnny’s only interest is to exploit her. She accepts this willingly and takes part in the exploitation of Christopher, where she employs her skills as an ‘actress’ to lead him down the garden path. As Johnny exploits Kitty through her love for him, so too does Kitty exploit Christopher via his weakness for her. Indeed, her own sexuality seems to find expression, only through the language of exploitation, degradation and masochism.

Bennett is outstanding as the cold-hearted femme fatale and she proves to be just so, as the audience will eventually discover. She weaves through the complexity of being the manipulated and the manipulator, being preyed upon by Johnny whilst preying on poor Christopher’s inadequacy. Her brassy and vulgar ‘writing off’ of the pathetic and hapless man she has been duping, is cruel beyond description. And nothing could be more pathetic than the look on Bennett’s face and the Queen of Sheba posturing as Christopher kneels at her feet doing her toes.

Of course, what Bennett also brings to the role is a duplicity in which she cons others but is also conned herself. The femme fatale constantly ducks, dives and dodges what fate is ready to give her, as punishment for Kitty’s many and varied sins. Christopher is only one of many men that she has used and exploited, and as the audience discovers, sex is not the only thing she will exploit. But again, there is more to Bennett as the femme fatale and reviewer Wess Haubrich is correct in his assumption that Kitty does not want to be here where she is. She is the classic femme fatale, in that she is looking for a way out but knows no other way. Kitty is also a damaged woman, with dashed dreams and a bleak future. But therein lies the cruel reality of the world of film noir, as Christopher, too, has dashed dreams and tries to rekindle them late in life. Perhaps Kitty understands Christopher better than she realises, with both seeing years pass and their dreams not only unrealised but shattered and lives unfulfilled.

Lang as director exploits his skills as well, with the depth, brilliance and intuition of a man who helped develop the artist’s palette in the first place. The master of Expressionism finds meaning in the subtleties as well, such as the use of mirrors (particularly around the bed) to highlight Kitty’s duplicity and the sordidness of what happens in her bed. The cigar smoke rising around Christopher’s head at the start of the film certainly suggests the start of a descent into the hell defined by Dante. And of course, there is the great irony that there is acting within acting, where the audience is also allowing itself to be manipulated.

It’s easy to compare Joan Bennett’s performance as Kitty with the previous year’s performance alongside E.G Robinson in The Woman In The Window. But that’s missing the point. The nuances of Bennett as the dangerous woman that Christopher falls for remove Kitty from being cliched. She’s dangerous yet vulnerable, cruel yet kind to the man who treats her bad and loving only to a man who doesn’t love her.

Scarlet Street is not only a superb example of a taut film noir masterpiece from Fritz Lang; it’s also a solid performance from Joan Bennett.

The film is available through Public Domain and can be seen via the link below to the Silver Screen Classics You Tube Channel.

Paul Batters teaches secondary school History in the Illawarra region and also lectures at the University Of Wollongong. In a previous life, he was involved in community radio and independent publications. Looking to a career in writing, Paul also has a passion for film history. 

Sorry, Wrong Number (1948): The Best Of Barbara Stanwyck

by Paul Batters

‘I want you to do something. I want you to get yourself out of the bed, and get over to the window and scream as loud as you can. Otherwise you only have another three minutes to live!’ Henry Stevenson (Burt Lancaster) 

Of the many great actresses from the Golden Years Of Hollywood, few could boast the career of Barbara Stanwyck. An actress with incredible range, screen presence and charisma, Barbara showed talent, which emerged during the Pre-Code Era. She would appear and make her mark in drama, comedy, the western – and of course, film noir.

With the opportunity to write for the this blogathon, it seemed fitting that I write about the first film I saw Barbara in, which left an indelible mark on me and started my interest in film noir – Sorry, Wrong Number (1948). I have written about this film in a previous article on the themes of Fatalism and Futility in Film Noir.

Film noir would first make its’ powerful mark on cinema emerging in the early days of World War Two, drawing on the pulp fiction tales of private detectives, mean streets and dangerous women. But the post-war period saw a shift in the direction that film noir took, examining a greater variety of themes and reflecting the changes that emerged in American society brought on in part by the Cold War and communist phobia, as well as a growing sophistication in the expectations of cinema audiences. What became interesting was the incorporation of psychological themes and concerns, which gave greater depth and meaning. These shifts were certainly reflected in Sorry, Wrong Number.

 

Directed by Anatole Litvak, Sorry, Wrong Number was one of three films which Barbara had signed on to complete for producer Hal Wallis. is a story told in real time with copious use of flashbacks. Wallis had been impressed by the original radio play script and hired the original writer, Lucille Fletcher to adapt it for the screen. This meant additional characters had to be created and the use of flashbacks to enhance and flesh out the story was necessitated. The use of flashbacks (along with narration), as pointed out by Frank Krutnik, had become a commonplace technique in film noir but would be employed in a far more complex fashion by Litvak.

The story tells of Leona Stevenson (Barbara Stanwyck), the spoiled heiress to the fortune and pharmaceutical empire of her father James Cotterell (Ed Begley). As the camera moves through a large, empty and lonely house, the audience discovers that she is bedridden and unable to move from her bed. Her husband Henry (Burt Lancaster) is away on a business trip and all she has to connect her with the outside world is the telephone. As she makes a phone-call, she overhears a crossed line with two men detailing a plan to murder a woman that very night. What will follow is a descent into a night of revelation and terror, which unfolds as Leona becomes more desperate with every phone call.

The use of the telephone as a carriage service to tell the story instead of a narrator is a clever if sometimes confusing device used by Litvak. Yet it is effective in discovering the characters and in particular, Leona. Her powerful sense of entitlement has seen her get whatever she wants, including her husband Henry, whom she has enticed from a friend Sally Hunt (Ann Richards) after the two meet at a dance. Stephen Farber makes the excellent point that when Leona makes the vow “I, Leona, take thee Henry…”, it is a declaration of brutal possession rather than one of love. Leona is sexually aggressive but she uses it as a form of managing a business transaction and the link with materialism is quite clear. The montage following their marriage shows them happy as they travel the world and enjoy their honeymoon but there are hints of what is to come and an overshadowing of the disintegration of their marriage.

At Leona’s core, which she declares to Sally, is the desire to get whatever she wants and the will to use whatever she can to get it. In the case of Henry, she uses money to draw Henry in. What is fascinating is Leona’s ability to read Henry and his desire to not only escape the dull, dreary working-class life he has in his hometown but to find success, wealth and power. Greed is Henry’s weakness and Leona as predator can pick this a mile away, although that same greed will be both their undoing.

But Leona’s confidence, arrogance and seeming unbridled power are shaken by the underpinning of a serious psychological problem. Whenever that power is challenged, her response is to become violently ill to the point that she becomes incapacitated. Despite Henry’s folding to the demands of his wife, and by extension his father-in-law for whom he now works, he wants more and plans to stand on his own two feet. He tries to find work with another company but this is stymied both by his father-in-law’s power and Leona’s reactions. Later, he tries to buy an apartment for the two of them and move out of her father’s house. However, the almost Oedipal fixation on staying with her father frustrates and confuses Henry to the point of anger and defiance. Leona’s struggle with his rebellion results in a collapse, which finally sees her bed-ridden with the serious heart condition that she will later discover is purely psychosomatic.

Leona is a tough character. Yet the confidence and toughness that she seems to exude tends to crumble when her dominance is truly challenged. Leona dominates Henry, who seems to be a willing victim as the trappings of wealth and privilege are to good to abandon. When Leona first shows symptoms of illness, Henry is chastised by his father-in-law in an emasculating fashion but even Henry admits that he can’t go back to his former life. Leona is ruthless in her dominance but Henry wants to be dominant as well and he enjoys the power and position he has, admitting this openly to Leona when they clash over the apartment he wants to purchase. Both Leona and Henry represent a fascinating aspect of American society in the post-war period which film noir commented on – the frustrations of a society that won the war and was heading into economic boom yet it didn’t seem to be enough. As suburbs grew and the inner cities decayed and were neglected, there still seemed to be something missing. Like Leona and Henry, paranoia and the frustrations of greed respectively are key concerns in the film.

 

Which leads the audience to connect with Henry and our sympathies lie with his desire to break Leona’s mistreatment of him. Indeed, he pleads with Leona that he could still love her if only she would be reasonable with him. But it is to no avail. Henry feels trapped and his greed sets him on a dangerous path where he will start stealing drugs from his father-in-law’s company and corrupt a meek chemist to assist him in his criminal endeavours. Whilst the code placed limits on the nature of Henry’s crime venture, it is obvious that he is dabbling in drugs and working with serious gangsters. His greed will not only place against his wife but ultimately against the gangsters Henry was working with, which will lead him to a terrible decision that he is forced to make.

 

All this will come to a head, as the fatal phone call is pieced together by Leona with each phone call and each revelation. The audience witnesses Leona’s arrogance deteriorates into terror, as Leona disintegrates into an emotional mess, crippled by her own psychological dysfunction. Such is the force of Barbara’s talent that the audience spends the bulk of the film waiting for Leona’s come-uppance only to feel sympathy for her. Not many actresses can turn an audience in such a way and the tension is palpable as we wait to see if Leona will survive the terror she is facing.

Hal Wallis had always been an astute producer who had been at the helm of production at Warners for some of their most prestigious films. He also had a keen eye for talent and when producing his own films after his time at Warners, Wallis would help start off the careers of actors such as Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas. Incidentally both would flourish when working with Barbara whose professionalism and patience was beyond measure.

For the role of Leona Cotrell, the likes of Claudette Colbert and even Jennifer Jones were considered. However, Wallis knew that Barbara was ideal for the role, allowing for an actress of great calibre to work through the full gamut of emotion. Barbara also saw the possibilities of the role and according to her biographer, Axel Madsen, was even more pleased when Litvak gave both her and Lancaster all the scope and space they needed to build and develop their characters. According to biographer, Gary Fishgall, Lancaster had pushed hard for the role of Henry, as he was interested in the concept of the ‘moral weakling’ corrupted by his wife’s wealth, as well as his own greed. Like Barbara, Lancaster was excited by the prospect of having freedom to develop the character through his own interpretation via the scope that Litvak allowed. Both were able to look for the darker impulses and natures of their respective characters.

Yet with respect to Lancaster, Barbara had a greater challenge with Leona – having to traverse an extreme emotional spectrum in terms of her character arc. Not only was Leona in bed for much of the film but, as biographer Axel Madsen explains, Barbara had 12 days scheduled to complete the bedroom scenes. Barbara herself felt she needed to delve right into the emotional height of the character and was able to sustain it until Friday when shooting took a weekend break. She says that she found it difficult to pick up Leona’s desperate tension on the Monday yet I challenge anyone to see where there is any break in concentration.

Litvak would further emphasise Leona’s bed-ridden isolation through the use of a circling camera and expressionistic techniques to heighten the tension and Leona’s growing and eventual emotional disintegration. Some critics, including the acerbic Bosley Crowther were not overly fond of the film and Jeffrey Anderson at Combustible Celluloid suggests that Barbara was too strong to play such a ‘simpering role’. However, Barbara was never one to limit her abilities and her career is evidence of the varied and interesting roles and her performance as Leona Stevenson was strong enough to garner her the nomination of Best Actress Oscar. According to Madsen, she never thought she had a chance against her friend Jane Wyman for Johnny Belinda or the other performances by Ingrid Bergman, Irene Dunne or Olivia de Havilland in that year.

Barbara was assisted by a solid cast with the young Burt Lancaster solid and dependable in his role as the frustrated and dominated husband. Ed Begley’s time on screen was minimal yet his turn as the dominant father and hard father-in-law was memorable. William Conrad reflects the new corporate criminal-type, which emerged during the 1940s and broke away from the earlier sole gangster who solved his problems with a gun. Perhaps most interesting was Harold Vermilyea as the meek and mild-mannered Waldo Evans, who showed that anyone can be corrupted and his acceptance of his fate, as he is enveloped in darkness, is as film noir as it gets. Ann Richards plays the sympathetic wife of the D.A and former girlfriend of Henry Stevenson.

But there is not doubt that Barbara Stanwyck is the star of Sorry, Wrong Number and it was a perfect vehicle to showcase her talent and a role that needed an actress of her caliber and ability. A number of critics have hailed Barbara as the first lady of film noir and whilst this reviewer feels such a title to be limiting, her tour de force turn as Leona Stevenson certainly warrants such an accolade. Sorry, Wrong Number is 89 minutes of solid thriller/film noir with Barbara Stanwyck giving a memorable performance.

This article has been submitted for the Second Remembering Barbara Stanwyck Blogathon, hosted by Maddy Loves Her Classic Films and Crystal at In The Good Old Days Of Hollywood – thank you for hosting! Please visit for more great articles on the amazing Barbara Stanwyck. 

Paul Batters teaches secondary school History in the Illawarra region and also lectures at the University Of Wollongong. In a previous life, he was involved in community radio and independent publications. Looking to a career in writing, Paul also has a passion for film history.

The Inspirational Hero: Frank Capra’s ‘Meet John Doe’ (1941)

by Paul Batters

‘Why, your types as old as history! If you cant lay your dirty fingers on a decent idea and twist it and squeeze it and stuff it into your own pocket, you slap it down! Like dogs, if you cant eat something – you bury it!’ John Doe (Gary Cooper)

Cinema has provided heroes and heroines since its’ inception. If recent films are anything to go by (quality and depth notwithstanding), the audience interest in heroes has certainly not waned. Humans need heroes – they fill a deep need for inspiration, hope and the often a powerful desire for heroic qualities to be found within ourselves. That unfulfilled self-identification is transferred onto the screen, where we imagine ourselves to always have the right words, the right reaction and certainly the uncanny ability to successfully deal with a sworn enemy.

But the traditional journey of the hero is almost always a difficult one; a trope that can be traced all the way back to tales of Greek mythology. One of the most potent aspects of the hero’s make-up in literature and film is that of the reluctant hero. Cinema is rich with this particular figure, where the hero is plagued with nagging self-doubt and initially may hold no heroic qualities that we can easily identify. Yet what makes such a hero so compelling is that they are made from the same clay we are all made from – they are just like us and yet rise above their supposed station to make changes, save the day and stand up for what is right.

Frank Capra has made some of Hollywood’s greatest and most memorable films, focusing at times on such heroes and drawing on the literary and cinematic figure of ‘the everyman’. Mr Smith Goes To Washington (1939) and It’s A Wonderful Life (1946) are perhaps two of Capra’s most celebrated films, whose central character is the ‘everyman’ hero with Jimmy Stewart starring in both films. Stewart’s performance in both films has long resonated with audiences for obvious reasons and though they are different characters with vastly different storylines, Stewart personifies Capra’s everyman in both of these classic films.

However, another Capra film, which perhaps does not receive the accolades that the aforementioned films do, was his first with Warner Bros. after leaving Columbia. 1941’s Meet John Doe starring Gary Cooper and Barbara Stanwyck is also a story of the ‘everyman’ and more to the point, the reluctant hero. Whilst not as explicit in its’ celebration of individualism as It’s A Wonderful Life, with greater focus on community, Meet John Doe nevertheless hails the role of the everyman hero and the impact that the individual can have in his or her world.

Capra was a complex individual and whilst not a focus of this article, it is important to note that Capra was a Republican despite his progressive outlook and the heroes of his films would obviously reflect his worldview. Those he collaborated with, particularly Robert Riskin, who co-wrote many of Capra’s best-known films, often swayed him towards realism, liberal ideas and progressive politics. Conservative right-wing writer Myles Connolly, who would contribute to the script of Meet John Doe, would steer Capra towards rediscovering his Catholicism, as well as feed Capra’s dislike of President Roosevelt. The Christ-like figure holding high value tenets of humility, innocence and sacrifice is at the core of Capra’s heroes and was certainly influenced by Connolly’s 1928 book Mr Blue – a book greatly admired by Capra.

Meet John Doe is the story of ex-baseball drifter ‘Long’ John Willoughby (Gary Cooper) who becomes part of a publicity stunt for a newspaper. Ann Mitchell (Barbara Stanwyck) is a tough, sassy reporter just fired by Henry Connell (James Gleason), the new managing editor for the newspaper just purchased by publisher D.B Norton (Edward Arnold). Her last article for the paper features a ‘letter from a John Doe’ who threatens to jump from City Hall on Christmas Eve at midnight, to protest civilization ‘going to pot’ and the ‘slimy politics’ present in the current world. The letter stirs up a hornet’s nest and Ann (eventually supported by Connell) sees the opportunity to save her job and save her own career by exploiting the situation. John is hired to claim her wrote the letter and will become the face of a ‘I Protest’ column for the newspaper, ghost-written by Ann. However, John’s companion and anti-society conscience ‘The Colonel’ (Walter Brennan) continuously speaks out against the whole situation, acting as a brake on John’s journey, which John often ignores.

Stylistically, Meet John Doe initially displays all the hallmarks of the screwball comedy and this appears to be the template, which Capra works with. However, the turning point of the film arrives with Norton meeting with Ann and Connell. Norton has greater designs other than being a media baron and Capra lays the foundations for his key theme – the dangers of fascism and dictatorship. John is to make a radio speech (written by Ann, who draws inspiration from her late father) and at first he is nervous, unsure and even considering taking a payment not to make the speech by a rival newspaper. At first John’s concerns are selfish, especially when it is made clear to him that his plan to use the money to fix his arm will be thwarted by the truth getting out. But when he starts delivering the speech, encouraged by Ann’s idealism, he starts to become animated and his delivery arouses the audience. Norton realises something is happening, as does Connell, whose bitter cynicism from years in the newspaper game, has hardened him. Ann is moved to tears by the end of the speech but John feels like a cheat and runs off with his friend and fellow hobo ‘The Colonel’.

Here, we see the essence of the reluctant hero. Yes, he is a fake at first but he is deeply conflicted by his fakery whilst delivering what is ostensibly truth and hope in the message. John runs not because he doesn’t want to be found out to be a paid player in a publicity stunt but because he feels that he is cheating the people listening and committing a desecration of the message he is giving them. Yes he later laments his decision, telling The Colonel ‘I had the money in my hand’ but it is not delivered with real conviction and it appears that his motivation is the inspiration from Ann. On a side note, despite Ann’s telling Norton that what she wants is money, her emotional response when John finishes his speech, reveals she too believes in the message, seeing her father’s words alive in John.

Meanwhile, a grassroots movement starts, inspired by John’s speech, and John Doe clubs begin to spring up. Ann, along with Norton track John down and they convince John to come back and help build the movement. Finally convinced, the movement begins to spread ‘like a prairie fire’ with Capra using an effective montage to show its’ growth and the energy John brings to his role.

Yet John will discover how naïve he has been and a showdown with Norton reveals his motivation – to use the John Doe Movement as a political tool for his own device to become President. Norton’s mask drops and the fascist overtones are final revealed – contempt for the masses as a ‘rabble’ and the need to rule the nation ‘with an iron hand’. At a large conference where John is supposed to endorse Norton for President, he instead states that he will reveal Norton’s scheme. John’s impassioned rebuttal fully illustrates John’s deepest feelings and his belief in the movement. But Norton makes the point that he is the ‘fake’ and that he and his retinue of industrialists and power brokers ‘believe in what we’re doing’.

But John has transcended this and goes to the conference, only to be undone by Norton being prepared and the revelation that John was and always had been a paid actor in a publicity stunt. The Christ-like element in Capra’s hero comes to the fore, with the crowd that primarily ‘worshipped’ him now turning on him and calling for his head. Begging to the crowd to ‘stick to your clubs’ and that ‘the idea is still good’ proves futile. Police get John out but his reputation is destroyed. A tearful Ann, who has lost John’s trust, despite a love growing between them, tearfully mourns how events have unfolded. Connell cynically offers a brilliant epitaph – ‘chalk another one up to the Pontius Pilates’. His comment more than cements the Christ-like persona of Capra’s hero – a (not so) innocent victim crucified by evil men for political purposes.

The following montage shows a dejected figure in John Doe, all washed up and mocked by the public, finally heading towards the City Hall to redeem not so much himself but the John Doe movement and the message that he had given for so long. As tempting as it is to discuss the ending at length, I will refrain from spoilers but needless to say John Doe’s reluctance as hero has been left far behind and the power of ‘the people’ is a strong statement against the dangers of fascism and that ultimately the ‘John Does’ of the world will overcome the dictators of the world – quite a statement in 1941 with the world (and soon the U.S) in the throes of World War Two.

Capra and Riskin wrote the script and obviously drew on the formula previously used to shape their hero. John Willoughby is laconic, naïve though not stupid and a man of ‘the people’ (and a baseball player no less). But there was a problem with Capra’s hero – John Willoughby is initially a ‘fake’ and ‘imposter’. Yet whilst some critics (even Capra himself who flip-flopped on the issue) have seen this as a major flaw in the film, it actually offers a powerful dimension to the concept of the hero, and the ebb and flow of the hero’s journey becomes evident from the moment John takes on the persona of ‘John Doe’ till the climax of the film.

There are contradictions in Capra’s hero and a number of critics have made some fair comments. Critic Andrew Sarris charged that in some ways John Doe is himself a demagogue with fascist overtones yet is speaking out against fascism and demagoguery, and embracing a populist approach to galvanising people into the John Doe movement. There is constant tension between the best and worst of individualism, and the reality of political corruption. Yet what makes Meet John Doe work and thus Gary Cooper’s portrayal an inspirational one is illustrated by Jeffrey Anderson’s review in Combustible Celluloid where he states that the film is not condescending or angry, nor does it seek reward or the audience’s affirmation that John is a hero but offers hope as its’ message. By extension, Sean Axmaker in Parallax View makes an astute point:

‘Capra’s idea of a populist movement is not political anger but social connection, transcending politics with neighborly concern and patriotic benevolence, and he makes a point of stating that these common folk are outside of politics, but nonetheless it is hard not to make a connection. It’s still salt of the earth citizens trying to make their voices heard…’

Certainly a different approach to movements today and their appropriation by others!

John’s inspiration and authenticity is measured by his growth as a hero and acceptance of his responsibility in the role. In the end, John rejects those close to him because he can only carry out the solution he feels is necessary alone. As an audience, it is impossible not to be touched by John Doe and the hero that emerges from his earlier reluctance and even later inner conflict. It is this factor that makes John Doe even more authentic and real for all of us, as we too find ourselves struggling with the obstacles of life that seem insurmountable and too crippling to deal with. Meet John Doe has its’ flaws but to focus on them is to miss the beauty of Capra’s hero and thus the inspiration of the most simple rule – ‘love thy neighbour’.

For a viewing of the film, please click on the link below:

Paul Batters teaches secondary school History in the Illawarra region and also lectures at the University Of Wollongong. In a previous life, he was involved in community radio and independent publications. Looking to a career in writing, Paul also has a passion for film history

John Ford’s ‘How Green Was My Valley’ – A Thematic Review

By Paul Batters

‘Men like my father cannot die. They are with me still – real in memory as they were in flesh, loving and beloved forever. How green was my valley then’.

One of Hollywood’s greatest directors, John Ford, famously described himself as a director ‘who makes westerns’. Indeed, Ford raised the bar regarding the quality of the western – taking it beyond the long established standard, as evidenced in films such as Stagecoach, She Wore A Yellow Ribbon, The Searchers and Fort Apache. Ford possessed the reputation of a tough, hard-drinking Irishman yet he directed three sensitive, powerful and iconic films, which remain exemplars in the pantheon of classic film; The Grapes Of Wrath (1940), The Quiet Man (1945) and the focus of this article How Green Was My Valley (1941).

How Green Was My Valley (1941) is a story told in retrospect of a Welsh family of coal-miners, impacted upon by the changes that come to their village, as well as the challenges of life – both of which they have little control over. The power of the film lies in its’ central themes, which are universal to all families and the individuals within the family unit.

Let us look deeper into the themes and messages of the film.

For me, the theme that reaches deepest is the power of memory. It is at the very beginning of the film and at its’ bittersweet ending – and of course permeates the very essence of the story. Indeed, the story is told as the narrator, Huw Morgan, is about to leave the village he so dearly loves. As he is about to leave, he retells his story and the visual imprint of the impoverished and dying village of the present evaporates into the green and beautiful village of the narrator’s past. The village-scape, his family and the people of the village come alive, accentuated with the beautiful musical score by Alfred Newman. It is a dream-like moment, where as Huw points out, he remembers his home before the grey sludge of the mines took over the valley. What remains is the durability of memory and at the end of the film, he says of his home “it’s still there”; alive in his mind and heart and the sounds of his brothers singing, the love of his family and the moments and lessons of his life which cannot be erased.

The adult Huw (Irving Pichel) narrates the story but we as the audience experience the tale through Huw as a young boy (Roddy McDowall) and the landmark moments in his life. Indeed, two voices of the same person speak and memory brings back the voice of the child. It is through the child’s eyes that the story comes alive. What we eventually realize as audience is that whilst a child can be quite invisible to the adults around him or her, what they see and remember can be quite vivid and their perceptions are quite strong, even if they don’t have the full capacity to articulate those perceptions at that time.

One of the most touching moments reflecting this is evident during a difficult turning point for the family, when three of Huw’s brothers refuse to bow to their father’s authority. Differing over how the workers in the mine should address their concerns, the family at the dinner table becomes torn and the brothers leave the house. The father, Gwilym (Donald Crisp) sits alone at the table, resigned to the fate of his family, with Huw at the other end, sitting silently. Not wanting to feel invisible, Hugh clanks his knife and fork against his plate and then coughs, trying to get his father’s attention. Without looking up, the father responds, “Yes my son, I know you are there”.

Obviously, family is a central theme, as the film focuses on the story of the Morgan family. The tight-knit Morgan household is a place where great love is shown. The nature of rite and ritual is also important in establishing family norms and structure, as shown by the men’s daily routine of washing the coal dust from their bodies and how the family sits together at the table. Huw’s father, Gwilym, is a solid and hard-working, sitting at the head of the table and leading the family in prayer. His mother, Beth (Sara Allgood), is kind, loving and also strong in character, moving around the table to much sure that her family is looked after and always being ‘the last to start her dinner and the first to finish’. Family roles are clear and obviously paternalistic in the context of 19^th century Wales, where Huw reminisces ‘whilst my father was the head of the family, my mother was its’ heart’.

But despite the closeness of family and clarity of role and position, turmoil results when outside forces question the values and norms of the household. What will befall the Morgans, befalls every family – the divisions which can split a family through religion, politics and the questioning of authority in the household. The normal and natural challenging of parental authority must eventuate, as does the child becoming an adult and developing their own ideas and feelings. The family becomes divided as industrial turmoil hits the mine and threats of striking and the forming of a union for the mine-workers, splits the class-conscious brothers from their conservative and too-trusting father. Whilst there will be a settlement of sorts and the love of the family will endure, it cannot completely withstand the harsh economic realities and Huw’s older brothers will move on elsewhere. Three of the sons will move to America, which in those times meant that they would never see their family again – a reality that their father, Gwilym, sadly recognizes when announcing the send-off he’s planning.

On a larger scale the change in the family structure reveals the inevitability of change in the greater world, whether we want to face it or not. The impacts of change in the film are shown as negative – loss of community and the values that held it together, the division of family, the change that the mine brings to the village and the impacts that greater change outside the village brings to the community. The ‘hero’ of the film, the new pastor Mr. Gruffydd (Walter Pidgeon), tries to bring positive change to the community but eventually feels defeated, broken by the hypocrisy of his church, the ugliness that has crept into the community and the love which he can never hope to realize for Huw’s sister, Angharad (Maureen O’Hara). The physical change, which occurs to the village from green valley to slag heap becomes an allegory for the change in the community. Huw feels this deeply and clarifies this feeling when he narrates the story. The change is irreversible and Hugh knows this, seeing that his village will never be the same and of course neither will he.

Yet there are lessons learned from the struggles, which also provide a new light and opportunity for growth in Huw. The fight against injustice becomes an important theme in the film and Huw not only watches the battle against exploitation and poverty by the miners but the fight that the pastor undertakes as well. He fights against ignorance and gossip and stands with the miners in their fight as well. Huw sees the Christ-model alive and bright in the pastor’s mission, particularly when he stands against the deacons in his church. Encouraging the miners to form a union, he is accused of stepping outside his ministry, to which he responds ‘my mission is to fight whatever stands between man and God’. His final speech to the community is perhaps one of film’s finest, railing against those whose faith is founded in the fear of God but not the love of Jesus. The hypocrisy of religion and its’ failings as human institution meant to provide comfort, as Angharad points out, is accentuated by the pastor’s very real Christianity. As Mr. Gruffydd is about to leave, he looks at Hugh who looks back with great sorrow. But Huw’s steps to fighting injustice begin that moment, when he follows the pastor out of the church, ignoring the call of the deacons to remain.

As the audience we watch Huw growing up and facing the obstacles, difficulties and joys that come with the process. It is an obvious theme yet a very universal one. Whilst we see the narrator as a boy, we also experience his witnessing of the change in his family and his village and community. Just as importantly, we also experience how growing up impacts on him. Huw must at some point leave he safety of his family, when he begins school and must deal with not only a bully in the classroom but the harsh cruelty of his teacher. The beatings from the bully and the teacher reflect the harshness of life and whilst his older and stronger brothers could easily solve these problems, Huw shows fortitude and growth when he says he must deal with it himself. To his mother’s horror, Huw’s father arranges for him to learn to box and eventually the school bully is dealt with. The violence of youth is shown to be inescapable and a reality that needs to be faced – with violence.

Ford also focuses on the importance of strong role models, evident in the shape of Huw’s father Gwilym and particularly Mr. Gruffydd the pastor who, despite being an important figure in the village, will be sacrificed by the community to their bigotry and small-mindedness. Both are principled men, strong in their convictions and honorable in their intentions. Yet despite their great strength of character, both have serious flaws in terms of their trust of others and their naivety. Gwilym states that owners of the mine are not ‘savages’ and that they are ‘men like us’, initially blind to the exploitation and poor treatment of the miners. He, himself, will be treated badly by the management of the mine and the village community will turn on him as well, despite Gwilym ’s hand of friendship perennially extended to all. Mr Gruffyd will himself see the folly of his failings, even sharing them with Huw, whose eyes are filled with tears:

‘Huw, I thought when I was a young man that I would conquer the world with truth. I thought I would lead an army greater than Alexander ever dreamed of, not to conquer nations, but to liberate mankind. With truth. With the golden sound of the Word. But only a few of them heard. Only a few of you understood’.

Huw sees these flaws in both men, even as a boy, which heightens the tragedy and deepens the love that he holds for both men, in spite of their naivety. Yet there is also a harsh reality, which Hugh discovers as a boy, which is also part of the reality of life and a painful lesson in growing up –we lose those we love. Huw will see Mr. Gruffydd leave his village and see his father die in a mining disaster. As a child, Huw discovers the true cost of loss and thus his innocence will be lost as well.

But not only does Huw have strong role models in the form of men. There are strong women as well, particularly in the form of his mother, Beth, delivered via a stirring performance by Sara Allgood (which would win her a Best Supporting Actress Nomination at the Oscars). She loves her husband but is not afraid to give him a piece of her mind and speaks with dignity and strength. At one of the turning points in the film, most of the men have turned on Gwilym for not supporting their strike, despite his own sons being involved with the miners’ union. One cold, blustery night as the strikers meet, Beth tells Huw to take her to the meeting, to which a shocked Huw responds that it’s no place for a woman. But Beth is unfettered and with firmness states that ‘there’s a place there for this woman!’ Her speech to the gathered men is fiercer than the snow storm howling around their heads, as she rains down scorn upon them:

‘You are a lot of cowards to go against him. He has done nothing against you and he never has and you know it well. How some of you, you smug-faced hypocrites, can sit in the same Chapel with him I cannot tell’.

But Beth Morgan is far from done:

‘There’s one thing more I’ve got to say and it is this. If harm comes to my Gwilym, I will find out the men and I will kill them with my two hands. And this I will swear by God Almighty’.

It is doubtful that any man at that meeting would test Beth Morgan on her word. 

The power of love and the joy and pain it brings to one’s life spans Huw’s experience in the film. At first, the love of family is clear and uncompromised, with closeness between parents and their children and between the siblings. With each crises faced by the family, love ultimately holds them together and even when there are fractures in the family, the bonds of love also protect them. The family split during the workers’ dispute sees the sons initially defy their father and leave the house. But they will later return, not out of fear for their father but out of love for the family. Huw will recount the pain the family endures when the eldest brother is killed and three of his other brothers leave to seek their fortunes in America. Love has its’ price, which Huw will learn in the most difficult way.

As the film progresses, the experience of ‘first love’ arrives for Huw when he remembers falling for his eldest brother’s fiancée. Of course, this first love is one of innocence and impossibility but it foreshadows one of the greatest tragedies also examined, the terrible pain of love unrealized and the realities of life preventing true love from being founded. The mutual and deep love held between his sister Angharad and the pastor Mr Griffin, will see further turmoil for Huw’s family but most of all for the aforementioned two. As much as Mr. Gruffydd loves Antharrad, ne makes it clear that the reality for them would be poverty and economic difficulty, stating that he could not bear seeing her hair go grey before its’ time. In the end, she will marry the snobbish son of the mine-owner, which will mean economic stability but a cold and dead marriage, devoid of true love. Angharad becomes a prisoner in a gilded cage and Mr. Gruffydd is ‘not the same’. The family servant spreads gossip and rumor which will end in infecting the village ‘like the black slag’ from the mine spreading through the hearts and minds of the village folk. It will takes its’ toll on Huw’s family.

But Mr. Gruffydd does not take this so easily and rains on the heads of the congregation his fury at their malicious gossip, their black hearts and hypocrisy. It is the final battle in his futile war against ignorance and as he points out, the desire to bring the ‘love of Jesus’ into the community and abandon their concept of faith as fear of God. It is this overcoming of adversity that permeates throughout the story as narrated by Huw. There are personal battles to be fought – the pastor bringing enlightenment and perspective to the village is but one of them. Huw must deal with his own obstacles and trials. Along with his mother, Hugh faces near death when both face illness and injury after falling into freezing water. His recovery is long and difficult, during which Mr Griffin raises his spirit and gives him hope, in spite of the dire prognosis from the doctor. Again, with Mr. Gruffydd’s help, Huw walks again despite his initial lack of faith. But Mr Gruffyd is also speaking to Huw’s spirit and faith, and offers lessons that will stay with Huw:

‘And as your father cleans his lamp to have good light, so keep clean your spirit, huh?…By prayer, Huw. And by prayer, I don’t mean shouting, mumbling, and wallowing like a hog in religious sentiment. Prayer is only another name for good, clean, direct thinking. When you pray, think. Think well what you’re saying. Make your thoughts into things that are solid. In that way, your prayer will have strength, and that strength will become a part of you, body, mind, and spirit’.

Mr. Gruffydd also encourages the men to form their trade union, against the will of the senior pastors of the church, and they stand up against the mine-owners. Theirs is a fight against exploitation and for their rights, which will cause not only division in the village but within Huw’s family. Yet it is this fight against adversity, which informs Huw on the need to fight against repression and certainly inspires his own aforementioned private battles.

The film may end in tragedy but again we are reminded that we hold true in our hearts and minds can truly die. The people in Huw’s life are always with him because of the love they have given him and he in return. Their lessons stay with him and guide him still as an adult; they give him, as Mr. Gruffydd teaches him, strength (that) will become a part of you, body, mind, and spirit. At the beginning of the film, Huw shares a touching yet powerful sentiment, which rings true even as the final credits roll:

‘Everything I ever learnt as a small boy came from my father, and I never found anything he ever told me to be wrong or worthless. The simple lessons he taught me are as sharp and clear in my mind as if I had heard them only yesterday’.

Some critics suggest the film sails dangerously close into over-sentimentality – but this is an unfair criticism. The pain of memory is addressed and central to the story and at times the reflection touches one of the themes of Dante’s ‘Inferno’ – “There is no greater sorrow than to recall happiness in times of misery.” Huw’s memories are not completely romanticized and as the story unfolds, this becomes more than evident. True, we are all capable of evoking nostalgia of our own family and growing up and we do so regularly. However, in the deepest regions of our hearts, we know and can recall the vast array of moments and events that shape our own family story and how it has impacted on us. The stark and harsh realities of memory are evoked through the direction of John Ford and his eye is cast across the film’s narrative. 

‘How Green Was My Valley’ has powerful lessons not tied to a different era nor shaped purely by Hollywood’s studio system. The film’s power remains. much like the memory of love and family has for the adult Huw. The lessons transcend time and context. John Ford left us an artwork for us to not only learn from but emote with and touch us in a way that only classic films can. 

Paul Batters teaches secondary school History in the Illawarra region and also lectures at the University Of Wollongong. In a previous life, he was involved in community radio and independent publications. Looking to a career in writing, Paul also has a passion for film history.