The Mummy’s Hand (1940)

Jul 081940
 
three reels

Out-of-work archaeologists Steve Banning (Dick Foran) and Babe Jenson (Wallace Ford) discover the location of the tomb of princess Ananka. With funds from stage magician Solvani (Cecil Kellaway) and his daughter, Marta (Peggy Moran), they set out into the desert. But the tomb is guarded by an ancient cult, and the priest has the power to animate the mummy Kharis.

The second of Universal’s Mummy films, The Mummy’s Hand is not a sequel to 1932’s The Mummy, but a reworking of the Mummy concept, and the first of the four-film Kharis series (the others being The Mummy’s Tomb, The Mummy’s Ghost, and The Mummy’s Curse).  The clichĂ©s that dominated mummy films till 1999 came from The Mummy’s Hand.  There is the slow moving, mute, bandaged mummy, the controlling priest and magic tana leaves, and the curse on anyone who enters the Princess’ tomb.

The tone is a change from other Universal monster movies, being more of a romantic comedy for the first half, with Marta first disliking, then respecting, and finally loving Steve Banning.  Foran and Ford come off as a toned down, mildly amusing but not funny, Abbott and Costello.  It makes for an uneven picture.

Always-good character actor Cecil Kellaway elevates the proceedings and, unlike Ford, is funny.  George Zucco is also a step above the leads and makes a rather silly villain enjoyable.  The cast is rounded out by Tom Tyler in his only appearance as the Mummy.  Lon Chaney Jr. would take over the role for the other Kharis films.  Tyler was suffering from arthritis so badly that even the Mummy’s shambling was too much for him.  His makeup was excellent; later films would use a mask.

Take this as rip-roaring, Saturday afternoon adventure fare.  It’s fun, but not to be taken seriously.

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The Invisible Man Returns (1940)

Jul 061940
 
three reels

Framed for his brother’s murder, Geoffrey Radcliffe (Vincent Price) is saved from the gallows by his fiancĂ©e, Helen Manson (Nan Grey), and Dr. Frank Griffin (John Sutton), brother of the original Invisible Man, who supply Geoffrey with the invisibility serum. Geoffrey escapes and searches for the real killer, knowing that it won’t be long before the drug drives him insane. The most likely suspect is Richard Cobb (Cedric Hardwicke), who wants Helen for himself.

As sequels go, The Invisible Man Returns is pretty good, but it is a shadow of its predecessor, and like most sequels, the whole thing feels unnecessary. Price’s voice lacked the power it would have in later years, but it was distinct enough to make him a good choice for the faceless lead. Cecil Kellaway, a too often forgotten character actor, also supplied personality to the feature as the police inspector, but the rest of the cast does not fare as well. Hardwicke fails to find anything to do with his underwritten part, Grey is forgettable while she’s on screen, and Sutton manages to be bland and overact at the same time.

Director Joe May tries to strike the same balance of dark comedy and horror that James Whale’s managed in The Invisible Man, but he lacks Whale’s skill and quirky nature, and instead fails to put anything on either side of the scale. The screenplay is of no help, focusing on a mystery that the viewer has solved five minutes in.

But, there is still some good Universal monster fun here, with the bandaged man maniacally laughing. No one can do megalomania like Price. The police attempts to grab Radcliffe make for some nice scenes involving smoke and some tricky plans from both sides.

The finest moment falls outside of the plot. A worn and beaten Invisible Man asks a scarecrow to borrow its clothing. It is heartbreaking, and ranks up with Frankenstein’s Monster pleading for understanding and Dracula noting how wonderful real death would be. It made me feel for the monster, as all the best films do.

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The Man with Nine Lives (1940)

Jun 211940
 
two reels

Dr. Tim Mason (Roger Pryor) is at the forefront of frozen therapy, but his demonstration promised more than it could deliver, so he and his nurse/fiancĂ©e Judith Blair (Jo Ann Sayers) head to the long abandoned, secluded home of the inventor of frozen therapy, Dr. Leon Kravaal (Boris Karloff). There, in a hidden underground camber they find Kravaal, frozen. They thaw him and he returns to life, telling the story of how a greedy heir to Kravaal’s experimental patient and foolish authorities interrupted his experiments and they all ended up frozen. Now that Kravall’s awake, he sets out to warm up the others, who, upon regaining consciousness, immediately threaten Kravaal and destroy his research. Kravaal is greatly upset by this setback and decides to experiment on them.

The intro text, that discusses research in “frozen therapy,” shows that Hollywood was still uncomfortable with horror and science fiction (this is only a year after horror films had returned). The filmmakers wanted to set it firmly in the real world, while also pretending that it had socially relevant information to pass along. It doesn’t, which should be clear when you know the story was suggested by the work of failed scientist and all around weirdo Robert Cornish, who’d already been the source of one of the worst movies ever made, Life Returns. Unlike Cornish, Kravaal has principles.

The first scene doesn’t help in setting the tone as one doctor goes into “as you know Bob” expository dialog as another pours hot coffee into a patient as a cutting edge procedure. Yes, hot coffee. Not that the criminal justice system looks much better than the medical one, so it’s best to ignore any connection to our world.

And if we do, we get a mild little thriller which is only of interest due to the presence of Karloff, and while far from his best performance, he’s engaging and presents a sympathetic semi-villain. With his sincerity, when Kravaal kills someone, it feels like the right thing to have done. Hell, I’d have been good with sacrificing Tim and Judith to help out Kravaal, which probably shouldn’t be the way I feel, showing the movie is a bit lopsided.

The other actors aren’t bad, and Sayers is very attractive as a nurse who has only two modes: obedient and terrified, but not being bad is not equivalent to being good. When Karloff is off screen, which is for the first third of the picture, Pryor and Sayers have to do the heavy lifting and they can’t manage it, not that they’re given any help.

While Columbia was one of the Little 3, studios, when they went low budget, the result is equivalent to Poverty Row and this is low budget. It looks cheap, with simple camera setups, limited sets that are always shot from the same side, and dialog no one spent a lot of time with. I’m guessing reshoots were rare. No one put in the effort to come up with a new idea. Rather this is a repurposing of Columbia’s previous Karloff mad scientist flick, The Man They Could Not Hang (Columbia seemed to love inaccurate titles as there was no hanging in that one and no nine lives in this one).

Even if I could stomach the rest of the film, the tacked on embarrassing propaganda postscript is too much to take. I can’t say to entirely skip The Man with Nine Lives, since Karloff is good, but know that you’re only watching it for Karloff.

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The Mark of Zorro (1940)

May 241940
 
five reels

One of the standard Swashbuckler plots has the hero masquerading as a fop so his real self can right wrongs and win the maiden, and no film did it better than The Mark of Zorro. Leslie Howard recited doggerel poems as the The Scarlet Pimpernel and Louis Hayward dithered on about banking as The Son of Monte Cristo, but Tyrone Power is on a whole different level as he dreamily expounds on fragrances and fabrics.

What struck me when re-watching The Mark of Zorro recently was how funny it is, and how well it stands up in more cynical times.  While other Swashbucklers, such as The Sea Hawk, Cyrano de Bergerac, and even Robin Hood, take their world view seriously (if not the execution of that view), Zorro winks at the audience.  It’s a tiny bit silly, and it knows it.  Deep down, many of the best Swashbucklers have a  message about life and the nature of good and evil and proper behavior. The Mark of Zorro doesn’t.  Sure, it nods toward doing the right thing and proper morals, but that’s not the point here.  It’s all about action and romance and flashing blades and quick wit—the basis for the genre.  That’s made it feel less dated than the others.

While not as dramatic as The Count of Monte Cristo, or as beautiful as The Adventures of Robin Hood, or as uplifting as The Sea Hawk, or as lyrical as Cyrano de Bergerac, or as witty as The Princess Bride, I think it may be the most fun. Humor is responsible for much of that, but at least as import is pacing. The Mark of Zorro has the best pacing of any Swashbuckler, and I can’t think of a single film of any genre which beats it.  There is not a slow moment.  Humor flows into chases which flow into romance which flows back to humor then on to swordfights.  No time to get up for popcorn.

There are small problems that I could nit-pick, but The Mark of Zorro never gives me the chance.  Later, I can wonder how Zorro happens to be drinking with the banker at the proper time, and why the soldiers can’t shoot into a river, but not while I watch.

The nearly “pretty” Tyrone Power has no problem convincing me that he is the dashing, romantic champion, but it is as the effeminate peacock that he excels. One of the great moments is after a spirited dance; Lolita, out of breath and in awe, says that she has “never dreamed dancing could be so wonderful. Diego, blotting at his face with a lace handkerchief, responds that he “found it rather fatiguing.”

Linda Darnell was an inspired choice for Lolita. She was seventeen, as was her character, with uncommon beauty and grace.  She is all the good things about youth personified, and as such, it isn’t troubling for the film that Diego loves her on sight—I did too.

The rest of the cast is excellent as well.  Swashbucklermainstays Montagu Love and Eugene Pallette play variations on roles they’d perfected.  Gale Sondergaard mixes sympathy and sensuality with unscrupulous social climbing to make Lolita’s aunt, Inez Quintero, a surprisingly engaging character.  Keeping to my view that the villains make the movie, The Mark of Zorro gives us a bumbling, evil alcalde played by J. Edward Bromberg, and an ex-fencing master/strongman played by the greatest portrayer of Swashbuckler villains, Basil Rathbone.  Rathbone adds yet another classic swordfight to his resume.

Alfred Newman’s Zorro theme has stuck with me from childhood.  I wouldn’t have minded a bit more variation in the score, but what’s there is good, so the repetition doesn’t hurt the film.

If the The Adventures of Robin Hood is the first film to see to understand and appreciate Swashbucklers, then The Mark of Zorro is the second.

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The Ghost Breakers (1940)

Apr 031940
 
two reels

Larry Lawrence (Bob Hope) and Mary Carter (Paulette Goddard) travel to Cuba to the long abandoned mansion she has just inherited.  But many agents don’t want them there, including murderers, a zombie, and a ghost.

Quick Review: An interesting mix of horror and comedy, there is a lot to like about The Ghost Breakers.  Bob Hope plays his traditional character, and while some of his jokes fall flat, others are quite funny.  The zombie is the creepiest I’ve seen, and the scene where it chases Mary is the stuff of horror legend.  There are a surprising number of tense moments, some nice atmosphere, and a few really beautiful scenes.  In the most famous one, Mary, dressed as her dead ancestor, descends the staircase holding a candle to stand in front of the old portrait of that ancestor.  It is striking and has been ripped off by a dozen or more films.

But it’s not all good.  To say the ending is anticlimactic would be kind.  We don’t find out who several of the characters are or how they are connected, and it feels like there is 20 minutes of needed plot missing.  And then there is the bulging eyed, cowardly black servant. Sure, it’s no worse on the racism scale than “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ no babies,” but that’s not saying a lot.

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The Devil’s Daughter (1939)

Dec 191939
 
one reel

Sylvia Walton (Ida James) returns from Harlem to the islands to inherit a banana plantation. Her half-sister, Isabelle (Nina Mae McKinney), is none-too-happy about this and has taken to the hills and plans to scare her sister away with the use of voodoo. Sylvia is enamored with her conniving overseer (Jack Carter), but she has a second suitor in the straightforward John Lowden (Emmett ‘Babe’ Wallace). Unfortunately, Isabelle wants John, so that’s a second reason for her to get rid of her sister. Syliva also has a comic relief servant (Hamtree Harrington) from Harlem who can fill out any missing stereotypes, liking being a smalltime con-artist and loving dice.

The Devil’s Daughter is a remake, or perhaps a radical rethinking, of Ouanga (1936), and like its predecessor, it is a “race movie.” That is, it was a film with a mostly black cast and crew, intended for black segregated theaters, and produced by white-owned companies, the last insuring that the depiction of blacks was little better than in mainstream pictures. Also like Ouanga, it is cheap-looking and displays little in the way of skill from anyone involved. The shots are simplistic, the film stock’s inferior, the editing’s is crude, and the acting is amateurish.

It diverges substantially on story, enough that “inspired by” would be a more honest connection than calling it a remake. Gone is the mixed-race romance, both as a major plot point and as the motivation for action (John is black). This time it is mainly about sisters fighting over who runs a plantation. But for a horror fan, those aren’t the changes that matter. The big shift is that voodoo no longer has magic powers, so there is no curse and no zombies. Isabelle is only trying to scare her sister by pretending to have powers, and in the end, she isn’t willing to follow through and do anything drastic. That removes the horror elements, as well as any tension, though it isn’t as if Ouanga was actually tense.

There is some unintentional humor in a fistfight between John And the overseer. Of course they couldn’t afford a fight choreographer, so these guys just ran into each other and slapped and pushed and grabbed a bit. It’s close cousin is the Colin Firth/Hugh Grant fight in Bridget Jones’s Diary, but that was meant as comedy.

The one, and only thing of interest in The Devil’s Daughter is the great Ida James. No, she can’t act. She really can’t act. She is as bad as anyone I’ve ever seen on film. But she can sing. Not here, unfortunately. She was a jazz and pop singer, best remembered for working with the Count Basie Orchestra and Nat King Cole Trio. She was a familiar name to me and I was surprised to see her in this kind of dreck.

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Wuthering Heights (1939)

Oct 111939
 
one reel

A visitor to Wuthering Heights is touched by the ghost of Cathy, and then is told the story of the disastrous love between Cathy (Merle Oberon), an upper class girl, and Heathcliff (Laurence Olivier), a penniless gypsy. After pledging themselves to each other, Cathy turns from him to obtain a life of luxury. That brings tragedy not only to them, but to everyone near them.

Wuthering Heights isn’t a ghost story, but rather a Harlequin romance with supernatural bookends.  Today, Emily BrontĂ«’s story would be published with a bare-chested Fabio on the cover, holding a swooning buxom babe in one hand, and gazing out over the moors (where there might be pirates—you never know). You can label it a classic, but that doesn’t make it any more important than The Viscount Who Loved Me or Mistress Mabel and the Handsome Pirate.

While the film was conceived as a tearjerker (and was successful), it is hard to figure what about these unpleasant people could pull a tear from even chronic sobbers. Angst-ridden Heathcliff is a sadomasochistic wretch of a human being, and he’s the best of the lot.  Cathy’s flip-flopping emotional state makes her seem like she’s suffering from multiple personality disorder instead of being a woman in love trying to overcome her upbringing. Cathy’s brother doesn’t have a personality at all, just two traits: he drinks and says cruel things. That’s all he does. The others are universally arrogant and dim. Why should I care if these people’s lives are ruined?

The melodrama is full out in every scene, with pounding of fists, and posing—lots of posing. Every performance is twice as broad and loud as it should be. But then what else can an actor do when he’s given the line, “I cannot live without my life! I cannot die without my soul”?

Ah, but I shouldn’t forget that Wuthering Heights is a helpful guide in pointing out the fragility of women.  Apparently, if a female ventures out in a storm, she’ll sink to the ground (for no apparent reason) and need to convalesce for weeks.  Wow, I’ve been out in thundershowers before without catching a cold, but I guess women just can’t take water. God help them all if they should try to swim.

Thanks to cinematographer Gregg Toland, this overdone soap opera looks beautiful. Toland would work on Citizen Kane  two years later, but his skills were apparent here.  His only failure, or more likely director William Wyler’s, was with the moors, which should be intoxicating, but instead appear flat and unappealing.

No one could accuse any other part of the film of being flat, just unappealing.

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The Return of Doctor X (1939)

Oct 081939
 
two reels

News reporter Walter Garrett (Wayne Morris) discovers the dead body of Angela Merrova (Lya Lys), but when she turns up alive, though strangely pale, he is fired.  He goes to his friend, Dr. Mike Rhodes (Dennis Morgan), for help, which prompts Rhodes to investigate strange murders where the victims all had “type 1” blood.  This leads him to the blood specialist, Dr. Francis Flegg (John Litel), and the bizarre, pale, Dr. Kane (Humphrey Bogart).

Forget plot, theme, or production values.  The reason to watch The Return of Doctor X is to see Humphrey Bogart as an effeminate, glasses-wearing, striped-haired, rabbit-petting, blood-stealing, walking dead man.  “Odd” is an understatement.  Forced by his contract into taking the part, Bogart was not shy in stating his contempt for the picture.

The story is typical Mad Scientist fare, with Dr. Flegg wanting to help humanity with his medical breakthrough, but making insanely bad decisions along the way.  Resurrecting Kane is the worst of them.  The story has nothing that hasn’t been done better in fifty other films.

While it sounds like it should be a sequel to the 1933 WB Mad Scientist film, Doctor X, the only connection is the basic structure.  Both have a comic relief reporter gratuitously tacked on to the horror elements, and both films would be far better for his removal.  In this case, it is Walter Garrett (though the character’s name is listed as Barnett in the credits), played in farce style by Wayne Morris, who would later be known for low budget westerns.  Garrett is never funny, and his glib lines and wolf glares at every female that passes belong in a Three Stooges short.  Morris also looks too much like Dennis Morgan, giving us two tall, slender, generic, white guys chasing the mystery around town.

I have seen many films that contain a feminine psycho quietly petting a furry white animal (think Ernst Blofeld, or several Monty Python Episodes), but I haven’t seen a version that pre-dates this.  If there is one, let me know, because I find it disconcerting to think that Bogart created that particular icon.

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Son of Frankenstein (1939)

Oct 081939
 
four reels

Baron Wolf Frankenstein (Basil Rathbone), the son of the late doctor Frankenstein, travels to “Middle Europe,” with his wife Elsa (Josephine Hutchinson) and son Peter (Donnie Dunagan), to take possession of the family castle. Like his father, he is a scientist and experimenter, and he has a fanatical desire to prove that his father was a great man. The villagers are not happy to see another Frankenstein take up residence, and Inspector Krogh (Lionel Atwill) warns the newcomers that it may be dangerous. He quickly runs into grave-robbing Ygor (Bela Lugosi), who aided his father and was hanged for his participation, but survived, and Ygor leads him to the still-living Monster (Boris Karloff), who is in a coma. The Baron thinks that if he can fully revive the monster, this will exonerate the family name, though Ygor has other plans.

Son of Frankenstein started the second cycle of Universal Monsters, and did so with a budget, stars, and style.

The horror drought had been in effect since mid-1936, with no true horror films being made in the US, and only a few horror-adjacent thriller mysteries even coming close. It had been engineered by Joseph Breen of the Production Code Administration. He was a right-wing extremist and hard-line Catholic and felt that all horror was immoral and must be wiped out. He worked using a combination of the actual veto power he’d been given, nagging, warnings of doom, and lies to get. He’d spent several years making any horror filmmaker’s life hell, cutting their scripts, calling them to say that horror was bad, and suggesting that this state or that state would come down hard on a film. Then he got a bigger weapon. British censorship was generally harsher than that of the US, although it wasn’t horror per se that they objected to, but a confusing combination of animal cruelty and anything they thought might cause social unrest (such as troublesome teenagers or racial issues), but they had banned several films, put in a new “H” rating, and cut multiple movies. Breen used this, aided by some poorly researched news articles, to claim that England, and somehow thus all of Europe, had banned horror. He’d been making it very difficult for anyone to make a horror film, and now he persuaded the studios that it wouldn’t be profitable enough to fight for. Universal, the horror king, had recently changed management, and the new team didn’t care about horror anyway, and the greatest horror director, James Whale, had become persona non grata after he told management what he thought of them. So horror was dead, and Breen had won. Well, he won until a dying theater showed  a triple feature of Frankenstein, Dracula, and Son of Kong (not that I consider the last of these horror) and a studio exec saw the line wrapping around the block. He actually had thought that horror films couldn’t make money (these guys really didn’t look at their own ledgers, but hey, talkies were young and execs didn’t have the experience yet), but those lines said differently. Breen had power, but money had more power. Universal immediately released a double feature of Frankenstein and Dracula around the country and they made more money than on their initial releases, so they rushed Son of Frankenstein into production. It was a rough road, suddenly having to work out how to make a horror film again on a really tight schedule, and with Breen fighting them all the way. But they made it. And people came. And every studio saw that horror was back.

The result is better than anyone could have hoped for. It doesn’t live up to its predecessors, but then director Rowland V. Lee was no James Whale and it is hard to beat one of the greatest horror films of all time. What they really got right was the style. If you’ve read this far and have any interest in classic horror, you know what’s coming: German expressionism. It dominated Universal’s early horror films and this is its apogee. You have to go back to the silent The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari to find a more effective, or extreme use of the form. Nothing in Son of Frankenstein is real, but rather is shaped to convey fears, uncertainties, and feelings in general. We’re not seeing a German town, and a manor house, and a scientists works space, but terror itself forged into those shapes. The Universal pictures in general didn’t pretend that they took place in a real Germany or real England, but in a fantasy “Middle Europe” filled with superstitious and much put upon peasants and a monomaniacal ruling class. So the film gives us a fog-shrouded collection of stretched and oddly placed houses on the edge of a post-apocalyptic wasteland. The castle is a surreal nightmare of over-sized barren  rooms, arches, twisted staircases, and a cavernous fireplace, all seen in high contrast lighting. It isn’t a home for humans but for fifteen foot giants, or perhaps for that feeling of being small in the world. The layout of the buildings doesn’t make sense, and I’m not talking about failures in design, such as the family tomb that’s only accessible through a secret passage no normal man could open, but rather that halls don’t meet up. Nothing is where it should be.

Am I going on too long about the expressionistic art direction and cinematography? No, because it’s a thing of beauty. If nothing else worked, the film would still be good based on that alone. And that expressionism makes much of the rest of it work.  You can’t argue that this or that aspect of reviving a monster or travel to and from the town don’t make sense when sense isn’t the point. Also note, the expressionism extends into all aspects of the film, including the dialog and the acting. No one is trying to mimic real life, but give us something twice removed.

Boris Karloff again plays The Monster, (as he had in Frankenstein (1931) and Bride of Frankenstein (1935) but for the last time. The multifaceted innocent savage is gone, to be replaced by a hulking zombie.  Between Bride of Frankenstein and Son of Frankenstein the creature lost his ability to talk, so important in the previous film.  It’s unfortunate that the best part of the originals, the pathos in The Monster, is missing, but to make up for that, Bela Lugosi‘s Ygor has personality to spare.  It is Lugosi’s best role and he revels in it, cackling and coughing and taking it as far as it can go. He’s evil and murderous, by sympathetic and funny. After all, he was hanged for helping the rich and powerful baron, and that baron got away with it. One of the best moments in the movie is Ygor sitting by a broken window playing his haunting horn—it’s eerie and beautiful.

Basil Rathbone, an actor whose voice alone made legendary, is excellent, playing a mad scientist less likable than the original Frankenstein. That doctor was a loon in the midst of a nervous breakdown. Wolf von Frankenstein is an arrogant elitist with daddy issues, which is smart character design as it makes Ygor easier to like. Lionel Atwill’s inspector is another great character, a voice of calm and logic coming from the edge of a nightmare. Unfortunately, newer viewers will have a hard time taking him seriously after Mel Brooks parodied him in Young Frankenstein (Young Frankenstein is based on this film, not on the original Frankenstein).

The child is annoying, as is often the case in any film with a child that young, and it’s clear he’s no actor. Though he does bring a bit of warmth to the film in retrospect as Dunagan has said how kind Boris Karloff was to him on set, buying him ice cream and playing checkers with him, in full monster makeup. Peter Frankenstein is not on screen too often, so he’s a minor negative.

It’s best not to watch Son of Frankenstein too quickly after the first two; there are too many inconsistencies, such as the laboratory—now shaped like an observatory—sitting on the grounds of Castle Frankenstein, and Ygor being an assistant to the previous Dr. Frankenstein. But then, why would an expressionistic picture have any more interest in matching previous movies than it does in matching reality? It’s just about how it makes you feel.

It was followed by Ghost of Frankenstein (1942), Frankenstein Meets The Wolf Man (1943) House of Frankenstein (1944), and House of Dracula (1945).

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The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex (1939)

Oct 041939
 
two reels

Robert Devereux, the overly proud Earl of Essex, desires the love of Queen Elizabeth (Bette Davis), and half of her throne.  Elizabeth is romantically interested in Essex, but needs him to keep his place.  As they jockey for position, both are foiled by the plotting and intrigues at the palace.

Either Errol Flynn or Bette Davis was badly miscast in The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex, but which one depends on what kind of a movie this was supposed to be.  Flynn is playing in a Swashbuckler, while Davis is in a heavy historical drama.  Flynn’s approach is backed by director Michael Curtiz (Captain Blood—1935, The Adventures of Robin Hood—1938, The Sea Hawk—1940), the rest of the cast (Swashbuckling stalwarts: Olivia de Havilland, Alan Hale, Henry Daniell, Donald Crisp, Henry Stephenson, James Stephenson, and Robert Warwick, along with Leo G. Carroll and Vincent Price), the color, set design, and the score (by Erich Wolfgang Korngold).  Davis’s view is supported by the script.  The schizophrenia is never resolved, making Davis appear silly and Flynn confused.  Both over act, but at least Flynn could do that with charm.

There isn’t enough wit, romance, or swordplay for the movie to be anything but a tepid Swashbuckler.  The single battle lacks the scope necessary, and is obviously stage-bound.  But the film comes off worse as a drama because its serious elements just aren’t very good; there is little plot, and the character development is unbelievable and forced.  Essex is made into an idiot (he should have been ambitious and proud, not mentally deficient).  Plus the dialog is artificial.

The history of the film is famous.  Davis wanted Warner Brothers to buy the successful play Elizabeth the Queen, and cast her and Laurence Olivier in a film version.  However, Olivier wasn’t available, and wanting a return on their investment, cast Flynn, who Davis couldn’t stand.  Flynn was unhappy with the title, which relegated his character to a supporting role, so after some finagling, the movie was cursed with: The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex.  In a scene where Elizabeth slaps Essex, Davis actually smacked Flynn.  He later put additional oomph into a shove, knocking Davis to the floor.  On screen, this translates to a truly impressive lack of chemistry.  Both Flynn and Davis hated Curtiz (he was a great director, but few actors liked working with him), and Olivia de Havilland had been handed her secondary role as punishment for appearing in Gone With the Wind for a competing studio.

Historically inaccurate, The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex was meant as a “prestige picture,” but it is far from that.  Luckily, everyone involved had far better films either under their belt of yet to come.

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Tower of London (1939)

Oct 011939
 
3,5 reels

Edward IV (Ian Hunter) has usurped the throne from the incompetent Henry VI, and rules with the aide of his brave and intelligent brother, Richard of Gloucester (Basil Rathbone). Richard does help his brother, but mainly with an eye toward helping himself. He sees six individuals in his way to becoming king, and he plans to eliminate them all, including his two young nephews. And if that means his peevish younger brother, the Duke of Clarence (Vincent Price), gets cut down—or drowned in a vat of wine—along the way, that’s all to the better. To do his dirty work he has loyal, club-footed executioner Mord (Boris Karloff), who runs an efficient torture chamber and is willing to kill whoever Richard tells him to. Mord also commands a squad of beggars, who act as spies and gossips for him. Most of the barriers to his success are inconsequential, not counting Henry Tudor, but there is one thorn in his side: young, brave John Wyatt (John Sutton), who, with the help of his love Alice Barton (Nan Grey) and the Queen (Barbara O’Neil), will carry out a plan that may drag Richard down.

Other studios would take historical dramas and focus on pageantry for a prestige picture or on rapid lines and more rapid swordplay for a swashbucker, but Universal had its own set of skills, and it used them to bring out the horror in history. Tower Of London follows Richard the III’s rise and fall from power, and like most versions of the story, it tells it as the Tutors wanted it to be told (hey, it’s good to be the winner). That is, Richard is a calculating fiend, killing adult kin and children with abandon. Much of this view is likely false, but if you are going to go with it, as Shakespeare did before, do it with gusto.

Writer Robert N. Lee, brother to the director Director Rowland V. Lee (who was fresh from directing Rathbone and Karloff in Son of Frankenstein) did not use the Bard’s play, but went to older sources, and wrote his own script. The basics are the same, though  enry VI is now nearly as conniving has his brother, and we get the new character of Mord.

Universal pulled out all the stops for this one, with elaborate castle sets (that would get a good deal of reuse), a large main cast and throngs of extras, and battlefield romps. And into this strides Rathbone, Karloff, Hunter, and a bit behind, Price, and blow everything else away. Rathbone is a wonderful Richard, my cinematic favorite which is high praise as it places him over Laurence Olivier and Ian McKellen, as well as Price in a ’62 rough remake of this film. He’s charming, quick, intelligent, and ruthless. This is a Richard who could rise to the top of the violent political world. Hunter’s Edward is nearly as charming, nearly as quick, reasonably intelligent, and nearly as ruthless, which is why it is so captivating to watch the two play off each other, and why I was rooting for Richard. Mord is a inspired addition, letting us see Richard’s worse instincts come to life. It is another stunning role for Karloff who creates a frightening character, who is all the more so because he’s not some supernatural or science fiction entity, but one who is so very human. Richard is a megalomaniac mastermind, and Mord is a sadist, yet I was ready to cheer for them as they submerged Clarence. Their evil is joyful, and their opponents are mostly idiots.

Some may object to me reviewing this as horror, but where else do the deeds of Richard belong? We have beheadings, brandings, and torture on the rack (and in many other grisly ways), and it’s all done with glee. We have the murder of children, and Richard with dolls of each of his targets that he tosses upon the fire when they die. There’s also rain and fog and fear and screams. That sure sounds like horror to me.

For three-fourths of the run time I had this as a 4-star tour de force, but it falls a bit in the final act, as it was bound to. The problem here is the same with Shakespeare’s play, which is it’s all about Richard (or in this case, Richard and Mord). They are what’s interesting and fun. Henry Tutor is hardly a character, so to have him take down Richard always feels anticlimactic. Tower of London seeks to remedy this by bringing in Wyatt, but he’s a milquetoast nothing next to Richard (just as John Sutton fades to invisibility next to Rathbone and Karloff) and I cared nothing for his relationship with Alice. There needs to be a grand character with a huge personality to compete, and I’ve never seen one in any version of Richard III’s story. (This was Universal, which makes me wonder what Claude Rains was doing at the time.) Well, I’ll just blame history.

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