He campaigned furiously, including sending out a 183-page press release that called him “the George Washington of films, storming the celluloid heights for God and country.” Ads for the picture asked, “What will Oscar say to the world this year?” implying that it would be somehow unpatriotic to vote against it.

In the end, The Apartment won the Best Picture award.

What the Oscar was saying to the world, it turns out, was that it didn’t like The Alamo very much (it won one award, for sound.)

Half a century later, a lot has changed. There are few such self-serving campaigns like Wayne’s — for one thing they don’t work — but politics, advertising, and lobbying still play a big part in the Academy Awards.

As Hollywood debates the merits of this year’s Oscar controversy — the message about torture that has been perceived in Zero Dark Thirty, Kathryn Bigelow’s relentless examination of the hunt for Osama bin Laden — it’s instructive to recall that it’s not always artistic merit that decides these things. People win Oscars because they should have won one before, or because they have earned the sympathy of voters.

In 1962, the same year as Wayne’s Alamo, Elizabeth Taylor won the Best Actress Oscar for her role in Butterfield 8, shortly after recovering from a grave illness that hit her on the same day Academy members got their ballots. She was indeed ill, but by Oscar night — as Anthony Holden recounts in his invaluable history Behind The Oscar — she “seemed to have made a dramatic recovery from her mystery illness.”

Orson Welles, standing, Everett Sloane, left, and Joseph Cotten in a scene from the 1941 American drama film Citizen Kane.

Likewise, people lose because their films offended the powerful: the famous snub of Citizen Kane in 1941 — it lost the Best Picture award to How Green Was My Valley — came after the Hearst newspaper chain campaigned against Orson Welles’s thinly disguised biography of William Randolph Hearst.

In 1953, the drama High Noon, a Western that was seen as an allegory of the Communist witch hunts of the time, lost the award to the rather more anodyne The Greatest Show on Earth.

Sometimes, though, those campaigns don’t work. A Beautiful Mind, the 2002 film about mathematical genius John Nash, was the subject of a whispering campaign that suggested the real-life character was gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that) and an anti-Semite. Rival studios were suspected, but it seemed to make no difference: the movie went on to win the Best Picture award.

Zero Dark Thirty suggests the torture of prisoners played a part in tracking down bin Laden, even though that’s not quite clear — the facts come out only after the torture stops. Some observers, such as filmmaker Michael Moore, argue that the film depicts the brutality of torture more than its benefits.

In any event, while Zero Dark Thirty is nominated as Best Picture of the year, Bigelow was left without an Oscar nomination, and her film is the subject of a petition by some Hollywood actors, including Ed Asner and David Clennon, who wrote on the website truth-out.org that he would not vote for the film in any of its nominated categories.

A similar debate about the historical accuracy of Lincoln is much more low-key. A Connecticut congressman has said the movie misrepresents how legislators voted on the amendment to abolish slavery, showing Connecticut politicians voting against the law when in fact they voted for it. Coincidentally — or not — 60 Minutes did a segment last Sunday praising Daniel Day-Lewis’s performance and commending the authentic historic details of the film.

The famous snub of Citizen Kane in 1941 … came after the Hearst newspaper chain campaigned against Orson Welles’s thinly disguised biography of William Randolph Hearst.

A more common type of campaigning is the seduction of Academy members, a technique perfected by the Weinstein Company when they ran Miramax. Harvey Weinstein’s 1999 campaign for Shakespeare In Love — a $5-million publicity blitz, year-round shmoozing, parties for academy members — is credited with helping defeat the favoured Saving Private Ryan.

The lessons have stuck. Last December, the same day that Republican Congressman John McCain and others were speaking out against the torture depicted in Zero Dark Thirty, Steven Spielberg was showing his nominated film, Lincoln, to Congress with Day-Lewis in attendance. Spielberg had already been at Gettysburg to speak at the 149th anniversary of Lincoln’s famous speech there.

The movie went on to be premiered at the New York Film Festival — just like Martin Scorsese’s 2011 film Hugo, which got some Oscar momentum from its sneak screening there. Souvenir coffee table books were sent to some broadcast film critics.

No one is suggesting voters can be bribed by a book, but the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences is concerned enough by elaborately-wrapped DVDs being sent to members, or kitschy gifts arriving on doorsteps (the 2011 Hawaii-based film The Descendants sent out ukuleles) that it issues ever-tighter restrictions.

DVD packaging must be limited to simple sleeves or boxes. Contacting academy members to promote a film is forbidden. Studios can send only one piece of mail a week. Special screenings shouldn’t become all-you-can-drink parties. Attacking the opposition is against the rules.

Some performers have also spoken out against the excesses of Oscar season —Anthony Hopkins said, “People kissing the backsides of famous producers makes me want to throw up” — but the lobbying still goes on. During the campaign for her 1990 film Wild At Heart, Diane Ladd wrote personal letters to 1,300 Academy members asking for their support (it worked: she was nominated.) In 2011, Melissa Leo posed for glamour shots to push her chances as best supporting actress in The Fighter (it worked: she won.)

Back in 1962, John Wayne’s push for The Alamo was just part of a famously crude campaign from supporting actor candidate Chill Wills, who took out an ad reading, “We of the Alamo cast are praying harder than the real Texans prayed for their lives at the Alamo for Chill Wills to win the Oscar.”

It didn’t work: Peter Ustinov won the supporting actor award for his role in Spartacus. Chill Wills may have gone a little too far. Or maybe he was just a little ahead of his time.

Francis Joins the WACS (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Donald O’Connor – Francis (1950)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=uuXndTusx5A

June 3, 1973 | 1 week at #1

Seen by Martin before? No

What did I expect? A violent western? I did not know much about this movie.

What did I get? An odd mix of brutal realism and unabashed poetry, Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid is an ode to the romantic idea of best friends whom circumstance — well, let us say the realist hand of “society” — has pitted against one another. The movie is slow, stately, and cyclical; Peckinpah wraps himself in the trappings of the western genre and bluffs through the squishiness of the central premise. This anachronistic, cockeyed, soulful movie has scant interest in establishing the reality of its 1881 setting, but it has a patient, off-kilter conviction all its own.

The production of Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid was marked by unusual acrimony. Director Peckinpah and screenwriter Wurlitzer emerged from the process on poor terms, and the version that the studio eventually released — the one that hit #1 — was “butchered” much in the same way Orson Welles’ The Magnificent Ambersons was. Six editors are credited. It is not conventionally possible to see the original print today, as far as I’m aware. On the DVD you will find the 1988 “preview version,” i.e. a cut that Peckinpah prepared before the studio changed it, and possibly the 2005 “special edition,” which is a slightly shorter cut of Peckinpah’s preview version featuring hitherto unreleased footage. I believe I saw the 1988 preview version.

That version has been hailed by some critics as a masterpiece. I don’t think it’s a masterpiece, myself, but it’s very easy to understand why lovers of the western (as opposed to genre tourists who happen to be Coen Bros. fans, say) may have taken it to heart. It’s honest by its own lights, and even as it upends many of the premises of the classic western, it nevertheless gives old-fashioned virtues like honor and friendship their proper due. Truly, this is the western as horse opera, and executed by an artist.

Having already screened and reviewed the bad-mojo cash-in of The Getaway, I was relieved to watch a Peckinpah release that is actually worth a damn. In other words, Peckinpah is here authentically engaged with the material he is directing. The overriding theme of Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid is the irksome salience of “roles” in our daily lives and their tendency to disrupt direct and honest human relations. In that sense it is a pure anti-establishment movie; although it is frequently offhanded and arbitrary (witness the scene in which Dylan is made to recite the contents of a larder), it is not in the ordinary sense irreverent — if such a thing is possible, this is a work of reverent nonconformism. Plus, Peckinpah was too deeply a fan of the western genre to trash it. Either way, this is the kind of movie that demands the word “elegaic” but is a bit too scatterbrained to earn it.

In this movie, Pat Garrett, having been named sheriff of Lincoln County, is commanded by his betters (who include John Chisum) to drive William Bonney, known to us as Billy the Kid, out of Texas territory on pain of death. A bestie of Bonney’s, Garrett is reluctant to carry out this directive, but his role demands it. Coburn’s Garrett, understandably grouchy about all of this, becomes a walking symbol of scarcely solicited duty. Garrett meets with Gov. Lew Wallace, who offers him $1000 to capture Billy the Kid; Garrett gives half the money back, telling him to shove it up his ass. Got it? Our roles are vexatious burdens. Later on, Garrett is assigned a grizzled chaperone in the form of one John W. Poe, who is actually eager to find and kill the outlaw Billy the Kid; Garrett, and by extension the movie, judges him mercilessly for this.

Anyone who invests in “the system,” like Poe, is a joke. Early on, while Billy is briefly apprehended, overzealous deputy sheriff Bob Ollinger begins to needle Billy that he probably ought to start repenting, given that he is to be hanged in a few days. Ollinger, an obnoxious bore, eventually threatens Billy with a shotgun, showing himself to be horribly square and uncool. A few minutes later Billy shoots him dead in the street. Actually this is quite in line with the antiheroism Billy embodies — on two other occasions Billy is shown to murder another man in a decidedly unsporting manner. Plus, contrary to the legend, he has shitty aim.

Aside from the two eponymous principals, Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid features a bunch of ostentatiously contemporary types pretending to be cowboys; nowadays, we would say that it is full of hipsters. As if this isn’t clear enough, you actually have Bob Fucking Dylan Himself standing around inauthentically and doggedly refusing to emote. That the movie is also scored by Dylan tends to alienate the viewer, in that the movie inevitably resembles a classic radio station every time the strains of “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” start up, which is often.

Despite its essential flippancy, Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid is quite a good movie. It’s relaxed and confident; Peckinpah is somehow sufficiently unimpressed by — or maybe obscurely unaware of — his own anti-establishment bent that he doesn’t let it disrupt the proceedings much.

What here smacks of 1973?  The attitude, esp. the soundtrack.

IMDB score: 7.4

My score: 7

Director: Sam Peckinpah

Writer: Rudy Wurlitzer

Starring: James Coburn, Kris Kristofferson, Richard Jaeckel, Katy Jurado, Chill Wills, Barry Sullivan, Jason Robards, Bob Dylan, R. G. Armstrong, Luke Askew, John Beck, Richard Bright, Matt Clark, Rita Coolidge, Jack Dodson, Slim Pickens, Charles Martin Smith, Harry Dean Stanton, Elisha Cook Jr., Bruce Dern

IMDB synopsis: It’s 1881 in New Mexico, and the times they are a’changing. Pat Garrett, erstwhile travelling companion of the outlaw Billy the Kid has become a sheriff, tasked by cattle interests with ridding the territory of Billy. After Billy escapes, Pat assembles a posse and chases him through the territory, culminating in a final confrontation at Fort Sumner, but is unaware of the full scope of the cattle interests’ plans for the New West.

Get it at Amazon!

Bick Benedict is a Texas rancher with a lot of power and influence in his home state. The movie begins with him arriving in Maryland to purchase a horse from Leslie’s father. After seeing and falling head-over-heels in love with her, Bick marries the girl and brings her home to Texas. Director George Stevens emphasizes the difference between the two states by sharply transitioning from rolling green hills to flat brown prairies. Leslie has trouble adjusting at first, but quickly becomes determined to make this her home.

Equally determined to assert herself is Bick’s sister, Luz (Mercedes McCambridge), who runs the ranch. And Leslie’s arrival deeply affects Jett Rink, who works for Luz and wants nothing more than to get rich and leave Texas. When Luz is killed, Rink inherits a plot of land that turns out to have plenty of oil underneath. Bick has the opportunity to cash in, but resists, committed to preserving the Benedict way of life as cattle ranchers, not oil men.

It’s Hudson’s and Dean’s performances that elevate this film. Hudson’s performance is nuanced. From the first few scenes, he’s able to convey the emotions swirling beneath Bick’s skin. He shows Bick as a man of great strength who is frustrated by those who oppose him. Dean, meanwhile, doesn’t just portray Rink as a brooding, lovesick young man. There is real resentment towards the Benedicts and perhaps even a bit of madness brought on by his alcoholism. Dean makes Rink dangerous.

3.5/5

This blog entry by August Ragone gives Chill’s campaign a run for its money. At first glance Ragone appears to be selflessly campaigning on behalf of someone else: actor-stuntman Haruo Nakajima. Nakajima, 83, appeared in small roles in movies like Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai (1954) but he’s far better known as the main actor inside the Godzilla costume from 1954-1972.

The blog entry in question is entitled, “GODZILLA FANS, WIN A RONDO FOR NAKAJIMA! Voting in the ‘Rondo Horror Awards’ Ends April 1.” (The Rondo Award is the horror-fantasy genre’s equivalent of the Oscars.)

Haruo Nakajima (left) taking a well-deserved tea break

A famous photograph of a smiling Mr. Nakajima accompanies Ragone’s article, which concludes with “Let’s get Mr. Nakajima a Rondo because he’s a living legend and deserves it!” You’ll get no argument from me on that point. Mr. Nakajima would certainly be a worthy recipient and I’m sure he’d be delighted to receive one.

However, Ragone’s battle plan for getting Mr. Nakajima that Rondo gives one pause. For the body of the article urges readers to 1) vote for August Ragone, for an interview article he wrote about Mr. Nakajima; 2) vote for August Ragone, for his blog, which occasionally mentions Mr. Nakajima; 3) vote for the August Ragone-hosted fan event entitled “They Called Him Godzilla,” which featured Mr. Nakajima; and 4) vote for the August Ragone-edited issue of Famous Monsters magazine featuring that Rondo-nominated article.

Ragone’s article claims if item number three wins, “I will present this Rondo to Mr. Nakajima, himself!” One assumes he’d keep the others for himself.

[4/2 addendum: Ragone appears to have softened his "campaign" several times since this article first appeared, though the major points remain unchanged.]

All this strikes me as extravagant self-promotion unconvincingly masquerading as selflessness. Ragone, the Ted Baxter of genre historians, is playing on the affections many of us feel toward Mr. Nakajima and his lasting contributions to the kaiju eiga genre. He might benefit tangentially, but it sure reads like Ragone is mainly interested in finagling a couple of awards for himself. The headline, photograph, and conclusion all suggest doing something nice for Mr. Nakajima, but the bulk of the piece screams “vote for ME!”

If you’re a fan of Mr. Nakajima’s and would like to see him presented with a Rondo, I say let’s start a campaign now to ensure Mr. Nakajima receives a Lifetime Achievement Award at next year’s ceremony. Hell, I’d even co-chair that committee with Ragone if it meant Mr. Nakajima getting one.

Directed by Vincente Minnelli, St. Louis 1903. The Smith family has four beautiful daughters, including Esther and little Tootie. 17-year old Esther has fallen in love with the boy next door who has just moved in, John. He however, barely notices her at first. The family is shocked when Mr. Smith reveals that he has been transfered to a nice position in New York, which means that the family has to leave St. Louis, the four daughters learn lessons of life and love, as they prepare to move to New York.

Directed by John Wayne, Based on a true story, In 1836 General Santa Anna and the Mexican army is sweeping across Texas. To be able to stop him, General Sam Houston needs time to get his main force into shape. To buy that time he orders Colonel William Travis to defend a small mission on the Mexicans’ route at all costs. On April 21, 1836 where General Sam Houston’s rag-tag army of Texans took on and defeated Santa Anna’s army which led to the indepedence of Texas.

Directed by Edward Buzzell, Bud, a cadet at Winsocki Military Academy, sends an invitation to movie star Lucille Ball to come to Winsocki’s big dance. Ball’s publicity-hungry agent convinces her to go in order to boost her career. Complications arise when Bud’s girlfriend Helen unexpectedly shows up, How will Miss Ball handle this situation with Bud and Helen?

This sweeping tale captures the essence of Texas on a staggering scale as it chronicles the life and times of cattleman Jordan “Bick” Benedict, his naive young society wife, Leslie, and three generations…A sensational story of power, love, cattle barons, and oil tycoons… (Amazon.com)

Credit: movieweb.com

Starring Elizabeth Taylor, Rock Hudson, and James Dean.

Directed by George Stevens, who won the Oscar for Best Director in 1957.

Fun Fact: [Giant] was the highest grossing film in Warner Bros. history until the release of Superman (1978). (IMDB)

Based on Edna Ferber’s book of the same title, Giant is as big as it sounds. At three hours and twenty-one minutes, the story of the land-rich Benedicts comes alive amidst the landscape of the expansive ranch location and wide open spaces.

As Gone With the Wind has cultural and historical significance to the “Old South” (Civil War era), Giant is the same with the period after WWI to the 1950s. We follow the Benedicts as they run their cattle ranching business until they are forced to change with the times and share a piece of the booming oil industry. The family stays wealthy either way but for Bick, there is always a longing for the days of old when ranching was the life.

A subplot of the film covers the theme of racism, as Mexicans who live and work in Texas are frequently seen as inferior. The issue of female equality is also displayed through Bick’s strong-willed wife Leslie, who stands up for her voice to be heard.

Bick Benedict: Leslie… don’t behave like that… making a fuss o’er those people. You’re a Texan now.
Leslie Benedict: Is that a state of mind? I’m still myself…
Bick Benedict: You’re my wife now, honey, you’re a Benedict.
Leslie Benedict: I still have a mind of my own. Elsewhere being gracious is acceptable.

Performances by Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor are impeccable, from the Benedicts’ days as twenty-somethings to their days as grandparents. This was a big role for Hudson, while Taylor was already an A-list star (and first-billed on the credits). The film is also the first to have actors play significantly older versions of their characters through the use of makeup. Previously, older actors would be used and then “de-aged” to look younger.

Credit: missdelite.blogspot.com

James Dean was so completely immersed in his character that he hardly ever changed out of his costume. (IMDB)

A strong supporting cast is lead by James Dean, Giant being his third and final film before his tragic death in 1955. His character Jett works as a ranchhand for Bick and Bick’s sister Luz (played by Mercedes McCambridge), who has a soft spot for Jett. Luz leaves Jett a small piece of land and despite Bick offering an amount of money that is significantly higher than its value, Jett holds onto it as he knows the importance of land. It is that specific scene Dean is famous for stealing the show from Hudson despite the script having Bick dominate. Dean’s reactions and mannerisms, along with fiddling with a rope in his hand — even going as far as displaying a cowboy trick (something the actor had learned from real Texans) — has us pay much more attention to him. See the four minute segment by clicking below.

James Dean in Giant

Other supporting players include Dennis Hopper (as Bick and Leslie’s son) and Sal Mineo (as a young Mexican who goes off to war). Both actors had also previously appeared in Rebel Without a Cause (1955) with Dean. Newcomer Carroll Baker played Bick and Leslie’s daughter, and Chill Wills and Earl Holliman also make appearances.

George Stevens was a director who was a perfectionist. He liked to get the shot right when filming, which meant taking it from every angle possible. There were several hours of footage and the editing process took a year to accomplish. The film is slow-moving at times, but the message of each scene is clear. For example, a young man who finally strikes oil gets covered in it and despite being filthy, runs in victory to tell the clean-cut Benedicts. The foreshadowing indicates the instant wealth will corrupt him and further isolate him from everyone. The love of money is contrasted against the love of land and the love of family.

Leslie Benedict: Money isn’t everything, Jett.
Jett Rink: Not when you’ve got it.

In conclusion, if you like films with some grandeur, are interested in a family saga dealing with the experiences of their day, or just enjoy classic Hollywood stars coming into their own, you will undoubtedly value Giant.

References

Giant. 1956. DVD Bonus Materials. Documentaries: Memories of Giant and Return to Giant.

Internet Movie Database. Giant. Trivia. http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0049261/trivia

Maggie and Brick in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

Everybody has an opinion and as readers, you know I certainly do.  I thought it would be apropos  post my favorite Elizabeth Taylor movies.  Probably there’s been hundreds of articles written in newspapers today but I have been working all day and have not seen the news or a newspaper.  So here’s my list not in alphabetical order:

1. A Place in the Sun - A triumvirate of talent; Elizabeth Taylor, Montgomery Cliff, Shelley Winters.  Taylor portrays Angela Vickers,  gorgeous and sophisticated.
2. Butterfield 8 – Elizabeth is beautiful fashion model, Gloria Wandrous who has an illicit affair with a married man.
3. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof – Maggie the cat, Elizabeth starred opposite Paul Newman.  Hard to tell who was more gorgeous!
   
4. Cleopatra – Offered this role, Taylor said she would only do it if they paid her a million dollars and 10% of the gross.  And they did so she did.  And she had Richard Burton to toy with on and off the screen.
5. Giant – Elizabeth is joined by a star-studded cast including Rock Hudson, James Dean, Rod Taylor, Chill Wills, Carroll Baker, Sal Mineo and Dennis Hopper.  I loved this movie but not because of Taylor, this was all about Dean.
6. National Velvet - Velvet Brown is portrayed by the young Elizabeth Taylor who once again is surrounded by strong actors; Mickey Rooney and Angela Lansbury.  This movie was probably the turning point in her career.
   
7. Raintree County – Susanna Drake, a lovely Southern belle who also happens to have inherited the crazy gene.  And again, Taylor is in a movie with lots of talent including Agnes Moorhead, Rod Taylor, Lee Marvin, Eva Marie Saint, and one of her favorite (and mine) co-stars, Montgomery Cliff.
8. Suddenly Last Summer – Another triumvirate of talent; Liz joins Montgomery Cliff again and Katherine Hepburn.  This time her character, Catherine Holly is driven to insanity.
9. The Sandpiper – A twenty-something free spirit with an illegitimate son whom she home-schools and lives with  on the beach in Big Sur.  She plays the seductress who leads the minister astray.
10. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? – Saving the best for last (I think) Elizabeth Taylor relishes her role as the castrating wife, drinking herself into alternative rages, seductions, and pitiful slobbering denial.  She was at her best in this movie and the Academy knew it.  She walked away with Best Actress Oscar for this stellar performance which was enhanced by her co-star Richard Burton and Sandy Dennis and George Segal.
    

Related Articles

• Liza Minnelli Remembers Elizabeth Taylor (perezhilton.com)
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John H. Auer‘s The City That Never Sleeps is an odd hodgepodge of a film. It crosses noir with docudrama with the guardian angel film. Its villains, Hayes Stewart, Lydia Biddel, and Penrod Biddel, are far more compelling than the lead Johnny Kelly. He’s a cop dissatisfied with his life. His hardworking wife Kathy Kelly fears he’s distant due to her higher earning potential, and that may be, but there’s a burlesque dancer Sally “Angel Face” Connors who’s stolen his attention with her shimmies, and she’s tired of sharing him. Johnny hatches a mad plan to pull one shady deal and bring in enough tainted money to run away with his honey. One side character gets drawn into all their stories, and he’s the mechanical man. He’s a great example of how a city can tear down a man, make him lose his humanity, yet offer redemption.

There’s a lot of frustration in this film. Everyone wants more than “what they got.” Sally seems like a harlot for stealing another woman’s man, but she’s not satisfied with her life, and she knows her situation isn’t right. She wants to get out of the club and be a decent girl. She once had dreams. She went to the big city to become a ballerina. She ended up a stripper. Johnny, representing law and order, must be a break from all the jerks that ogle and hassle her, but her time with him and whatever respite it offers are brief. He has to go home at some point to Kathy. She couldn’t get the career she wanted, and she doesn’t even own her own man, and she needs something to change.

Johnny doesn’t seem to realize that no good comes to men that romance women named Angel Face, and he can’t keep away from her, so Sally finally issues her ultimatum. He has to choose between her or Kathy. Johnny’s dissatisfied enough with his life to hatch his crazy scheme. He’s second generation cop, and he’s watched his father work hard for little payoff. Johnny’s wife works, and she likes it, but Johnny seems a traditionalist. He fantasizes about running off with his doll and being the one to save them from the city. Life elsewhere will be better despite how it’s earned or started.

Gregg Warren pines for Sally. He’s a failed actor turned mechanical man. He performs nightly and repeatedly in the club’s front window. Instead of portraying great or funny characters, he’s reduced to imitating an animated mannequin. The less human he seems the more successful he is at his job. He wants more than that. He dreams of stepping out of his glass coffin and onto the stage with Sally. He’ll save her from bumping and grinding by putting her in his comedy act, and she’ll save him. He doesn’t seem to have enough confidence or desire to do it solo, so he’ll hitch his star to Sally to get the gig. While she provides the pulchritude and presence, he’ll provide the brains behind the routine. Sally repeatedly turns him down. She prefers Johnny.

Warren doesn’t realize it, but a third triangle will affect him. Penrod Biddel is a corrupt lawyer, and he’s getting antsy about his number two, Hayes Stewart. Penrod thinks Hayes is getting too big for his britches, so he wants him out of town. Penrod hires Johnny to take care of his problem. Hayes can cool his heels in jail in another state where there’s a warrant out for his arrest. Penrod doesn’t realize his wife Lydia’s been romanced and won by Hayes. Mirroring Johnny and Sally, the two of them are planning their own new life also funded by Penrod’s money. Then their plans go awry.

Gregg is completely oblivious to their drama until he gets to view the second act. He witnesses a murder from his window box. All he can do is be as robotic as possible to save his own life. He needs to keep the murderer thinking that Gregg’s not a real man. The aspect of his job that has dehumanized him the most is what saves his life temporarily. He keeps performing until he can take a break. Meanwhile the murderer isn’t one hundred percent convinced that a dummy was in the window, and he’s going to hang around until he finds out.

The murderer causes more trouble in the club, and this act hits close to home for Johnny. He’s angry, and he needs to catch the criminal now. Gregg isn’t willing to help until Sally explains what has happened. Then Gregg, who’s been the chump of the film until now, commits his act of heroism. He will resume his performance in the window and become live bait for the killer. Gregg needs to commit the best performance of his life in order to keep his own.

Sally finally realizes that Gregg is a good man, and her feelings for him surface. She freaks out about Gregg risking his life. She begs him to stop, to get out of the window, and to save himself. She offers to join his act. Gregg wavers between exhaustion and exhilaration. Sally cares for him! He’s overwhelmed, and he breaks character in one small, but important way. He lets tears fall down his face. His tears are noticed by a couple, and when they comment on them, the murderer overhears. He has to get rid of this witness.

You’ll have to watch the film to learn whether Gregg survives, but if you’ve enjoyed reading my piece, please consider giving to a great cause, the For the Love of Film (Noir) Blogathon hosted by The Self-Styled Siren and Ferdy on Films, which benefits the Film Noir Foundation. Your contribution will help restore another great film noir. Please click on the Maltese Falcon below to make a donation.

But it’s also one of the saddest “family” films I’ve ever seen. I would certainly never show it to a child under the age of 12, and would only show it to a child 12 or older if they knew the basic story and specifically requested to see it. I’ve seen The Yearling called “heart-warming,” but I found it emotionally draining and depressing.

I don’t know why so many animal stories for young people involve a beloved pet dying, but they do. Unlike The Yearling, however, the animals in Where the Red Fern Grows and Old Yeller at least die after a heroic struggle of some kind. In The Yearling, the 12-year-old protagonist is forced to shoot his beloved deer, whom he raised from a fawn, because it’s eating their cash crops. The message, obviously, is that life is hard, and growing up and becoming a man involves unpleasant tasks, but it still left me feeling more dejected than inspired.

Young Jody Baxter (Claude Jarman, Jr.) is a dreamer — sweet and sensitive despite his hardscrabble life in the Florida scrub country in the late 19th century. He has an easy rapport with his father, Ezra “Penny” Baxter (Gregory Peck), but a more difficult relationship with his mother, Orry (Jane Wyman), who is as hard and unforgiving as pioneer women come. Early in the film, Penny tells his wife, “Don’t be afraid to love the boy.” The film cuts to a scene of Wyman standing in front of the graves of all her dead children, David Baxter, who died at the age of 1 year, 3 months, Ora Baxter, who died at the age of 2 years, 4 months, and Ezra, Jr., who was stillborn, and we see precisely why she is afraid to let down her guard around her only son.

Jody yearns for a little pet of his own, but his parents never let him have one for practical reasons. After Penny is bit by a rattlesnake, however, he shoots a doe for its heart and liver, which can pull the poison from his wound. (I’m pretty sure this is what we would now call “unscientific.”) The doe leaves behind a little fawn, which Jody’s parents allow him to adopt. Jody names the fawn “Flag.”

But why? Why do they finally relent in that situation? The Baxters are practical people who could have seen the handwriting on the wall. When you’re a family that depends on every last penny of income your meager crops provide, having a domesticated deer living on your farm is bound to cause trouble.

And trouble Flag causes. Jody’s parents are patient after the year-old Flag eats a large portion of their cash crop of tobacco. Penny and Jody plant a new crop of corn to help make up for the loss. But when Flag eats most of the corn, Jody promises to erect a fence so tall that Flag won’t be able to get over it. His father injures his back, and can’t help him, even though he wants to.

If this was just a story about learning responsibility, then Jody toiling far into the night, in the rain, over the course of several days, all alone, just to build a fence (which appears to be more than six-feet tall) to not only save his family’s crop but also the life of his beloved pet would be enough. But the moment Flag easily jumps over the fence and goes back to work on the corn, my heart dropped. I knew what was coming next, but still couldn’t quite believe it when it happened.

There are plenty of positive interpretations of The Yearling. Death is a part of life, and we all must learn this sooner or later. It could also be seen as a young boy coming to understand his mother’s pain and hardship. Like her, he has now lost something fragile and beautiful that died too young. But these were all things my head understood after watching the movie. My heart felt empty, as though I had just been shown the utter futility of cherishing anything frivolous or out of the ordinary.

The Yearling won three Academy Awards; one for Best Color Interior Direction (Cedric Gibbons, Paul Groesse, and Edwin B. Willis), one for Best Color Cinematography (Charles Rosher, Leonard Smith, and Arthur Arling), and one honorary Oscar for the young star of the film, Claude Jarman, Jr., who was given an award for “Outstanding Child Actor of 1946.” I thought that Jarman’s performance was good, but I didn’t believe him during two scenes in which he registers horror and disbelief. Peck is good, as always, but he seems miscast. He registers earnestness and decency, but his accent is never quite right. Wyman, I thought, gave the best performance in the film, which was impressive, considering how unsympathetic her character was for most of the running time.

Oh, and there’s a disclaimer at the end that all scenes involving animals were supervised by the American Humane Association. We’re used to seeing this now, but it was fairly new in the ’40s. After several horses were killed during the making of Charge of the Light Brigade (1936) and Jesse James (1939), there were numerous audience protests, which led to supervision by American Humane of most Hollywood films involving animal performers. This said, I’d really like to see behind the scenes for the amazing sequence in which Penny and Jody hunt a bear, and their dogs attack it over and over. I guess the bear was just hugging the dogs before it tossed them safely away, but it looked pretty damned real to me.

Cuestiones ideológicas aparte, destaca la famosa música de Dimitri Tiomkin, en particular su excepcional Overtura.

It all began in 1911, with the first Alamo movie titled The Immortal Alamo. This film has since been lost to history, but lobby cards of screen shots still exist in their rare form. Three years later, The Siege and Fall of the Alamo would be filmed, and no remnants remain of this classic movie starring Ray Myers as Crockett. In 1915, D.W Griffith would spin his version of the story, with the highly racist and downright laughable Martyrs of the Alamo. 1926 would have Davy Crockett at the Fall of the Alamo, and then a semi-remake of that in 1937 with Heroes of the Alamo.

The Alamo facade from D.W Griffith’s “Martyrs of the Alamo”.

In the 1950′s, fresh off Walt Disney’s Davy Crockett craze, The Last Command would be made, starring Sterling Hayden and Arthur Hunnicut. Although it was the best Alamo film until that time, it would be no match for John Wayne’s take just five years later. After his 1960 film, buffs would have to wait twenty-seven years, when the mini-series Thirteen Days to Glory would be televised. This is the version that has been hacked apart by film critics and historians alike, even though it was the most accurate version up until that time.

Sterling Hayden, Arthur Hunnicut, Richard Carlson, and Ernest Borgnine, among others in the cast of “The Last Command”.

Just when no one thought the market could bear another Alamo movie, John Lee Hancock directed The Alamo, in 2004. This was a critical and commercial flop. Despite its immense budget of $90 million, and billing itself as the most accurate Alamo movie ever made, it angered people because it basically tore apart the legends surrounding Texan heroes such as David Crockett, James Bowie, and William Barrett Travis, and all but ignored the heroics of courier James Butler Bonham.

Although there have been all these adaptations, when discussing the Alamo battle and cinema, only two come up. They of course are Wayne’s and Hancock’s, both going by the exact same name, and each one unique in its own right.

But which one of these films are better?

Most Alamo buffs will say that they enjoy both, as I do. But it is a hard decision to make. Do you pick the patriotic and triumphant 1960 version? Or the more accurate, better choreographed 2004 version? In order to decide which is better, I will compare everything having to do with the two movies, and by the end, hopefully we can figure out which film is the better version.

Music

It seems a random place to start, but let’s take a look at the two soundtracks. The 1960 film had Hollywood legend Dmitri Tiomkin at the helm, and he delivered what I feel is the best film score of his career, and one that I rank top five in all the movies ever made. From the haunting main title until the incredible, rip-roaring final assault, this soundtrack gave Carter Burwell, composer for the 2004 film, a run for his money.

But Burwell was up to the challenge, and delivered what I consider to be the best film score in the last decade. Deguello de Crockett is something I consider very enjoyable, and the music during the final battle scene (which is divided into six parts) is not only haunting itself, but a real tear-jerker.

When deciding which of these is better, it is very difficult. I could happily listen to either of these any day, but I will give the slight edge, and by slight, I mean minuscule, to Carter Burwell.

Acting: David Crockett

Both of these portrayals are stark in contrast. John Wayne gave Crockett the almighty, larger-than-life look that people at the time were interested in seeing. However, in the politically correct world we live in today, our heroes are more subject to accuracy. For that, Hancock chose to make Bill Bob Thornton’s Crockett a little more believable. He is intelligent, yet not as outspoken as Wayne’s. He is a hero, but acknowledges how exaggerated the stories are about him. And more importantly, Hancock’s film takes note of there being a little animosity between Crockett and Bowie, as these two were superstars of their time. Although I don’t know how it would have been, I don’t think it would have been love at first sight as seen in Wayne’s version.

Billy Bob Thornton as David Crockett.

The edge here will go to Thornton’s Crockett, because he was really into his character, and in addition to that, actually resembled portraits of the real Crockett. When Wayne made his version, he did not want to star in it, but to get financial backing they made him. With such immense pressure on him as the director, you could tell he was not totally into his character. That and the fact he appeared in the same clothes he wore in almost every western– a blue shirt and a leather vest, went against him. The coonskin cap did get more screen time in his version though, and whether or not Crockett wore it full-time at the Alamo is irrelevant. I think it was something that needed to be in Hancock’s version.

Acting: James Bowie

Both versions did a good job of displaying the difference of opinions between Bowie and the Alamo commander William Travis. Both depict him as the ruffian, knife-fighter who does not take any nonsense from anybody, including his superiors. Jason Patric was perfect for the role, in both looks, personality, and persona, though I wish he was a bit more emotional.

Richard Widmark, who played Bowie in Wayne’s version, was by no means flawless. Often times he seemed over the top, but I still found him more enjoyable, despite the ridiculous rifle they made him carry around, and his constant and endless threats to pull his men out of the fort.

Richard Widmark and John Wayne as Bowie and Crockett, respectively.

I will still give the edge to Widmark, because along with Wayne, he epitomized what it meant to be a tough guy in the old west. The fate of his slave at the Alamo is uncertain, but I thought Widmark nailed the situation perfectly, but Patric was also good in his portrayal, of a much more brutally honest situation.

Acting: William Barret Travis

It is well known in history that Travis was not so well liked among his peers and subordinates. Whether or not the hatred was as drastic as in Wayne’s version will never be known. But this comparison is not comparing accuracy just yet, just the acting. Shakespearean trained Lithuanian actor Laurence Harvey got the part in 1960, and although his obvious European accent did nothing but throw his character off a bit, I felt he was simply the better actor at times.

Wayne made it a point to have the audience, and characters, despise Travis, so that we could all witness his transformation at the near-end of the movie, when he gives the speech telling his men no help will arrive. Harvey was nearly perfect in achieving that hatred with his arrogance, and then losing it and achieving honor. Patrick Wilson’s version, as seen in 2004, was close to Harvey’s, but was not quite there.

Patrick Wilson as Travis.

It showed a little more of his personal life, showing him signing the divorce papers, but I thought Wilson looked too awkward in that scene, whether or not that was intentional. I thought Wilson’s portrayal was extremely dry until the end, but his final speech to the men will top everything that Harvey did in 1960, leaving me no choice but to award Wilson with a slight edge over Harvey.

Acting: Supporting Cast

Let me just come right out and say it, John Wayne’s supporting cast blows Hancock’s right out of the water. I cannot even say how great they were, because to put into words the character portrayals by veteran actors Chill Wills, Hank Worden, Chuck Roberson, Denver Pyle, and Ken Curtis would not do them justice.

Crockett and his Tennesseans, with Chill Wills next to Wayne in the foreground.

Although all of those above actors, with the exception of  Curtis as Captain Dickinson, played fictional characters, it was well worth the loss of accuracy to see such tremendous performances. These men were shown to be lighthearted and humorous, making the time just fly by when watching them.

James Bonham was also given more screen time, although his ride and the news he brings with him were highly fictionalized,  and almost laugh-out-loud horrible, it still acknowledged him as one of the many Alamo heroes.

In the 2004 version, Bonham’s spoken dialogue was reduced to a few sentences, after his role was chopped away in the editing room. The supporting cast was also not as lovable, and maybe that is due to the accuracy factor. These men were shown to be land-grabbers and slave holders, and although that may have been true in real life, I felt it hurt the film to have the director go out of his way to let the audience know it. Leon Rippy’s character of William Ward was enjoyable, and the Esparza family was given ample screen time, but that is about it. Juan Seguin was also given a major role in Hancock’s, whereas he was inaccurately portrayed in Wayne’s, by shown to be present at the time of the final battle when he was really with Houston.

It also must be mentioned the portrayal of the Mexican soldiers in both versions. Even though they were shown to be gallant and proud in Wayne’s version, they were not nearly given enough dialogue warranted in a film that stretched nearly three and a half hours. Hancock’s version did a great job with Emilio Echevarria as General Santa Anna, portraying him as a tyrant who would not listen to the warnings of his generals. Wayne’s version shows Santa Anna twice, with him only receiving one sentence just minutes away from the film’s conclusion.

Final Battle Scenes

For an Alamo movie, whether or not one will enjoy it usually comes down to the final battle scene. Because both of these movies featured completely different portrayals, with Wayne’s being in the day, and Hancock’s at night, it makes it very easy to compare the two.

Once again, we will put aside historical accuracy as it is fact that the Alamo battle occurred in the pre-dawn hours of March 6, as shown perfectly in the 2004 version. Hancock did an excellent job in filming a highly complex scene, because of the fact he shot it at night. However, his use of computer generated soldiers takes away from the film, as it is glaringly obvious in some scenes. That and the fact that a smoke ring floats right across the screen after a cannon shot. We all know that smoke rings can only be caused when firing a blank round. This highly irritates me and I still wonder to this day why it was not edited out.

Theater lobby poster for Wayne’s Alamo film.

When it comes to Wayne’s version, the word grandiosity comes to mind. He spared no expense in using nearly five thousand extras for the attack scenes, with each regiment wearing a different color uniform. Whether or not that was the case in real life, it added to the immensity of the film project. He also included cavalry, which added to the splendor of the final battle, when twenty-or-so riders come galloping towards the palisade before they are cut down by Crockett’s riflemen.

The winner in this category will be John Wayne’s. To this day, it is my favorite battle scene in any movie. Rarely has one like that, especially when you consider how old it is, been filmed. There are a few obvious errors, such as a dummy being used near a wall when a cannon explodes, but for the day, that was expected.

The Death of the Alamo Heroes

Unfortunately, when looking at this category, accuracy has to come into mind. In the 2004 version, Wilson’s Travis was shot in the forehead by a rifle, when he then slumped to the ground dead. This was very blunt, but also the way I was expecting, because that is what actually happened. Harvey’s portrayal was not so subtle. He takes on two Mexican soldiers in a sword fight, before getting shot twice, and then for no apparent reason, he breaks the sword over his knee and throws the handle towards the approaching enemy, before falling to the ground dead. The scene really could have went without the over-dramatic nature of his death.

When it came to Bowie, both movies showed him being sick or injured and in bed during the final assault. We all know that Bowie was ill with a form of pneumonia that left him nearly crippled at the time of the battle. In the 1960 version, Widmark is up and fighting until he gets injured halfway through the battle and is forced to lay down in a bed. In the 2004 version, Patric is barely able to sit up, and slowly lifts up two pistols and kills two Mexican soldiers before being bayoneted to death. This is the more realistic scenario. But Widmark’s character, who carries a ridiculous ten-shot rifle, blasts away a charging group of soldiers, then fires two pistols, and is also able to slit another one in the throat with his famous knife before being bayoneted himself. Although heroic, it was also highly ridiculous.

Crockett’s death, meanwhile, still causes controversy to this day. Did he die fighting, or was he taken alive and executed after the battle? We will never know, but luckily, these films got to show us both sides of the spectrum. Thornton’s Crockett is cornered in the Alamo church and attempts to go down swinging. When the next scenes opens, he is kneeling down after the battle and he is given the option to surrender. This scene was very emotional and brought a tear to our eyes as he is finally killed.

Wayne’s Crockett impaled by a lancer during his last stand.

Wayne’s Crockett ends up running halfway across the compound with a torch, gets lanced in the chest, and then stumbles into the gun powder room. He then tosses the torch in, and the place blows itself to smithereens. That scene always makes me smile, because Wayne’s character is basically saying to the audience, “They may get me, but I’m gonna take a lot of ‘em with me!”

The film with the edge in death scenes goes to Hancock’s version. They were more emotional and depressing, and combined with the eerie score of Burwell, it was a perfect marriage of sight and sound.

Historical Accuracy

It could take the length of a book to compare and contrast the various inaccuracies in both movies, but we will just go over the most obvious. In John Wayne’s version, the final battle takes place in broad daylight, with drums and music before the final march. The 2004 version shows just what it was in real life; a dark, surprise attack.

The deaths of the characters, as noted above, also heavily lean toward Hancock’s version, as do the way there were dressed and what they did in their personal lives, such as own slaves.

It is also worthy to note that the Mexican numbers were most likely around 3,000-4,000, and not 7,000 as depicted in Wayne’s version. The Alamo forces numbered around 250, but it is mentioned that they have 185 in Wayne’s version.

Critical Reaction

Both films were basically torn apart by the critics, but loved by the history buffs. People that did not enjoy history who saw these movies obviously did not enjoy the film. When looking at the IMDB ratings for both, John Wayne’s version stands at a very solid 6.7 rating with 5,318 votes. John Lee Hancock’s, meanwhile, has a mediocre 5.9 rating with 9,855 votes.

When it came to awards, Wayne’s version was recognized by various institutions, while Hancock’s was only nominated for one, which was a Harry Award in 2005. Wayne’s version would be nominated for seven Academy Awards, for Best Sound (winner), Best Supporting Actor for Chill Wills, Best Color Cinematography, Best Editing, Best Music, and most importantly, Best Picture. It also took home a Golden Globe, three Laurel Awards, and a Bronze Wrangler Award.

Final Thoughts

Both of these movies are very close to my heart. Both are alike and different in so many ways. Even after mapping out what I like and dislike in the two versions, it is still very difficult. Either way, these movies both showed ordinary men standing up for what they feel is right. Whether or not you agree with their politics is one thing, but you cannot discount the fact that they gave their lives for the dream that was Texas.

For that, I will go ahead and say that John Wayne’s 1960 version is my favorite of the two. The reason is, it did so much to build up all the characters, especially the supporting cast of Wayne’s Tennesseans, by showing how fun and lovable they were. All this build up led the audience to feel really sad when the characters died at the end of the film. Meanwhile, Hancock’s version went out of its way to show them as ordinary, almost to debunk and destroy their hero stature. With the exception of Crockett, there really is not as much sadness felt when the characters were killed at the end.

Alamo historian and author Ned Huthmacher, who penned a novel titled, One Domingo Morning: The Story of Alamo Joe once said to me, when asked about which movie was better, that, “John Lee Hancock’s version is by far and away the better of the two, but that does not make it my favorite, or more enjoyable.”

A restaurant chain might seem an unlikely subject for a big-budget, Technicolor, Hollywood musical, but clearly the young, attractive waitresses in their crisp black and white uniforms were enough of a hook. The film opens with the following portentous prologue:

“When Fred Harvey pushed his chain of restaurants farther and farther west along the lengthening tracks of the Santa Fe, he brought with him one of the first civilizing forces this land had known … the Harvey Girls. These winsome waitresses conquered the west as surely as the Davy Crocketts and the Kit Carsons — not with powder horn and rifle, but with a beefsteak and a cup of coffee. To these unsung pioneers, whose successors today still carry on in the same tradition, we sincerely dedicate this motion picture.”

If all this is to be taken seriously, then who wouldn’t want to lionize these distaff settlers? I haven’t read Samuel Hopkins Adams’s 1942 novel that this film is based on, but it must have been a good story for Hollywood to want to pick it up. Or maybe it was just that Johnny Mercer and Harry Warren realized what a catchy rhythm the phrase “on the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe” had.

After the prologue and credits, the film opens on a shot of a moving train. Susan Bradley (Garland) is standing on the deck of the caboose, singing a forgettable song about love. She is heading out west to marry a man whom she only knows from the florid love letters he has written her. When her suitor, H.H. Hartsey (Chill Wills), turns out to be a functionally illiterate cowpoke who had a friend play Cyrano for him by penning the letters himself, Susan parts with him (mostly amicably), and becomes a Harvey girl.

The dramatic conflict, such as it is, comes from the local saloon and gambling house, which also features dancing girls. The owner of the palace of sin, Ned Trent (John Hodiak), and his star attraction, Em (played by a young and foxy Angela Lansbury), fear that the opening of the Harvey House will usher in a new era of respectability and crush their business. In real life of course, Trent’s girls would have been prostitutes and Em would have been their madam, but in the world of 1940s M-G-M musicals, dancing the cancan for hooting and hollering cowboys was about as scandalous as they could get.

Garland and Lansbury both give good performances, and are backed up by a large and talented cast. Virginia O’Brien (as the Harvey girl “Alma from Ohio”) is tough and sassy, and Ray Bolger, most famous for playing the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz (1939), here gets to play the Cowardly Homosexual, a popular character type in Hollywood pictures for decades. While his sexual preference is never identified outright, Bolger’s character’s effeminacy and fear of any butch labor (such as shoeing horses), as well as his spirited prancing, leaping, and tap dancing make it clear that he doesn’t have any designs on the ladies.

The Harvey Girls is an entertaining mix of musical and western. But if director George Sidney aspired for it to be anything more than breezy entertainment, it doesn’t show. Judy Garland is always a delight, but Vincente Minnelli’s ability to coax a nuanced performance from her and to tell an engaging story from beginning to end in a musical is sorely missed here. The Harvey Girls is enjoyable, but it’s no Meet Me in St. Louis (1944). Also, aside from the standout song, “On the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe” (which won an Academy Award for best song), no musical number in the picture really stands out.

A year after she starred as the eponymous Laura (Otto Preminger’s 1944 classic that is also frequently referred to as a noir even though it really has very few characteristics of one, aside from being filmed in black and white), Gene Tierney created a memorably unhinged character named Ellen Berent.

When we first meet Ellen, the first thing we see is her beauty. Sitting across from novelist Richard Harland (Cornel Wilde) in the lounge car of a train, surrounded by green walls, her dark hair and pale face offset by her bright red lips, she looks like a porcelain doll come to life. Quickly, however, we notice something else. The way she is staring at him is predatory. The way she doesn’t speak for a long time after he answers a question is strange. She is beautiful, but there is something wrong with her. We can guess, however, that his relationship with Ellen won’t have a happy ending.

If only Richard saw what the audience can see. Of course, the audience also has the advantage of a framing device. In the first scene of Leave Her to Heaven, we see Richard return to Deer Lake, Maine. His friends and neighbors look at him strangely. As they whisper among themselves, we learn that he has just gotten out of prison after a two-year stint, but we don’t know what the charge was.

Most of the story is told in flashback. Beginning with the scene on the train, we see how Richard fell into Ellen’s clutches. After they disembark, they find that they are both guests at Rancho Jacinto, in New Mexico, where Ellen has gone to scatter her father’s ashes. After telling Richard several times how much he looks like her father (even though a framed photograph of the man looks nothing like Cornel Wilde), the scene in which the stone-faced Tierney rides a horse and scatters her father’s ashes in the mountains is one of the most striking in the picture. When Richard agrees to marry her soon after, it is at her urging. Marrying her is something he thinks he wants, but the words “Will you marry me” never escape his lips. He is caught in her web.

After their marriage, Ellen and Richard go away to his cabin in Maine. She resents the intrusion of anyone else into their lives, such as her sister Ruth (Jeanne Crain) or Richard’s younger brother Danny (Darryl Hickman), who is recovering from polio, and her resentment has deadly consequences.

Ellen is devious, but it’s not always clear how conscious she is of her own cunning. Although the other characters speak of how unnaturally close she was to her father, and how she loves with a childish ferocity that can be dangerous, the viewer is not privy to any deeper psychological insights. There are no scenes of her childhood or flashbacks to any trauma that might have precipitated her madness. It’s refreshing to have a character with sociopathic tendencies that have no pat explanation, but some insight into the jealousy that drives her might have helped flesh out the character.

So what is it that makes Leave Her to Heaven a film noir? The classification is a slippery one, and has become popular enough that nearly every black and white film from the ’40s that is not a musical or a comedy has been called a film noir at some point. In one of the first treatises on the subject, the 1955 book Panorama du film noir américain 1941–1953, French film critics Raymond Borde and Etienne Chaumeton identified the five main facets of film noir. They said that it is “oneiric, strange, erotic, ambivalent, and cruel.” Over the years, the term film noir has grown to encompass certain stylistic elements as well. Stark black and white cinematography and unbalanced constructions that grew out of German Expressionism are both hallmarks of noir, as is a pervading sense of doom.

So does Leave Her to Heaven contain any of these elements? It certainly could be called “strange,” but it’s not particularly dreamlike. It’s not very erotic, either, since Ellen seems to capture Richard in a web that is more psychological than it is sexual. Her actions are sometimes cruel, but the picture as a whole is not terribly ambivalent. Ellen may arouse feelings of both pity and hatred in the viewer, but she is still presented in a straightforward way. She has no crises of conscience or confusion about what she wants. And the lush Technicolor cinematography really pushes Leave Her to Heaven out of the noir category.

Leave Her to Heaven is a melodrama with a couple of shocking scenes, a sociopathic main character, and a courtroom denouement that drags down the pacing of the picture, but which does feature an enjoyable performance by Vincent Price as one of Ellen’s old flames who is now a prosecutor. It is not a film noir, unless we can divorce style from content. The absence of black and white cinematography and a real sense of doom (or a truly unhappy ending) means that Leave Her to Heaven just doesn’t qualify as a film noir. Of course, this shouldn’t stop anyone from seeing it. Whatever its genre, it’s an effective film with an interesting performance by a beautiful actress who didn’t exhibit a great deal of range in any of her roles, but who is chilling in this one.

Leave Her to Heaven was Twentieth Century-Fox’s highest grossing picture of the 1940s. Tierney was nominated for an Academy Award for best actress, and Leon Shamroy won an Oscar for best cinematography in the color category.