(Today’s piece is a story by guest contributor Thais Angelica Tavares Lopes. Thais Angelica is my oldest daughter. Her varied background encompasses a range of subjects, including art instruction, drawing, sewing, dress designing, convention-hopping, and creative writing. This specific story is replete with magical realism and the scent of the Amazon rain forest.)
Have you ever wondered about paradise? Does it really exist? If it does, is it an actual place? If it were, would it be a huge palace made out of alabaster stone, covered with massive gold pillars, furnished with delicate embroidered pillows, luscious velveteen royal-purple curtains draped by huge windows, and jewel-bedecked people dancing in merriment?
Well I have. I’ve even thought about painting it, but how does one go about painting paradise? I’ve come to the conclusion that … well, it’s hard to explain without going into all the details. I wondered, if I were to experience a place such as this I would surely find out what paradise looked like, but I was wrong.
It happened long, long ago. I was very young then, a budding painter. I had been asked to come to the New World to depict the various aspects of Brazilian wildlife. Wildlife? Why would I want to paint that? I wanted to paint marble towers and ancient castles, not trees and parrots. But my patrons insisted, and so I relented — much to my dismay.
The trip from Portugal was long and arduous, but when I finally arrived I was met by my longtime friend, Tarius, who was in charge of a camp at the mouth of the Amazon River. He would be my only comfort, the only thing familiar to me in this vast, new land, densely populated by strange vegetation.
“This heat is insufferable,” I complained. “Why can’t the summer be more like fall, cool and breezy, more agreeable to us all?”
“True, but if it were so then it would always be cool, it would be easier to catch a cold,” answered Tarius.
“What do I care about colds? I just don’t want to die from extreme heat, melting like an icecap in Greenland.”
“Is there nothing that pleases you, Yali?” sighed the haughty Tarius.
“Only the cool drink of the guaraná fruit will satisfy my parched lips, Tarius,” I giggled.
“Then I shall ask my servant, the Indian boy, to fix you up with one right away. See hear, George, will you be a gentlemen and fetch Lady Yali a drink?”
“Why certainly, my lord.”
As the servant ran off, I turned again to my longtime friend and inquired, “Is it necessary to send him scampering about all the time? I mean, he is our age, and besides, you could have done it yourself.”
“Indeed, but then I would have to part from this lovely vision here before me.”
I felt a blush rise up to my cheeks and quickly averted my eyes. Luckily, at that moment, George came back and bowed to me, gently handing me the drink made by the Tupi Indians of Brazil with his tanned rough hands.
“I thank you, George, and here, have some money for your trouble.”
“Thank you, but no thank you, Miss. You see, I don’t take money for a simple favor such as this.”
“Are you sure? Well, if you’re certain.”
“Thanks again, George, you can return to your camp duties now.”
As George retreated, I sipped slowly and delicately, as a butterfly sips honey from a flower, or so I thought. I kept my watchful brown eyes on the boy until he left my sight, choosing this moment to finish my drink and turn my attention back to Tarius.
“So what do you think of our tropical gem?” questioned Tarius.
“It’s very different from Portugal, very wild, untamed so to speak. So much nature surrounds this place; you can almost feel the unearthly echo of silence reverberating in your ear. No mighty kingdoms, no luxurious dresses, nothing but trees, trees, and more trees.”
At this mention of silence, a macaw flew down from the nearest fig tree and landed in a nearby shrub. I had never seen such a creature before and was amazed at its long persistent gaze as it perched and munched on wild berries.
“Such a strange looking bird. How do you suppose it became so colorful?” I inquired.
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Tarius, “probably from the colorful fruit it eats? I really have no idea. Do you see the sun setting? It’s time we ate dinner and got ourselves to bed.”
“I’ll be there in a moment, I want to watch this intriguing fellow a while longer.”
“If you insist. Don’t stay out too long, you never know what lurks behind those bushes.”
“Okay, I promise I won’t.”
With that, Tarius left to go see about the dinner preparations. The macaw was very passive and continued to munch and stare at me as if it knew I was watching it. Its green and blues were as vibrant as the grass, and its yellow and reds were as fierce as a roaring flame. It was a stunning sight to behold such a peaceful animal of the forest.
“I wonder if it will let me get closer to it,” I thought aloud.
As I carefully inched toward it, the bird turned its head and flew in a westward direction. I followed after it, even though I felt somewhat startled. The bird landed on a young boy’s shoulder, who upon seeing the bird, patted it on the head and continued clearing the ground for a fire.
“Hey,” I gingerly called.
The boy whipped his body around so fast that the bird almost fell off of his thin, unstable frame.
“Yes my lord?”
“Oh, it’s you, George!”
“Oh Lady Yali, you scared me witless. I must catch my breath, pardon me.”
“No, pardon me, it was I who startled you. I merely wanted to inquire about that bird, is it yours?”
“Lady Yali, you should know that no animal can truly be tamed, nor can we call a free animal our own, but if by your question you mean has it made my acquaintance, then the answer is yes.”
“How lovely. What kind of bird is it? Have you named it yet? If you have, would you tell it to me?”
“Yes, my lady, one question at a time. It is a male macaw, a member of the tropical parrot family. As for his name, I have not yet decided upon a moniker for him yet. He likes to sit and stare whimsically at me, but he does not seem to enjoy the company of other people in the camp, nor in my village.”
“That indeed is very odd. Do you think he would mind my stroking his feathers?”
“He has bitten all who try, but if you feel up to the challenge I will not try to stop your ladyship.”
I carefully set my hand in front of the macaw and waited for his reaction. The macaw turned his bristly green head, blinked, and cawed. Slowly, I placed a finger on his belly and tickled him. A sharp whistle escaped his fine beak and then he nibbled my finger. The sharp pain stung but I did not recoil. After realizing that I would not back down, the bird let go and I was able to finish petting him.
“Amazing. That is the first time he has backed out of a fight.”
“I am honored to have him on my side, since he is truly fierce. We should name him Dragon.”
“Name him what?” exclaimed George.
“Dragon? Do your people not know the stories and legends of the ancient reptilian animal that is taller than any tree, has large scaly wings twice the size of their bodies, and out of their eternal wrath spout shoots of fire from their foul mouths?”
“Are there such horrible beasts as these among the lands?”
“These are only stories that people in my country tell their children to teach them a lesson. But my point is, this mythological creature is famed for its intolerance of others. Don’t you think this macaw acts much like one of these beasts?”
“Indeed, he does. This name befits him well.”
I smiled, as did George. We stared for a while at each other’s faces but I, being somewhat shy in nature, and he, seemingly to be the same way, turned our attention back to Dragon, who was beginning to nibble on George’s hair.
“Miss, if ever there is anything you require simply ask it of me, I am yours to command. A friend of Dragon’s is most certainly a friend of mine, if I am not being too bold in my statement,” said a bowing George.
“Not at all, in fact …”
“Yali, it is past the time for idle talk. Dinner is almost ready. George, I thought I told you to start that fire,” said Tarius, marching across the camp to join Yali and George.
“Yes, sir, I had forgotten my place, sir. The fire will be lit momentarily.
“Come, Yali, let us walk together.”
“Oh, well, see you later George.” As I walked away in the arms of Tarius, I turned my head back to George but continued to walk on.
Night fell fast in the Amazon. I had never seen a sky so magnificent; it looked as though a dark velvet sheet lay on top of the whole world, while small stars peeked through the vast darkness. Granted that huge trees blocked my perfect view of the firmament, I was still able to enjoy the evening. After dinner, I lay on my wooden cot running the day through my mind. However, it being late and the exhaustion of the first day overcoming me, sleep came quickly and overtook my body.
End of Part One
(To be continued….)
Copyright © 2008 by Thais Angelica Tavares Lopes
‘Monsters, John! Monsters from the Id’ — The Brave New World of ‘Forbidden Planet’ (Part Three): The End of All Things
Casting About for Excuses
Back on board the space cruiser, Doc Ostrow hauls over a heavy plaster cast of one of the footprints found outside the grounds. Commander Adams takes one look at the gruesome object and cannot believe his eyes. If THIS is what did Chief Quinn in, Adams posits, well, then, it’s highly conceivable, in his rational skipper’s mind, that he could have beaten this creature to a pulp with a club, or certainly killed it with one of their blasters.
Not feasible, replies Doc. In his view, the plaster footprint “runs counter to every law of adaptive evolution.” He indicates the varying structural components, which point to a four-footed animal. However, the thing that attacked Quinn left tracks of a biped (that is, a two-legged beastie). And that disgusting-looking claw that sticks out? Why, it’s got to belong to a burrowing creature of some kind, “some impossible tree sloth” or other. No rational explanation exists for this thing — at least, not yet. Doc is perplexed, and so is the commander. Surely, somebody would have noticed this walking nightmare.
Lt. Farman ushers in the cook, who, contrary to the skipper’s belief and conviction, provides Robby the Robot with an airtight alibi: the mechanical being was with the besotted Cookie the entire time he was imbibing. Great! That leaves only one prime suspect left, the same one that they (and any reasonably intelligent viewer) have suspected all along, namely Professor Morbius.
Adams hints that he and Doc should swing by that old Krell lab and take the test of their IQ abilities for themselves, damn the consequences. The commander’s eagerness to do so, which would betray a trust, no doubt was fueled by: (a) his desire to complete his mission; but more importantly, (b) to get to the bottom of what’s going on in this Forbidden Planet.
In the succeeding scene, Morbius and Altaira observe the burial detail of Quinn’s funeral from afar. Even out here in space, a million or more miles from home, the C-57D’s crew keeps their earthly observances intact with a brief bible reading by the officer in charge (in keeping to their religious affiliation, of course, the last vestige of humanity in a so-called “civilized” society).
The Professor warns Adams of more deaths to come. But how does he know this? What is it that gives the philologist such insight into the unknown? Morbius pauses before he answers. He calls it a “premonition” of disaster. But to the skipper, it smacks of an ultimatum, i.e., the same kind of provocation that Morbius issued upon their approach to Altair IV. Only this time, it is spoken with purpose and deliberation.
That night, the skipper and his anxious crew make preparations for a possible attack. They test their alarm system by activating the main batteries. In the midst of the test, the commander calls Lt. Farman over to say that he’s sorry to have been so hard on him. Farman stops him in his tracks by admitting that Alta “picked the right man” after all. In other words, let bygones be bygones. All’s fair in love and war, right? The two rivals smile knowingly at each other. Good thing, too! For brother, these guys are in for a REAL battle!
No sooner have the men mended their frazzled friendship, when word comes that radar has picked up something on the horizon. A huge blip on the screen, “Big as a house,” now materializes. The skipper has his batteries fire full blast into the arroyo, and for a moment there’s a deathly silence, except for those electronic tonalities that mimic the Id monster’s footsteps. Suddenly, and without warning, the Id monster attacks, a dazzling showcase animated by Joshua Lawrence Meador, one of Disney Studios’ best effects men. At nearly four minutes’ duration, this is the film’s centerpiece and main action sequence.
The Id monster’s outline emits an eerie blue light when it first crosses the beams. When confronting the crew, however, its blue glow turns bright red with fiery rage — an irate fiend (much like the Bengal tiger before it) that roars and hollers its lust for vengeance to the winds. Doc yells out the obvious: “The blasted thing’s invisible!” That’s right! Now they know how it gained access to their ship.
The Id’s loathsome mouth is agape. It would seem that the jaws of Hell itself have been pried open, standing ready to maim and destroy — a horrifying apparition of dread and foreboding.
Original concept art for the Id monster gave it an insect-like appearance. The bug idea transmogrified into “a bulky, creeping mass … meant to be a literal nightmare, the physical equivalent of the warped, primal urges of Morbius’ subconscious mind from which the Id monster sprang” (Clarke and Rubin, “Making ‘Forbidden Planet’,” Cinefantastique, p. 35, Vol. 8, No. 2, 1979). When that too was rejected, the producers turned to Meador, who hired freelance animator Ken Hultgren, someone outside MGM and Disney, “to get a fresh approach on the problem. Hultgren, whose only assignment was to come up with a workable Id concept, developed the image of a roaring beast’s head with piercing eyes” (Ibid., Cinefantastique, p. 35).
The resemblance of the Id monster to MGM’s Leo the Lion trademark has been noted and accounted for. In our estimation, however, there is an uncanny likeness to Morbius himself (down to the hairs on his chinny-chin-chin). This makes perfect sense through purely psychological terms. After all, we are dealing with the Professor’s internal state of mind, one he has kept under wraps for almost the entirety of the picture. Moreover, Morbius will soon be revealed as the “man behind the curtain,” the manipulator of the act that led to the death of so many of his former shipmates — and possibly the demise of the C-57D.
Speaking of which, the space crew’s handheld blasters have no effect on the beast. One crewman gets crushed by the Id monster’s giant claw. Another crewman gets swatted to the side like an annoying fly. Seeing his hearty shipmates go down all about him, Farman bravely (or recklessly, depending on one’s perspective) steps before the thing and takes dead aim at its evil eyes. Adams shouts for his crew to hold their fire. Unfortunately, the Id monster grabs hold of Farman in its vice-like grip and casually hurls him aloft to his death.
Adams gives the order to continue firing at the target. The monster is still enraged, its menace unabated. But it makes no further attempts at mayhem.
The Sleep of Reason
Morbius, asleep in the Krell laboratory, fidgets in agitated slumber, with the gauges of the Krell’s plastic educator machine blinking on-and-off and at full tilt. In direct imitation and remembrance of Spanish artist Francisco Goya’s famously suggestive lithograph, “The Sleep of Reason Brings Forth Monsters,” Morbius is roused from his nap by daughter Alta’s piercing screams. She bursts into the lab, relaying to Morbius her terrifying vision of the creature as it attacked the space camp.
As Morbius awakens, the Id monster mercifully disappears. Alta continues to relate her dream to her consoling father. “Now, now,” Morbius reassures her. “You know a dream can’t hurt you.” Alta tries her best to exact a promise from Morbius that he will protect her lover Adams from any harm. But the crafty philologist can give no such guarantee. “I’m completely helpless,” he wrongly tells her, “as long as he remains here so willfully.”
Back at the camp, Adams tries to lift his men’s spirits with a pronouncement that the ship’s main battery stopped the monster’s forward motion. Doc shoots down his statement with a terse, “You believe that?” Not really, is Adams’ comeback. He knows it will be back. But he turns to Doc for an adequate explanation of what they witnessed before them: Is it possible an invisible being can survive a blast of atomic fission, and not get disintegrated in the process? A scientific impossibility is Doc’s reply.
“Hypnotic illusions don’t’ tear people apart!” Adams retorts. But then we have Doc’s educated estimation of the situation: “Any organism dense enough to survive three billion volts would have to be made of solid nuclear material. It would sink of its own weight to the center of this planet.” He goes on to press his case by insisting the beast “must have been renewing its molecular structure from one microsecond to the next.” Meaning, it cannot be destroyed by either conventional or advanced means. Something else must be propelling it.
Adams calls for the tractor and tells Doc that they will take Alta and Morbius back with them by force, if necessary, citing regulations. However, Doc throws another wrench into the works by reminding his commanding officer of what happened to the Bellerophon when it tried to escape the planet. Adams has a snappy rejoinder to that one, too: “Which makes it a gilt-edged priority that one of us [meaning himself, naturally] gets into that Krell lab and takes that brain boost.”
Adams gives the order to abandon the planet the second their force field starts to short circuit. The bosun (George Wallace) relays his order to the crew as Adams and Doc take off. Upon their arrival at Morbius’ home, Adams insists to Doc that HE will be the one to take the Krell mind test, no questions asked. Doc plays it dumb for the time being (clearly, the audience is on to the ploy that Ostrow will be the one who gets the jump on Commander Adams — a bit of foreshadowing of events).
Finding their way barred by Robby the Robot, the duo manages to sneak back into the house with Alta’s interference. While the skipper tries to alert the girl to the dangers of staying put, Doc sneaks off to take the mind boost. Barely alive, he is brought in by Robby (we can perceive the “invisible” strings that hold him up). Robby deposits the doctor onto the living room couch. Egged on by the skipper, Doc boasts of his “new mind. Up there in lights. Bigger than his now.” Adams admonishes him to take it easy, but Doc knows he is done for.
Ostrow blurts out that the big machine was the Krell’s crowning glory: “A true creation.” However, that all-but divine race forgot one key factor. Giving his last order, Adams forces the truth out of his wounded comrade: “Monsters, John, monsters from the Id!” With those words, Doc dies in the commander’s arms. Adams is clueless as to what the doctor meant, so he will solicit Morbius’ views for clarification.
Just then, Morbius bursts in. He sees the couple entwined in a tender embrace. But his only reaction is to the man who defied his orders not to toy around with the Krell machinery. “The fool, the meddling idiot! As though his ape’s brain could contain the secrets of the Krell.” Way to go, Prof! Alta tries to reason with the old man by pointing out that Doc is dead. Have a little sympathy for the deceased, will you? But his only consideration is that Doc was warned. He paid the price for (chuckle, chuckle) tampering in God’s domain, something Adams himself will echo in the last line of the story. “Let him be buried with the other victims of human greed and folly,” Morbius declares.
For the first time in her short life, Alta sees her “loving and caring” father for what he is: a malicious, unfeeling being. She reminds him that Morbius wanted her to make a choice (this is a snippet of dialog that refers to an earlier excised scene in the original script). Alta has chosen to runaway with the handsome commander, come what may. She darts off to get her things. But Morbius is on a different wavelength altogether. “My daughter is planning a very foolish action, and she’ll be terribly punished,” he solemnly invokes.
In the middle of this family feud, Adams presses the Professor for the meaning of the term “Id.” Morbius, obviously perturbed, rattles off an explanation which the commander repeats to himself: “Monsters from the subconscious. Of course!” Though the skipper’s intellect is nowhere near the philologist’s capacity for knowledge and understanding (as we learned from early on in the feature), nor is it close to the late doctor’s “bigger than his” brainwaves, Adams is able to reason out the facts from the limited number of possibilities.
He applies the principles of critical thinking in order to arrive at the only logical conclusion to their and the Krell’s dilemma: “Creation from mere thought,” which Morbius picks up on as well: “The beast, the mindless primitive!” So that’s what killed the Krell. According to Adams, they had “access to a machine that could never be shut down. The secret devil of every soul on the planet, all set free at once to loot and maim, and take revenge and kill!” Yikes!!!
Morbius is impressed but unmoved by this line of reasoning, due mostly to his observation that too many centuries have passed since the last Krell kicked the planetary bucket. Yet there is still a living, breathing monster on the prowl. How does one explain that? Adams starts to lose patience with the Professor.
We Interrupt This Program
Robby interrupts their colloquy with a grave warning that something is approaching. “It is quite near.” Morbius charges Robby to stop the menace that this way comes, but the robot is unable to carry out his instructions. “That thing out there,” Adams insists. “It’s you.” But isn’t the fair Altaira immune to its power? Not a chance! “She’s joined herself to me!” Body and soul, we reckon!
Morbius hurls his frustrations at the pair. “Say it’s a lie. Let it hear you! Tell it you don’t love this man!” Altaira remains defiant. Alert viewers may also have picked up on the incestuous implications of a father-daughter-lover triangle, another jab at the analyst’s couch. This nod to 1950s pop psychology was one of several indicated in the script. In fact, you could say that Freud’s oedipal complex enjoyed free reign in this production.
“Stop it, Robby!” Morbius cries. “Don’t let it in! Kill it!” Regrettably, Robby’s circuits give out and shut down. (This was previously indicated in the scene where Morbius instructs Robby to fire Adams’ blaster between his eyes.) You see, Morbius himself is outside the door. And, by the Three Laws of Robotics (as established by visionary science-fiction author Isaac Asimov) Robby is prevented from harming another human being — in this instance, the hapless Professor. The robot knows that his evil self is out there.
The trio manages to flee into the Krell lab (the wrong spot to seek shelter at a time like this), with the Id monster in literal hot pursuit. Adams jumbles the combination to the entranceway so as to thwart the approaching brute. With the two men wrestling for control of the situation, the disclosures come fast and furious: that Morbius had inadvertently sent the Id monster out to seek and destroy his crewmates. Worst of all, he’s “whistled up the monster again” to punish Alta “for her disloyalty and disobedience.”
As if to illustrate his point, Adams tells Morbius to look at the gauges supplying the Id monster with whatever power it needs to reach its target. Next, he motions to the red-hot Krell-metal door that separates the pursuer from the pursued (a gesture that visionary filmmaker George Lucas paid homage to in Star Wars, Episode I: The Phantom Menace). The door starts to melt away, allowing the monster access to the laboratory from whence it hailed.
In the riveting climax to the drama, Morbius realizes that he is the guilty party; that he was complicit in the murder of his shipmates; and that his evil self is tapping (to quote from Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven) at their chamber door. But what can he do to prevent that evil from entering? Not much, I’m afraid! Even though the beast is supposed to be unseen, according to the Cinefantastique article, “it was always planned to make the Id visible eventually because … you can’t tease an audience forever. The original screenplay also called for the Id to become visible … after it breaks through the Lab door.”
This is patently nonsensical. The monster can’t possibly be seen at this juncture because that would require the presence of a force field (as proven in the Id monster’s nighttime attack). Fortunately, saner heads prevailed and the idea was abandoned, since “the screenplay provides no real explanation for [the Id monster’s] visibility,” even though “its appearance at this point makes the scene much more dramatic and less confusing.”
Well, “confusing” to some individuals incapable of following along with the plot, but not to those who have been paying attention. The fact that it was brought up at all as a viable option shows how even experienced writers such as Irving Block and Allen Adler could be on the wrong side of storytelling.
In order to save his daughter and her lover from the same fate, Morbius confronts the terrible presence and shouts his defiance at it: “Stop! No further! I deny you! I give you up!” Without delay, the big machine comes to a noisy halt as the evil menace is thwarted. The lab falls silent.
Alta turns away from the spectacle of a parent wrestling with his demons. The battle won, Morbius lies helpless on the floor. Alta cradles him in her lap (repeating the same image as before of Adams with Doc Ostrow in his arms). With his last breath, the Professor charges Adams with throwing the switch. The couple must be a million miles in space before the Krell’s blast furnaces set off a chain reaction — an irreversible course that will consume what’s left of the planet and the Krell’s advanced technology. With that, Morbius expires, his daughter’s name on his lips.
Once United Planets Space Cruiser C-57D has attained the mandatory safe distance, a blinding light envelops the scope that Alta and Adams are viewing, signaling that the brave new world of Altair IV is no more. On board the ship, Robby the Robot has been brought back to working life (with the same soothing tones of actor Marvin Miller), indicative of man’s ability to repair his machines for future implementation.
The scene of Alta and Commander Adams’ wedding, which was part of a working print and is of instructional interest to film historians, scholars, and students of sci-fi, was edited out of the release print. We can assume the lovebirds have joined hands in outer space. As Alta buries her head in Adams’ arms, the wise commander delivers a fitting epitaph to the memory of the late Professor Morbius. He reminds her, and the audience as well, that we are not the Creator.
One might add that we are only His stewards, safeguarding the planet from outside forces, and from our own destructive natures. In Forbidden Planet, the brave new world our intrepid adventurers had discovered on Altair IV was doomed to extinction long before they or Morbius, or the crew of the Bellerophon, set foot on its surface.
Copyright © 2018 by Josmar F. Lopes
Though not part of Universal Picture’s original classic-monster contingent (i.e., Dracula, Frankenstein, the Wolf Man, and others), the titular Creature (aka the “Gill-man,” alternately played on land by six-foot, four-inch Ben Chapman and in the water by champion swimmer Ricou Browning) became part of the 1950s generation of screen demons with this tightly scripted, expertly executed sci-fi shocker.
The story takes place in an uncharted region of the Amazon (near the so-called Black Lagoon), where geologist Dr. Carl Maia (Antonio Moreno) and his assistants, Luis and Tomas, uncover a fossilized hand of something resembling a cross between a man and a sea creature — the missing link perhaps? Who can tell? Dr. Maia takes the object to a marine biology institute in Morajo Bay for further study, leaving his two assistants behind. No sooner has Maia gone, however, when the real-life Creature decides to pay a visit to the camp in order to spread a little panic. How dare these men invade his abode!
Upon his arrival at the institute, Dr. Maia shows his unusual discovery to former student, Dr. David Reed (Richard Carlson), to Reed’s colleague and girlfriend Kay Lawrence (Julie Adams, billed as “Julia” in the credits), and to their publicity-starved financial backer, Dr. Mark Williams (Richard Denning). Both ichthyologist Reed and sponsor Mark are intrigued by the web-fingered fossil. Why, this could turn out to be the discovery of a lifetime! So where could they find the complete skeleton, they wonder.
The farsighted scientist in David sees the infinite possibilities of deriving hidden secrets from this incredible find: how humans can adapt to hostile environments, and how they may be able to evolve in highly pressurized worlds dissimilar from our own. On the practical side of things, Mark can only ponder the real-world costs of such an endeavor.
“If I sound more like a banker than a scientist,” Mark relays to the team, “try to remember that it takes money to run an institute like ours.”
With that said, the group prepares to leave the following morning for Manaus, in northern Brazil. They charter a motor-powered boat, the Rita, captained by the gregarious, cigar-chomping Lucas (Nestor Paiva), to sail up the Amazon River. Lucas regales his passengers with tall tales about the local wildlife. “Like everything in this jungle, all killers.”
Arriving at the camp, the scientists, accompanied by Dr. Edward Thompson (Whit Bissell), along with skipper Lucas and his men, find the place deserted and the two assistants dead. “There’s only one explanation,” posits the literal-minded Lucas. “The country is full of wild animals. I think maybe jaguar. Jaguar’s claws, they rip like this.” A comforting thought, indeed.
Nevertheless, the group spends an entire week digging through the side of an embankment, only to come up empty handed. Giving the matter some thought, David reasons that if they sail to the end of the tributary, they might find the skeletal remains of the Creature they’ve been looking for. Mark is all for turning failure into success, without a thought to the dangers inherent in setting foot in unexplored territory — especially with a woman around.
Little do they realize that the Creature they are longing to unearth is very much alive, and has set his sights (and claws) on the luscious Ms. Adams. It’s not quite Beauty and the Beast with a fairy-tale “happy ending,” but this will do for now. The men don their scuba gear (using the term “aqualung”) and go off to explore the area.
While David and Mark search for undersea rock samples, Kay decides to take a dip in the mysterious waters of the Black Lagoon, which becomes a major character in itself. Wearing a stunning white bathing suit no less (with stunt work provided by Ginger Stanley), Kay’s languid swimming strokes are mimicked by the pursuing Gill-man just out of her reach. Their dual motions soon develop into a sinister undersea dance if not a mesmerizing mating ritual.
Suddenly, there’s a shout that something has been caught in their fishing net. It’s the Gill-man, who manages to escape detection, but leaves behind one of his claws. The scientists have now been alerted to the Creature’s presence. Immediately, David mounts an effort to photograph the beast in its aquatic environment. However, Mark has other ideas.
“This thing alive and in its natural habitat is valuable to us,” David remarks.
But Mark will have none of it: “Why settle for a photo when we can get the real thing?”
“You don’t sound like a scientist, but like some big-game hunter out for the kill.”
“We may not be back home, David, but you’re still working for me.”
The two men clash over their separate views (the theme of science versus economics) and the efficacy of their respective motives: David wants to study and learn from the Creature, while Mark wants to exploit it for monetary purposes. “We must have the proof,” Mark strongly voices later on. When they resume their underwater exploration, Mark manages to take a pot-shot at the Gill-man with his spear gun, but misses the target.
Undeterred, the men use a native substance derived from plant roots to drug the poor Creature. As the Creature comes up for air, it falls back into the water. David and Mark swim out to where it disappeared to prevent it from drowning. Upon finding the Gill-man prostrate, Mark bashes it with the oar from their boat.
“We got him! We got him!” gloats the money-hungry Mark.
“Don’t kill him!” David shouts, as he stops Mark from further harming the beast. Mark thinks only of bringing back evidence of their discovery, dead or alive (preferably dead). Still, the men agree to house the Creature in a wooden cage onboard ship while keeping the monster alive. But who is the real monster?
That night, Dr. Thompson is on watch. Kay comes out of her room to talk with Thompson. Unseen by either of them, the Gill-man escapes his confines and attacks Dr. Thompson. When Kay throws a lighted lantern at it, the Creature dives back into the water, leaving the terrified Kay and seriously-wounded Thompson behind. David insists that they leave this place, but Mark is dead-set against it. “Without taking what we came for?”
David counters his argument with a reasonable one of his own: “We didn’t come here to fight monsters. We came here to find fossils.”
After extensive back and forth, Captain Lucas makes the decision to depart. But as the Rita tries to pull out of the lagoon, their way is blocked by strategically placed logs (the Gill-man has strong survival instincts as well as rational thought processes), thus preventing the little ship from maneuvering. Suffice it to say that Mark gets his comeuppance. The Creature abducts Kay and brings her to his lair. What its intentions are at this point are never made clear, mostly because David manages to free Kay as the remaining survivors, Lucas and Maia, shoot the Gill-man dead.
In a final burst of compassion, David tells the others to let the Creature go.
Great underwater photography and a terrific (but repetitive) film score by the trio of Henry Mancini, Herman Stein, and Hans J. Salter, who were Universal’s resident composers of science-fiction and horror thrillers, made Creature from the Black Lagoon a box-office hit.
Born in New Haven, Connecticut, director Jack Arnold was a stage and screen actor before turning to directing and producing documentaries for the U.S. government and for private industry. His first feature-length documentary was With These Hands (1950) about the International Ladies Garment Workers Union. It was followed by Girls in the Night and his first science-fiction foray, It Came from Outer Space (both 1953) – see the following link for my review: https://josmarlopes.wordpress.com/2017/02/25/it-came-from-outer-space-1953-strangers-in-a-strange-land/.
With a screenplay by Harry Essex and Arthur A. Ross, the film was produced by William Alland (the reporter Mr. Thompson in Citizen Kane), who credited the original story to Orson Welles. The Creature design and concept art was the handiwork of the uncredited Millicent Patrick, with makeup design by Bud Westmore. And principal photography was provided by William E. Snyder.
Underwater photography was handled by the team of James C. Havens and Scotty Welbourne. Most of the indoor scenes were shot in Hollywood, but many of the outdoor and underwater sequences took place at Wakulla Springs State Park in the Tallahassee, Florida region.
Originally released in simultaneous 3-D and flat versions, this now-classic monster flick was good enough to have spawned two sequels: Revenge of the Creature (1955) also directed by Arnold, with John Agar, Lori Nelson, John Bromfield, the returning Nestor Paiva, and a young Clint Eastwood in the minor role of a lab assistant; and The Creature Walks Among Us (1956) under John Sherwood’s direction, starring Jeff Morrow and Rex Reason (both fresh from Universal’s This Island Earth), along with Leigh Snowden and Ricou Browning again (in wet water) and Don Megowan (on dry land) as the Creature.
Mexican director Guillermo del Toro’s The Shape of Water (2017) was his modern-day homage to the original. In this fantasy-horror-cum-science fiction romance, the “Asset” (the director’s name for the Creature) is a benign and sympathetic protagonist, while the main female character, Elisa Esposito, acts as its guardian-protector as well as the object of its affection.
Copyright © 2018 by Josmar F. Lopes
I know what you’re thinking: “Oh, boy, here comes another one of those ‘Best of the Year’ surveys!” Well, not exactly.
My thoughts in compiling this list are more in line with taking an off-center approach to a much abused topic. By that, I mean to jot down my impressions, good, bad or indifferent, of films I happened to have enjoyed (or not) in the venues in which they were originally shown: the movie theater.
As readers of my blog are aware, movies have been a major preoccupation of mine for a number of years. And since nowadays most films can be viewed online or in the comfort of one’s home on a variety of platforms, I decided to give equal time to works that merit the wide-screen approach. That’s the way these films were meant to be seen — and that’s how I saw them.
Another reason I decided to make this list was simple: due to time constraints, I have been unable to write a longer analysis. However, I do hope to remedy that situation in the near future. Indeed, many of these works require, no, DEMAND, a full-length commentary on their own. For now, though, I believe this year-end wrap-up will serve the purpose.
The films are in chronological order by year. Happy 2018 everybody!
A Spanish gothic adaptation of Snow White, with hints of magical realism and the Grand Guignol, Blancanieves took me and everyone who watched it by total surprise and sheer delight. Much as I experienced with Tim Burton’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when it was first shown in 2005, I found myself smiling all the way through while viewing this fabulous feature at the North Carolina Museum of Art — a most appropriate site for this work. For indeed, this is a definitive example of film art, a pièce de résistance and labor of love for Spanish writer-director Pablo Berger and his cast and crew. The wind was nearly taken out his sails, however, when Señor Berger was informed that his silent-film project would be overshadowed by Michel Hazanavicius’ The Artist (2011), which beat him to the punch by almost a year. Seen on its own terms, Blancanieves is the more challenging of the two for audiences unfamiliar with Spanish culture. Filmed in glorious black and white by cinematographer Kiko de la Rica, with an unforgettably haunting music score by Alfonso de Vilallonga, the plot takes a few liberties with the accustomed “happy ending” of most fairy tales, much to the film’s betterment. Set in and around Seville, Spain in the early 1920s — in particular, the bullfighting arena (with emphasis on Spanish artist Francisco Goya’s 19th-century Tauromaquia prints) — this revisionist retelling of Snow White (or “Blancanieves” in Spanish) tells the tale of little Carmen (Sofía Oria) and, as the young adult Carmen, Macarena García, the orphaned daughter of a once famous matador (Daniel Giménez Cacho). Through various plot contrivances and twists of fate, Carmen finds herself in the care of a troupe of wandering circus dwarfs, garnering fame through her travels as a female bullfighter. Of course, there’s a wicked stepmother, Encarna (played with lip-smacking glee by Maribel Verdú), and a perfidious henchman who doubles as her chauffeur (Pedro Ponce). Told through purely visual and musical terms, the film pays homage to Tod Browning’s Freaks, with references to the silent-film oeuvre of Abel Gance (Napoleon, Le Roue) and Carl Theodor Dreyer, especially The Passion of Joan of Arc in Berger’s close-ups of the bizarre and the grotesque. The purposely ambiguous ending will have you scratching your head for days, but if you are attuned to the director’s vision it should satisfy the insatiable critic in all of us.
Pacific Rim (2013)
Pacific Rim, Mexican-born director-writer-producer Guillermo del Toro’s big-budget foray into the apocalyptic, end-of-the-world genre, has some captivating character studies, specifically the interactions between our hero, Raleigh Becket (British actor Charlie Hunnam), his literal sidekick Mako Mori (Japanese actress Rinko Kikuchi), and the straight-talking General Stacker (tough-as-nails Idris Elba), their mentor and savior. If the ravings of Godzilla and King Kong are the ultimate in prototypical movie monsters that love to level major cities around the globe, then the fantastic beasts of Pacific Rim will likely tickle your fancy. If not, then look elsewhere. Pacific Rim came out at time when a spate of dystopian pictures from World War Z, Oblivion, Battle: Los Angeles, The Avengers, and Edge of Tomorrow dominated the movie-going landscape. The gigantic sea monsters known as Kaijiu are indeed impressive, as is the interplay between secondary characters Dr. Newt Geiszler (a manic Charlie Day), the resentful Dr. Gottlieb (Burn Gorman), and black marketeer Hannibal Chau (the ever-reliable Ron Perlman, a Del Toro stalwart, in search of his missing shoe). In addition to which, the Jaegers, those humongous robotic machines built to combat the rampaging Kaijiu, are individually differentiated, if given less screen time than one would have liked. The story, however, has a “been there, seen that” aspect to it, with an ending that can be telescoped a mile away and that calls to mind Roland Emmerich’s Independence Day. Still, Del Toro’s affection for those monstrous adversaries is never in doubt, despite his characters’ penchant for indulging in stereotypical screen behavior, i.e., macho posturing. With that said, Charlie Hunnam has become (or tries to become) the Heath Ledger of his day. The walk, the talk, the attitude, the look, and feel of the late Australian-born Ledger are certainly “there” in spirit. What’s missing, at least from this angle, is Ledger’s obsession with establishing a real onscreen persona, quirky as many of them were. One a side note, the film’s score was composed by Ramin Djawadi, noted for his musical contributions to the popular Game of Thrones series on HBO, along with the cable channel’s Westworld.
The big, bad Japanese gorgon is back! He’s filled out somewhat, and that midriff has gotten a shade heftier with “age.” But he’s as fire-breathing mean as the old boy has always been. A fairly winning reboot of the old Toho Studios franchise (despite the cheesiness of their later product), this latest reincarnation of Godzilla, King of the Monsters (originally titled Gojira in 1954, which was retro-fitted in 1956 with scenes in American English starring Raymond Burr) holds up fairly well against the competition. Directed by British-born Gareth Edwards (Monsters, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story), the plot of this newest exercise in urban bashing extends the chaos to San Francisco, where U.S. Navy officer Ford Brody (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) wages a one-man battle to save the city not only from Godzilla’s atomic-age belches but from some Rodan-like pterosaurs called “MUTOS.” The film starts off well, with a genuine air of mystery about it. For one, we learn the reason for those atomic bomb tests in the forties and fifties was to combat Godzilla’s growing menace. For another, the menace was never extinguished. Yikes! As Ford’s scientist father Joe Brody, Bryan Cranston (Breaking Bad) acts rings around the other players. The intensity of his performance alone is what makes the first 20 minutes of the film so absorbing. The stunt guys in the monster suits are also believable enough, with some elaborate set pieces (i.e., Godzilla’s first entrance, the destruction and mayhem surrounding San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge) earning kudos for realism and seamless integration into the whole. However, some of the main characters undergo little development. For instance, Dr. Serizawa (Ken Watanabe), who served an essential function in the original Godzilla, can only stare blankly at the ensuing carnage. He’s there as a cynical nod to the Asian market. More’s the pity! The same goes for his assistant Dr. Graham, the usually capable Sally Hawkins, left to mutter pseudo-scientific bromides while the single-minded Admiral Stenz (David Strathairn, whose talents are wasted) ignores her and Serizawa’s warnings about the implementation of atomic weapons against the beasts. As you may have gathered, there are more than enough similarities between this picture and Pacific Rim (reviewed above) to warrant copyright infringement. We won’t go into that (and neither did the producers). Let’s say that when the focus is on the almighty Godzilla’s battles with the voracious MUTOS, all is well. There’s a side-story, too, about Ford’s wife (Elizabeth Olsen), a nurse at San Francisco General Hospital, and his little son, juxtaposed against the opening sequence involving the loss of Joe Brody’s wife Sandra (Juliette Binoche). Beyond that, you may enjoy this FX exercise in technological gobbledygook.
The Martian (2015)
A middle-of-the-road, sci-fi adventure flick from director-producer Ridley Scott, with a screenplay by Drew Goddard, The Martian is about survival of the smartest and how a daily routine can keep you firmly grounded, even on as desolate a setting as Mars. Based on writer and ex-computer programmer Andrew Weir’s 2011 novel of the same name, the film focuses on space explorer Mark Watney (Matt Damon), accidentally abandoned on the angry red planet by his fellow crewmates. A botanist by profession, Watney uses what knowledge he has of the field as a way to increase his chances for survival, while hoping against hope that his crewmates will be able to rescue him before water, food, and oxygen give out. Meanwhile back on Earth, politics and monied business interests are at constant loggerheads with each other, as well as concern for the rescue crew’s safety. Eventually, international cooperation and humanitarian needs take precedent in this ultimately engrossing drama. You will be surprised to learn that there are no bug-eyed monsters in space (at least, not in this reality-based depiction), nor are there villainous saboteurs lurking behind the scenes. Just your normal, everyday human beings caught up in the business of rescuing a fellow space traveler from disaster, amid hyperbolic discussions about whether a single, supposedly expendable life is truly worth saving. The film shares a similar storyline with Ron Howard’s Apollo 13 (1995), with lots of tech talk and thousand-dollar words. There are also many fine performances, chief among them by Damon as the titular “Martian,” whose ingenuity and instincts for self-preservation are stressed almost to the breaking point. Too, there’s a war of wills between NASA director Teddy Sanders (an implacable Jeff Daniels) and mission director Mitch Henderson (one-track-minded Sean Bean), in addition to numerous character vignettes by Jessica Chastain as Commander Melissa Lewis, Kristen Wiig as NASA media director Annie Montrose, Chiwetel Ejiofor as Mars mission director Vincent Kapoor, Benedict Wong as director of the jet propulsion lab Bruce Ng, and Michael Peña as jocular mission pilot Rick Martinez. While botanist Watney is steadfast all the way through his ordeal, he does manage to lose his composure once he realizes the odds are stacked against him. His solution for preserving his sanity (and his own humanity) is in recording his feelings, hopes, struggles, and aspirations in video form. Of course, with such a big budget as $108 million at risk, director Scott could not afford to let his hero perish. This gives the movie an atmosphere of inevitability and, if you will, futility. We know that Watney will be rescued in the end; that all will be well and the world will be made whole again. Still, despite the obviousness of the film’s chosen direction, my favorite sequence, implausible as it may seem, occurs towards the end of this elaborate sci-fi production. Sitting alone on a campus bench, Watney wordlessly contemplates his past exploits before stepping into the lecture hall. The survivor of a mind-boggling experience, he is now a survival instructor, about to teach a class of astronaut recruits the dirty business of keeping oneself alive. When practically all of his recruits raise their hands with questions, I wanted to raise my hand, too. Perhaps a sequel will come out of this lone and uniquely satisfying episode.
If you knew what the rest of your life would be like before anyone else did; if you had insight into your loved ones’ future prospects and, knowing what you knew, would you change anything about the outcome — or want to? These are the underlying themes of French-Canadian director Denis Villeneuve’s Arrival, his low-key answer to present-day, slam-bang science fiction. Based on writer Ted Chiang’s 1998 “The Story of Your Life,” taken from his larger collection, Stories of Your Life and Others, the screenplay by Eric Heisserer takes a tried-and-true formula — the presence on Earth of beings from another planet shake up man’s preconceived notions of superiority — and overlays it with both an intellectual and profoundly emotive core. The story is a simple one, though less straightforward than you would expect: Earth is invaded by twelve enigmatic, stone-shaped spacecraft which harbor seven-armed, octopus-like creatures the scientists have dubbed “heptapods.” Unable to converse with the aliens by ordinary means, the U.S. military, headed by Colonel Weber (Forest Whitaker), along with its counterparts in eleven other nations, enlists the aid of linguistic expert Louise Banks (Amy Adams) and theoretical physicist Ian Donnelly (Jeremy Remmer) in an effort to comprehend the motives behind the visitation. The immediate by-product is skepticism on the military’s part. However, by dint of a series of hours-long learning sessions, Louise mounts a heroic effort at personal outreach. Soon, she is able to communicate with two of the aliens (whom she nicknames “Abbott” and “Costello”) via their pictographic non-linear language. Amy Adams’ shining portrayal of linguist Louise is a joy to behold. Her emotional catharsis throughout her journey helps the viewer comprehend the pain and suffering of one’s life in ways that become clear later on. Beautifully crafted and excellently acted, the film revels in a newfound appreciation for mutual cooperation between the sciences and language arts. It’s the triumph of reason, introspection, and empathy over force and armed might; of understanding the “other” through communication and language (“the foundation of civilization,” as Louise describes it), and of learning to view the passage of “time” in a totally different light. Archways, doorways, ceilings, and textures (along with strategically placed “flashbacks”) provide visual clues to the story’s definitive conclusion. Jóhann Jóhansson is credited with the percussive sound-scape. But the film is bookended by the superb use of Max Richter’s “On the Nature of Daylight” for string quartet, an oft-employed piece found in several recent features, among them at the end credits of Martin Scorsese’s Shutter Island, where it is paired with a Dinah Washington song.
End of Part One
(To be continued….)
Copyright © 2018 by Josmar F. Lopes
The View from the Chair — Walk of Life: An Analysis of Two Scenes from William Wyler’s ‘Ben-Hur’ (1959), Part Two
Row, Row, Row Your Boat
What adventures await Judah Ben-Hur! When last we left him, Judah had been condemned to a living death as a slave aboard a Roman warship. For three years he nursed his revenge, waiting for the day when he would mete out justice to former boyhood friend Messala, the man who falsely accused him of trying to kill the new Roman governor of Judea. What was it that kept Judah focused during those harsh times? Was it the life-giving water? Was it Christ’s tender touch? Was it Judah’s renewed faith in his fellow man? Hardly!
When the hardened Roman commander Quintus Arrius (steely-jawed Jack Hawkins) comes upon Judah for the first time, he decides to test his resolve. Flinging a flesh-ripping whip across Judah’s back, Arrius is impressed with his ability to restrain himself. “You have the spirit to fight back, but the good sense to control it,” he observes. He also notices the angry flame that courses through Judah’s veins: “Your eyes are full of hate, forty-one. That’s good. Hate keeps a man alive. It gives him strength.”
Hate is what will dominate Judah’s life for the remainder of the picture. However, it’s the degree to which he uses that hate that will allow him to overcome the challenges he still needs to face. Arrius perfectly summarizes Judah’s situation, and those of his fellow galley slaves, by imparting the following advice: “Now listen to me, all of you. You are all condemned men. We keep you alive to serve this ship. So row well … and live.”
Through a strange quirk of fate (or act of God, if you prefer), Judah Ben-Hur saves the Roman commander’s life. As a reward for his action, Arrius takes him to Rome to train as a charioteer. Then, over the years, he adopts Judah as a son and legal heir to his wealth and property. But the grateful Judah has other plans. He returns to Judea to search for his mother Miriam (Martha Scott) and sister Tirzah (Cathy O’Donnell), as well as fulfill his oath to seek retribution against the detestable Messala.
Most viewers and critics agree that the fabled chariot race is the high point of this epic story. Taking nothing away from one of the all-time most thrilling action sequences ever filmed (staged by second unit director Andrew Marton), the chariot race climaxes with Judah’s victory in the Circus Maximus and Messala’s brutal demise.
But prior to the tribune’s passing, Messala makes him aware that his mother and sister did not perish, as Judah had previously imagined. In fact, they are very much alive, if that’s what you call it. “Look for them,” Messala viciously blurts out as he lies dying, “in the Valley of the Lepers … if you can recognize them. It goes on, Judah … it goes on … The race … is not over.”
If Judah had not been radicalized before this point, he most certainly would be by now — and more than willing to take up arms against his Roman oppressors.
The Way of the Cross
From the spectacle of the Circus Maximus we move on to the public trial and personal turmoil of Christ at the Crucifixion. Roman Governor Pontius Pilate (Frank Thring) is washing his hands of the matter. We see Jesus in long shot, moving from the center of the film frame to the right.
Similarly, we cut to Judah entering, also from mid-center. He carries his sister Tirzah, who along with his mother have contracted leprosy after their time in prison. Roman soldiers on horseback mount the steps which will take them to the scene of the Crucifixion. Next, Jesus is perceived, again in long shot, as he carries his cross. Cut back to Judah at left with Esther (Haya Harareet), the woman he has fallen in love with, and Judah’s mother and sister.
In the next scene, they are all gathered near the steps that lead to a public square. The shadow of Christ’s cross appears against a stone wall — the wall that separates man from God; from the Creator of all things (as He was pictured at the start of the drama) and from those who have turned their backs on His only begotten son, the Savior of the world. Christ has taken on man’s sins in this moving episode.
There is a quick cut to Judah at center frame, his chiseled features facing to his right and to our left. Judah’s words cut to the bone: “I know this man!” he confides in a voice wracked with astonishment. The camera moves over to the three women, Tirzah at left on the lowest level of the steps, Miriam in the center position (both with faces covered by their wraps), and Esther at middle right, her own face a study in disbelief at what is being done to this humble carpenter before them. Her arms are placed on the stone steps in support of her weight. Esther is powerless to help the poor wretch who carries his own cross. Christ’s shadow momentarily falls on her face as he staggers by.
In the next instant, Christ stumbles (the first of several falls). The soldiers respond by whipping him into submission. Judah moves in to assist the fallen Jesus. Interestingly, the cross’s beam intersects the film’s frame; it looms larger than any of the women present, or Ben-Hur for that matter. The soldiers also traverse the frame, larger than life and just as threatening. At the soldiers’ crack of the whip, Tirzah cries out, “Easy on him!” But her cry gets no response. Jesus continues the long trek up the steps to his eventual death.
The camera pans to the other bystanders bearing witness to this painful display, Christ’s Via Crucis. Some of the onlookers express remorse and dismay; others mock the forsaken victim; still others can only watch, emotionless and uncomprehending as to the momentous events taking shape before them.
The camera movement continues, panning to the right, following the crowd as they move forward, ever forward. The camera then cuts to Christ’s footsteps. They are heavy and beleaguered by the burden of carrying that enormous wooden cross. The object’s heaviest section scrapes against the stone masonry as he slowly inches his way upward and onward. The music intones a mournful theme.
At that moment, Jesus stumbles anew. His left arm, bloodied and battered from the beating he received from the scornful Roman soldiers, prevents him from falling altogether. Sensing the urgency of the situation, Judah takes off his robe and charges Esther with watching over his family. He resolves to follow the crowd up the steps in pursuit of the figure, the man he claimed to “know,” but from where? Under what circumstances could he have met such a pitiable creature as this?
Judah pushes his way through the armed guard, his movements going from left to center, and from center to right — just as it was in the desert sequence earlier on (see the following link to my description of this scene: https://josmarlopes.wordpress.com/2014/10/25/the-view-from-the-chair-walk-of-life-an-analysis-of-two-scenes-from-william-wylers-ben-hur-1959-scene-one-the-water-of-life/). Here, in the “Procession to Calvary” sequence, that doleful theme music (by composer Miklós Rózsa) becomes, in actuality, a minor-key inversion of the manly four-note “Ben-Hur” motif heard at the beginning of and throughout the film. It implies that Jesus and Judah’s situations have been reversed.
The women depart towards the center of the frame. They can no longer be of any assistance, nor can they seek assistance for that matter. Esther berates herself for dragging Tirzah and Miriam to witness such a tragedy. But Miriam is more consoling. “You haven’t failed,” she informs her. It’s not Esther’s fault that men continue to treat each other so cruelly. Why, look at Judah and Messala. Once they were bosom companions, as close as brothers, sharing an unbroken bond of fealty and love. Then, they turned on one another: Messala for needing Judah’s help in fingering the Jewish resistance leaders; and Judah for refusing to betray his own people. Their clash was over politics and religion, ideology over practicality.
The Center of Attention
We come to the center of the square. One observer shouts, with his hand raised mockingly in the air, “Hail, King of the Jews!” Between the crosses of the other two prisoners we can spot Judah, still mingling with the crowd, looking for an opportunity to come to this man’s aid, but why? What does Judah owe this miserable human being? He keeps moving forward, as Christ, who is at the extreme left of the screen, also does.
It’s at this point that Jesus’ burden begins to take a toll on his broken body. He stumbles badly, with the cross falling directly on top of him. He is on the ground, his arms splayed in a posture that will be replicated at the Crucifixion, with Christ hanging from this same cross. Judah is finally able to break through the crowd. He’s about to reach the fallen victim when a foot soldier sideswipes him back into the crowd. Judah crashes into a well (which resembles an ancient water trough).
Meanwhile, one of the soldiers coaxes a passerby — Simon the Cyrene — into carrying Jesus’ cross so that the procession can continue on its dolorous way. As Christ struggles to get back to his feet, Judah quickly snatches a ladle and, filling it with fresh water, tries to deliver its contents. They are both in the exact center of the screen: Christ positioned at center-left and Judah at center-right; a complete turnaround from their previous encounter where Judah was in Christ’s position on the ground and Christ came to his rescue from the right.
As Judah bends down to offer him a thirst-quenching drink, he suddenly remembers their former meeting. The expression on Judah’s face changes from compassion to utter shock and recognition. The music also recalls their initial encounter, with the Christ theme gently stirring on the soundtrack. How their situations have changed; how their circumstances over the years have conspired to reverse their fortunes. Just as Jesus is about to drink, a soldier interrupts their reunion (without the need for the phrase, “No water for him!”) by kicking the ladle from Judah’s outstretched arms, thus spilling the refreshment onto the street.
Throughout this continuous sequence, director William Wyler has positioned both Judah and Jesus in long view, that is, until the camera crouches down to eye level, just as the two men confront each other in close up. Intruding on the pair, the soldiers manhandle Judah out of their way. Both men stumble to the ground, the symbolism here being unmistakable: each has stooped so low in life — Judah, a prince of his people, turned a slave aboard a Roman galley, now restored to his former station; Jesus, a simple carpenter’s son, hailed as the long-awaited Messiah, now about to be crucified between two criminals.
From this personal abyss, there comes a reaffirmation. In Christ’s case, his death and glorious resurrection; in Judah’s, a reassessment of his life’s work, one dedicated to family and charity toward others. Deprived of the merest hint of sustenance (the screenplay ignores Christ’s injunction to his disciples at the Last Supper: that he would not eat or drink until his task was complete), Jesus marches wearily to his fate.
Similarly, Judah stands at the center of the storm. As he did in the earlier sequence, Judah rises to his full height at far left — the opposite of where Christ Jesus had stood upon quenching Judah’s thirst. In Judah’s right hand we see that he holds the ladle, emblematic of the one that revived him the last time the two men had met. Their positions are mirror images of where they once stood so many years before. Only here, Jesus does not look back, as Judah had done. Christ has left his past behind. He can only march solemnly ahead to a future he knows he must confront.
The sequence ends with the shadow of a Roman soldier cast across Judah’s backside. Two soldiers enter the scene, each on opposite sides of the frame, wearing flowing red capes (the blood of Christ on their shoulders?). Judah is obstructed from view, whereas Jesus is dressed all in white; he remains visible at the center, the image getting progressively smaller and smaller with each step, trudging incessantly to his end.
The next scene takes us to Calvary; a short while later, Christ is no more. A terrible rainstorm breaks out, but in a cave nearby a miracle has occurred: Tirzah and Miriam are cured of their leprosy. Esther is overjoyed. As rain begins to fall, we switch back to the cross where Christ’s limp body hangs. His blood flows down from the cross to a stream below. The stream then becomes a raging torrent, as Christ’s blood, mixed with the water and rain, washes man’s sins away.
In the final scene, Judah returns to his ancestral home. He confesses to an expectant Esther that Jesus’ last words were of forgiveness for mankind. Those same words, a comfort in our own hard times, took the sword of vengeance from his hand. A lifetime of rage and hatred has been replaced with absolution and understanding.
Judah is reunited with his newfound family (he marvels at their smoothened complexions). They embrace. The bonds of love and faith have been reaffirmed. In the end, the Christ theme blazes forth, blending with Judah’s theme as well as his and Esther’s love music.
A heavenly choir proclaims the “Alleluia,” as a portion of the “Creation of Adam” panel reappears. Only Adam’s hand and God’s life-giving touch are visible, a reaffirmation in kind of the bond that exists between man and his maker.
Copyright © 2017 by Josmar F. Lopes
Delivered in Pain: The Birth of Nations — Operas, Musicals and Movies with Patriotic Themes (Part One)
Ce-le-brate Good Times, Come On!
A happy and belated July 4 to one and all!
Since that date marks the start of our country’s struggle for liberty and independence, the focus of today’s post (and future ones thereafter) will be the theme of patriotism and how it is represented in such varied forms as motion pictures, the Broadway stage and — believe it or not — the opera house.
Let’s begin with a few selected works from the days of silent and sound cinema.
In point of fact, silent films depicting the American Revolution and/or the Founding Fathers were few and far between. Scarce is the word I would use to describe the relative lack of footage from the silent era that depicts the forging of our nation, or any other nation for that matter.
One of the main reasons for this shortage is the incontrovertible truth that many movies have simply deteriorated over time due to their having been made on nitrate or other perishable stock. Film preservation, as an acknowledged and accepted practice, was practically non-existent.
Beyond that reality, there are several silent features that have depicted such prominent figures as George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and various others. For starters, famed silent film director David Wark (D.W.) Griffith was noted for such gargantuan presentations as Intolerance (1916), Orphans of the Storm (1921), and especially The Birth of a Nation (1915).
An early example of long-form storytelling and narrative build-up, the bulk of Birth of a Nation takes place during and after the Civil War, in the so-termed Reconstruction period. Against this backdrop, such historical personalities as President Lincoln (played by Joseph Henabery), his assassin John Wilkes Booth (Raoul Walsh), and Generals Ulysses S. Grant (Donald Crisp) and Robert E. Lee (Howard Gaye) are juxtaposed against fictional protagonists Elsie Stoneman (Lillian Gish), Flora Cameron (Mae Marsh), Col. Benjamin Cameron (Henry B. Walthal), Silas Lynch (George Siegmann), and Gus (Walter Long) in a romantic tale of two families on opposite sides of the conflict.
In many respects, Griffith’s epic production is a forerunner of the no-less-compelling (and lengthier) Gone with the Wind a full generation later, with GWTW boasting a less overtly racist premise. Despite Birth of a Nation’s association with controversy vis-à-vis its questionably “heroic” portrait of the Ku Klux Klan “riding to save the South from black rule,” as well as the outrageously stereotypical treatment of African Americans throughout (played by white actors in “blackface”), the film remains a landmark in the cinematic arts for its groundbreaking photography and its use of close-ups, crosscutting and editing.
But as far as it can be connected to this article’s main theme, any mention of the role that “patriotism” had in the development of the screenplay and story line of Birth of a Nation can be deemed misguided.
Griffith was also responsible for America: or Love and Sacrifice (1924), a fictional tale involving colonial patriots (among them, a pre-Batman TV series Neil Hamilton as the coonskin hat-wearing Nathan Holden) battling their British red-coated occupiers near and around the sites of the Revolutionary War.
There are moments in the picture that recall James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans (filmed as a silent in 1920, and remade with sound in 1936), particularly the Native American-Indian raid on Fort Sacrifice. Certainly, actor Lionel Barrymore’s over-the-top performance as corrupt British Captain Walter Butler (a historical personage) tended to skirt the limits of melodramatic villainy by using the Native Americans for his own mercenary purposes.
In sum, more historical figures are present in this picture than in The Birth of a Nation. Welcome appearances in the movie’s first half by the likes of John Hancock, Samuel Adams, William Pitt, Thomas Jefferson, Patrick Henry, Paul Revere, and King George III were only the tip of the iceberg. And why not? After all, the aim of the project, as stipulated in Cotton Seiler’s article “The American Revolution” for The Columbia Companion to American History on Film, was “to stir the patriotic hearts of the nation as … no other picture has ever done.” Too, it may have been done to make amends for Griffith’s blatantly biased take in the earlier film.
There is also a Romeo and Juliet lover-story angle attached to America, best left explored to more literary-minded readers, but prevalent in the name of one of the feuding families, the Montagues. As a matter of fact, one of their member, Nancy Montague (played by Carol Dempster), is the daughter of Justice Montague (Erville Alderson), a Tory supporter and loyal follower of the British Crown. That Nancy and Nathan fall in and out of love, only to be reunited at the end, is indicative of Griffith’s tugging at the audience’s heartstrings.
Where the film is most impressive, however, is in its mythical interpretation of George Washington (Arthur Dewey) at Valley Forge. We all know the fable from our grade-school days: how the harsh winter of 1777-78 took an incalculable toll on the fledgling revolutionary forces; how Washington and his men withstood hunger and deprivation in order to maintain courage in the face of ever-mounting odds. Despite their “pain and suffering,” Washington and his men overcame the wintry blasts to fight again another day — and eventually win out over superior British forces. The end!
Most historians have discounted this retelling of events. Indeed, according to Washington authority Willard Sterne Randall, “It was not an unusually cold winter: in fact, it was one of the warmest in memory.” So much for historical accuracy! True to form, Griffith went on to capture that self-same frigid ambiance (now a warmed-over cliché) of the prayerful Father of Our Country at Valley Forge, PA, kneeling on sacred ground to ask the Lord for guidance in his hour of need — a surrogate Moses speaking to the Burning Bush (or icy frost, in this instance).
At the time of the film’s release, it was commented on by reviewers that Griffith had attempted to recycle the winning formula he invented for Birth of a Nation into this costly production; that the director had substituted Native Americans (i.e., the “Iroquois”) for African Americans as the “enemy” that needed to be tamed and vanquished; that in Griffith’s rationale, the colonists were not traitors to King George but rather “rebels” or Confederates (his deliberate choice of words was indeed revealing) with high ideals, fighting for a just cause. Whatever!
But never fear, all’s well that ends well. In the final scene, at his inaugural Washington takes the oath of office on the steps of Federal Hall in New York City, where his statue still stands to this day.
Griffith turned once again to the Civil War period in his first talkie: the biopic Abraham Lincoln (1930), a creaky, late-career outing that starred Walter Huston as Young Abe and later as President Lincoln, with Una Merkel as Ann Rutledge, Kay Hammond as Mary Todd Lincoln, E. Alyn Warren as both Stephen Douglas and General Grant, Hobart Bosworth as General Lee, Oscar Apfel as Secretary of War Stanton, and Ian Keith as John Wilkes Booth.
Huston was praised for his understated portrayal of the titular sixteenth U.S. president. Lincoln is presented here as having been foreseen (by Divine Providence, no less, in the manner of his Old Testament namesake, the prophet Abraham) as the reluctant father of his country, a unifying figure at a time of great division. The same can be said for Huston’s admirable performance: from beginning to end, Walter is the sole unifying factor in a somewhat stolid and stagey production.
It’s not what one would call a warts-and-all rendering of the Great Man, but a far more complicated and discerning one. Lincoln’s lingering depression and ever-present sadness over the burdens of high office are carried with him for much of the film’s 97-minute running time.
You could say that this was D.W. Griffith’s final hurrah as far as future film work was concerned. He would direct one last feature, The Struggle, in 1931. Based in part on Émile Zola’s novel, The Drunkard, the plot concerns a young alcoholic (Hal Skelly) hooked on bootleg liquor, an obvious criticism of the prevailing Prohibition law. The film mirrored Griffith’s own personal problems with alcoholism, which may have contributed to his death, at age 73, of a cerebral hemorrhage in 1948.
Ready When You Are, Mr. DeMille
One of the most popular and staggeringly successful producer-directors of his time — one who had traversed both the silent and sound eras with equal skill and deftness — was the inexhaustible Cecil B. DeMille. Considered one of Hollywood’s founding fathers, the Massachusetts-born DeMille was an early proponent of patriotically-themed and/or religiously-based screen epics.
Among the more noteworthy examples from the vast scope and breadth of his oeuvre are The Squaw Man (1914), one of the first films to be made in Hollywood proper and remade several times by DeMille himself; The Viriginian (also from 1914); The Girl of the Golden West (1915) after David Belasco’s play; Carmen (1915) with soprano Geraldine Farrar, based not on Bizet’s opera but on the original Prosper Mérimée novella; the silent version of The Ten Commandments (1923); The Volga Boatman (1926) with William Boyd; and the independently produced The King of Kings (1927), the story of Christ’s Passion and Resurrection.
It was during the sound period, then, that DeMille came into his own as a purveyor of the Protestant work ethic as a means toward achieving the American dream. After watching one of his films, viewers, too, may come away with the same feeling, one that pervaded many of his historical productions: the idea that a busy, industrious America is a happy America (at least, according to C.B.).
Such rousing recreations of frontier life as The Plainsman (1937), with Gary Cooper as Wild Bill Hickok, Jean Arthur as Calamity Jane, James Ellison as Buffalo Bill, and John Miljan as George Custer; the War of 1812 in The Buccaneer (1938), with Fredric March as privateer Jean Lafitte, Franciska Gaal as his ladylove Gretchen, Douglass Dumbrille as Governor Claiborne, and Hugh Sothern as a crotchety Andrew Jackson; and the building of the transcontinental railway in Union Pacific (1939), with Joel McCrea as Captain Jeff Butler, Barbara Stanwyck as the Irish-brogue spouting Mollie Monahan, Brian Donlevy as the villainous Sid Campeau, and Francis J. McDonald as General Dodge, all depict a young nation at work, keeping physically strong and mentally sharp by a division of labor between those who toil and those who govern.
DeMille’s heady mixture of historical luminaries and nationalistic fervor, blended with hard-working fictional protagonists that audiences could seemingly relate to, reaped huge box-office rewards for Paramount Studios’ coffers.
Looking northward, DeMille turned out (in vividly stunning Technicolor) a nostalgic ode to our Canadian neighbors in Northwest Mounted Police (1940). His pièce de résistance in this regard, however, was the later Unconquered (1947), which revisited similar terrain as Griffith’s America and Cooper’s Last of the Mohicans. Pure hokum and a potboiler supreme are one way to describe the picture; a “barnstormer rooted in Victorian theater,” as quoted by film critic David Thomson, and “shamelessly stereotyped and sentimental, but eagerly courting twentieth-century permissiveness, if only solemnly to condemn it.”
It was back to the frontier and the hearty folk who populated it. An all-star lineup of talent was assembled for Unconquered, headed by lanky Gary Cooper as Indian fighter Captain Christopher Holden, Paulette Goddard (who co-starred with him in Northwest Mounted Police) as indentured servant girl Abigail Hale, Howard Da Silva as illegal gunrunner Martin Garth, Boris Karloff as Seneca Chief Guyasuta, Ward Bond as John Fraser, Victor Varconi (a DeMille stalwart) as Captain Ecuyer, Henry Wilcoxon (another DeMille favorite who appeared as Major Heyward in the 1936 version of Last of the Mohicans) as Captain Steele, Richard Gaines as a dark-haired Colonel George Washington, and a cast of thousands if not hundreds.
The impossible-to-follow plot is a ludicrous assemblage of old, discarded bits from The Last of the Mohicans (in the Indian attack on Fort Pitt), to include, but not limited to, Capt. Holden’s stupefying rescue of Abby to prevent her from being roasted by the warring tribesmen. Both he and Abby manage to elude the pursuing braves by going down a studio-bound river in a raft and over a poorly projected waterfall. Nor is the inane dialogue any better, a common complaint in DeMille’s pictures. C.B. wasn’t interested as much in what his actors were saying as he was with what they look liked in costume.
The film’s title could just as easily have referred to the unconquerable “Abby” Hale as to its wilderness setting. In an article about George Washington by John D. Thomas, found in The Columbia Companion to American History on Film: How the Movies Have Portrayed the American Past, there’s a scene early on in which Captain Holden and Col. Washington are both privy to “an auction of white indentured servants brought over from Britain,” to include the scrappy Ms. Hale. “Washington ventures this bit of personal information: ‘One of my teachers was an indentured convict, Chris, a fine man, but he never could teach me to spell.’”
Thomas pointed out that historically, the indentured convict belonged to Washington’s father, and that Washington himself had owned numerous slaves (as did other Founding Fathers), as many as 350 or more after he married Martha. For DeMille, such a historically accurate revelation in Unconquered would have detracted from audiences’ enjoyment of his film, as well as clouded the issue of celebrating the fictionalized account of our freedom-loving ancestors.
Be that as it may, DeMille’s involvement with his 1956 Technicolor wide-screen remake of The Ten Commandments would address the slavery question head-on. Only this time, it would involve the tribulations of the put-upon Hebrew slaves of the Old Testament, intertwined with the rise of their Deliverer, Moses, and the flight from Egypt, known as the Exodus (see the following link to my post about the background to The Ten Commandments: https://josmarlopes.wordpress.com/2012/07/16/the-ten-commandments-american-society-in-the-fifties/).
(End of Part One)
To be continued….
Copyright © 2017 by Josmar F. Lopes