THE PRICE OF DECADENCE AND LIBERATION: Seduction and Isolation: A Dual Journey Through Queens of Evil 1970 and L’Avventura 1960 Part 2

L’Avventura 1960: Antonioni’s Haunting Exploration of Alienation and Desire in Post-War Italy

READ PART 1 QUEENS OF EVIL 1970, HERE

SPOILER ALERT!

Michaelangelo Antonioni made the statement at Cannes: ” Today the world is endangered by an extremely serious split between a science that is totally and consciously projected into the future, and a rigid and stereotyped morality which all of us recognize as such and yet sustain out of cowardice or sheer laziness (…) Moral man, who has no fear of the scientific unknown, is today afraid of the moral unknown.”

“ L’Avventura” created a stir in 1960 when {film critic} Kael picked it as the best film of the year. It was seen as the flip side of Fellini’s La Dolce Vita. Both directors were Italian; both depicted their characters in a fruitless search for sensual pleasure, and both films ended at dawn with emptiness and soul-sickness. But Fellini’s characters, who were middle-class and had lusty appetites, at least were hopeful on their way to despair. For Antonioni’s idle and decadent rich people, pleasure is anything that momentarily distracts them from the lethal ennui of their existence. Kael again: “The characters are active only in trying to discharge their anxiety: Sex is their sole means of contact…

… It was the most pure and stark of several films about characters who drifted in existential limbo. In America, it came at a time when beatniks cultivated detachment, when modern jazz kept an ironic distance from melody, when it was hip to be cool. That whole time came crashing down later in the 1960s, but while it lasted, “L’Avventura” was its anthem.” -FROM ROGER EBERT 1997

L’Avventura and La Dolce Vita, both released in 1960, stand as grand achievements in Italian art-house cinema, each leaving an indelible mark on the cinematic landscape. While both films emerge from the same river of thought, their singular currents have an organic path that flows from the influential waters of Italian Neorealism; where they diverge is in their artistic approaches.

Antonioni and Fellini, though contemporaries offer distinct perspectives on the societal shifts of their era. Fellini strived to draw a distinction between modernity and tradition, using the Neorealist framework as a gateway to his unique vision. However, his style differed from Antonioni’s. While both directors’ leading protagonists were captured in brushstrokes, painting them as flawed men contending with moral ambiguity, Fellini told his story from Marcello Rubini’s (portrayed by Marcello Mastroianni) perspective. At the same time, with L’Avventura, Antonioni centers his tale through the prism of Claudia’s experience, offering a female-centric exploration of existential themes. Antonioni clearly filtered his story through Claudia’s (Monica Viti) eyes. Antonioni, along with screenwriter Guerra, also adopted a more introspective stance, focusing on the internal struggles of their characters.

The arrival of Michelangelo Antonioni’s L’Avventura in 1960 marked a pivotal moment in cinematic history, coinciding with a period of profound transformation in the medium. Its debut at Cannes was met with a volatile response, with some audience members displeased by the revision in filmmaking style.

This turbulent reception reflected the seismic shifts occurring in film at the time. The traditional structure of narrative cinema was being dismantled and reimagined, both within established movements – “ from inside the “ nouvelle vague” (Koehler) by maverick filmmakers.

The French New Wave, exemplified by Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless 1960, was pushing boundaries, while directors like Agnès Varda and Alain Resnais (Last Year in Marienbad 1961) were charting new territories with their innovative works.

Directed Alain Resnais’s elegantly theatrical masterpiece of cinematic modernism, Last Year in Marienbad 1961.

“ In this exceptional moment, some of cinema’s old props were being kicked away, including Hollywood’s genre formulae, the three-act narrative structure, the privileging of psychology, the insistence on happy and ‘closed’ endings…{…}… What if endings were less conclusive or less ‘satisfying’? These are the questions Antonioni confronted and responded to with L’avventura, the film that – more than any other at that moment – redefined the landscape of the art form, and mapped a new path that still influences today’s most venturesome and radical young filmmakers.” —(SIGHT & SOUND by Robert Koehler -Originally published 27 July 2012-written in anticipation of our 2012 Greatest Films of All Time poll. Updated: 28 September 2023)

Antonioni’s films of the 1950s were, at one time, sentimental melodramas. In Italy, the landscape had already begun to shift dramatically. He had already started playing a role in deconstructing the existing traditions of the Neorealism movement, which gave way to a new era. This post-Neorealist cinema emerged, unshackled from the constraints of melodramatic conventions and political ideologies that had characterized its predecessor. L’Avventura, his 6th feature film, stood at the forefront of this cinematic revolution, embodying the spirit of a medium in flux and heralding a new chapter in film history.

Described as a painter, Michelangelo Antonioni’s groundbreaking 1960 film L’Avventura (English: The Adventure) redefined cinematic storytelling, challenging traditional narrative structures impactful because of how it deconstructs the classic plot formula and undermines audience expectations. The film was developed from a story by Antonioni with co-writers Elio Bartolini and Tonino Guerra. Sam Juliano at Wonders in the Dark had this to say about Tonino Guerra – “ the genius of Guerra, not simply in dialogue, but even more critically, in the marshaling and pacing of manifestation.”

Antonioni came from the privileged upper class, while Guarra was born of illiterate farmers. He chose to become a poet. Part of the strength of Antonioni’s vision can be attributed to Guarra’s contribution to the poetic substance of the film.

L’Avventura unfolds as a provocative exploration of human nature, set against the backdrop of Italy’s affluent society in the 1960s with the enigmatic event: the inexplicable vanishing of Anna (Lea Massari) during a Mediterranean yachting trip to a desolate volcanic island.

Anna’s fiancé, Sandro (Gabriele Ferzetti), and her best friend, Claudia (Monica Vitti), proceed to search for Anna, who is essentially in the wind. What begins as a search for the missing woman evolves into a journey of modern alienation and the emptiness of affluent society.

As their search unfolds, Claudia and Sandro’s initial determination to find Anna gradually wanes, and their pursuit of their missing friend and lover crumbles and is increasingly overshadowed by their growing attraction to each other, replaced by a complex emotional entanglement that neither if them fully comprehends nor resists.

Sandro: You love Anna very much.
Claudia: Yes, very much.
Sandro: Did she ever talk to you about me?
Claudia: Seldom, but always tenderly.
Sandro: And yet – and yet she acted as though our love, mine, yours, even her father’s, in a way, weren’t enough for her, meant nothing to her.

The initial search proves fruitless, and as time passes, Sandro and Claudia’s efforts to find Anna gradually transform into a burgeoning romantic relationship.

ANNA FADES, CLAUDIA EMERGES: When Absence Becomes the Central Character:

Monica Vitti and Lea Massari exchange places in the narrative. Massari is already disappearing in the frame.

Anna’s disappearance recedes into the background, becoming less a focal point of their journey and more a catalyst for her and Sandro’s emerging relationship.

Her absence continues to haunt the narrative, though not overtly. It inevitably evokes Hitchcock, who played with a similar motif in Rebecca 1940 and Vertigo 1958, not to mention how the director also dispatched his heroine early on in his contemporary psychological thriller Psycho 1960.

Anna at L’Avventura’s center dematerializes, in effect, like a ghost; she vanishes without a trace and creates a void at the narrative’s core. Without tangible evidence, her absence is marked only by rumors of sightings. Acting as the catalyst, Anna has been instrumental in bringing Claudia into her social circle, throwing her and Sandro together. Essentially, Monica Vitti is introduced into the role as, at first, the ‘witness’ (often Claudia is captured ‘looking’) and then as the narrator’s visual ‘surrogate.’

L’Avventura is a fleeting story of a woman’s erasure as she becomes increasingly forgotten long before the film is over. The profound uncomfortability lies in the complete absence of resolution—no sign of her, no investigation, and ultimately, no lasting memory of Anna herself. And though we are haunted. Claudia and Sandro are not.

Anna’s vanishing act causes a visual transformation in the film. Suddenly, the scope expands paradoxically through her absence, with Antonioni employing more expansive and lingering shots. The film’s aesthetic becomes more tangible, and the landscape holds greater importance, emphasizing the elemental forces – billowing clouds, falling rain, crashing waves, and an intensified sun.

Anna’s enigmatic disappearance serves as symbolism, a narrative pivot, propelling the characters into a profound exploration of existential nothingness, where her absence becomes that aforementioned haunting presence that permeates the film, symbolizing the void at the heart of modern existence and the characters’ futile attempts to fill it with superficial pursuits and fleeting connections.

Anna embodies existential ennui and disillusionment with modern life. Her disappearance symbolizes a deliberate escape from a reality that brings profound disappointment. Anna is now invisible, and… also felt nothingness while she was still present.

At the same time, Claudia moves from the periphery to the center and, ultimately, by the closing passages, returns to the edges of affluence once again, but much more empowered than in the beginning.

“As Geoffrey Nowell-Smith observes in his essential study of the film, the periphery in Antonioni is of absolute importance, for this is where the sense of drift in his mise-en-scène and narratives resides – a de-centred centrality. No filmmaker before Antonioni, not even the most radical visionaries like Vigo, had established this before as a part of their aesthetic project.” – Koehler from Sight and Sound

Claudia ultimately admits she prefers Anna’s absence, recognizing that her friend’s return would disrupt their evolving relationship.

Unlike Anna, who is always purposeful, Claudia emerges initially as a fragile seeker, desperately pursuing Sandro’s lukewarm affections with a vulnerability that betrays her own emotional uncertainty.

Claudia: Tell me you love me.
Sandro: I love you
Claudia: Tell me again.
Sandro: I don’t love you.
Claudia: I deserve that.
Sandro: [Leaves the room and immediately comes back]  It’s not true. I love you.

The evolution of Sandro and Claudia’s relationship is central to the film’s exploration of human nature. Their inability to fully commit to finding Anna, coupled with their growing attraction, highlights the fleeting nature of human connections and the ease with which people can be replaced in modern society.

Claudia: Because I am convinced you could make really beautiful things.
Sandro: I don’t know. I really don’t know about that. Who needs beautiful things nowadays, Claudia? How long will they last? All of this was built to last centuries. Today, 10, 20 years at the most, and then? Well.

Sicily’s Stark Beauty: Antonioni’s Canvas for Modern Alienation – L’Avventura’s Cinematic Landscape in 1960s Italy- From Neorealism to Ennui:

The film follows their journey through various locations in Italy, including Sicily and Taormina, as they ostensibly continue their search while grappling with their growing attraction to each other.

Shot on location in 1959 across Italy on location in Rome, the Aeolian Islands, and Sicily under challenging conditions, L’Avventura is renowned for its innovative approach to pacing, tone, and visual composition. Antonioni prioritizes mood and character development over traditional plot progression, creating a mesmerizing cinematic experience that lingers in the viewer’s mind. According to an Antonioni obituary, the film “systematically subverted the filmic codes, practices, and structures in currency at its time.”

The tepid reception of Il grido in 1957, both financially and critically, left Antonioni at a crossroads. Disillusioned with cinema, he contemplated a permanent return to his theatrical roots. However, his eventual decision to helm L’Avventura proved to be a tumultuous journey. The production was plagued by misfortune, culminating in a nightmarish scenario on the remote island of Lisca Bianca. As financial backing crumbled with the collapse of Imeria, the film’s producers, Antonioni, and his crew, found themselves marooned in a desolate location, grappling with dwindling resources and the harsh realities of isolation.

Despite the initial controversy – the rhythmic booing of the audience, at its Cannes premiere, L’Avventura went on to receive critical acclaim, earning the festival’s Jury Prize. Upon its international release, it reached a wider audience; the film made Antonioni’s career and is now lauded as a classic, recognized to be #3 of the 10 greatest films of all time. No. 1 is Citizen Kane, and No.2 is Battleship Potemkin.

It also was responsible for catapulting Monica Vitti to international stardom. Monica Vitti’s arrival on screen, wearing her chic black dress and possessing her iconic sensually windswept blonde mane, beckoned the dawn of the 1960s. Her magnetic aura transcends mere fashion, embodying the era’s spirit of liberation. Vitti’s iconic style and captivating aura elevated any film she graced, transforming it into a cultural touchstone that defined the decade’s aesthetic. She also stated that this film changed her life. Monica Vitti’s modernist theater background shines through her nuanced performance as she masterfully conveys complex emotions within Antonioni’s deliberately restrained cinematic framework.

The film’s lasting impact is evident in its consistent ranking among the world cinema’s greatest films of all time by critics and its influence on subsequent generations of filmmakers. L’Avventura’s groundbreaking status stems from its pioneering exploration and advancement of the principle of the ‘open film.’ This innovative approach to cinema had been Antonioni’s primary focus since transitioning from his notable career as a critic to filmmaking, mirroring the path of contemporaries like Godard. Its revolutionary nature lies in its fluid structure, having many of his ideas inspired by impressions of places that were visual epiphanies to the director, constantly shifting focus, and defying traditional narrative conventions, thereby redefining cinematic storytelling.

Michaelangelo Antonioni on the set of L’Avventura 1960.

His early works—from documentary to narrative film—which include The People of the Po (Gente del Po, 1947) and Story of a Love Affair (Cronaca di un amore, 1950), already challenged the constraints of Neorealism, revealing an artist attuned to the post-war world’s constant state of transformation and fluidity.

As the first installment of Antonioni’s acclaimed trilogy, followed by La Notte (The Night) and L’Eclisse (The Eclipse 1960), L’Avventura stands as a testament to the director’s visionary approach to cinema, systematically subverting established filmic conventions and paving the way for a new era of artistic expression in film. All three films in the trilogy are bound by the malaise of the modern world.

By the late 1950s and early 1960s, the Italian economy had already been shaking off the dust from World War II and started getting back on its feet, stabilizing and moving away from the devastating consequences of the war with factories popping up left and right – it saw industrial growth and subsequent economic prosperity took place through rapid and widespread industrialization.

As the economy changed, there began a new era of Italian cinema. Those gritty, down-to-earth Neorealist films from the 1940s and early ’50s were starting to feel a bit… outdated.

Cue the new wave of directors like Antonioni and Fellini, who were looking at Italy with fresh eyes. They’re not so much concerned with showing the struggles of the poor anymore. Instead, they’re zooming in on a different crowd – those actually benefiting from all this economic growth.

One can also clearly notice a shift in the sensibilities in the Italian films that were made during these years by acclaimed filmmakers like Antonioni, Fellini, and Ermanno Olmi. Antonioni’s L’Avventura, is worlds apart from the Neorealist films. Instead of focusing on the working class trying to make ends meet, it’s all about the rich and privileged. The very first line of the film is about nature being replaced by houses. It is a commentary on industrialization.

While Neorealist films were all about showing the harsh realities of post-war Italy, movies like L’Avventura were tackling a whole new beast: the emptiness and disillusionment that come with rapid economic progress.

Their films moved away from the concerns of Neorealist films of the 1940s and early 50s. In this context, it is very interesting to note the dissimilarities between a typical Italian Neorealist film and a post-Neorealist film like L’Avventura. While Neorealism dealt with the economic fallout of WWII, L’Avventura deals with a sense of disillusionment in the midst of rapid technological advancement (the very first line of the dialogue revolves around how houses are replacing the natural woods). While Neorealism focused on the poor working-class Italians, L’Avventura focused on the privileged upper class or the bourgeois section of Italian society. Antonioni masterfully portrays the spiritual and emotional emptiness of the modern bourgeoisie.

Patrizia: I never understood islands. Surrounded by nothing but water, poor things.

 

Corrado: Giulia is like Oscar Wilde. Give her all the luxuries and she will manage without the little necessities.

Patrizia: My childhood was like a merry-go-round, now here, now there.
Claudia: Mine was a very sensible one.
Patrizia: What do you mean by “sensible”?
Claudia: I mean without any money.

Sandro: Did you know that when I was a boy I wanted to be a diplomat? Can you imagine that! Me, a diplomat? It’s strange but I never thought I’d be rich. I saw myself living in a rooming house, full of geniuses… Instead, I have two apartments, one in Rome and one in Milan. As far as genius goes, it’s a habit I’ve never formed. What do you think of that?

Raimondo: To think that if there ever was a woman deliberately created, actually custom-made for every kind of promiscuity and betrayal, of sordidness and debauchery, it would be her. Oh, well. She’s faithful, a faithfulness born from a sort of apathy.
Patrizia: [laughs] It amuses me. It’s the only amusement I know besides my dog.

There is an irony to progress: Italy finally got its economic miracle, but these filmmakers are saying, Is this reality what people wanted or needed? They’re questioning whether all this progress is actually making people happier or just… emptier, more detached, and alienated.

We see a shift from films that show the struggles of poverty to ones that critique the very progress that was supposed to solve those problems. Italian cinema grew up alongside the economy, but instead of celebrating, it started asking some pretty tough questions.

Antonioni’s Lens: a New Visual Language of Silence and Emotion in Modern Cinema:

Antonioni’s L’Avventura is a masterclass in cinematic language, where every camera movement feels deliberate and profound. His film’s visual language breaks away from traditional cinematography, using long, carefully composed shots that transform the landscape into an emotional character.

His genius lies in his ability to convey these abstract concepts through visual storytelling. The film’s languid pacing, stark landscapes, and carefully composed shots all contribute to a pervasive sense of unease and emptiness. In essence, L’Avventura is a cinematic exploration of nothingness – not in the sense of lack, but as a powerful force that shapes our lives. It challenges viewers to confront the uncomfortable truths we often avoid: the fragility of our beliefs, the transience of our relationships, and the constant specter of oblivion that haunts our existence.

Antonioni juxtaposes human transience with the elemental world’s permanence. He contrasts characters against enduring landscapes and then frames their fragile relationship, capturing their faces in silhouette against ancient architecture, symbolizing humanity’s futile attempt to achieve immortality. This visual technique, skillfully employed in L’Avventura, became a hallmark of Antonioni’s distinctive cinematic style throughout his career.

The director’s meticulous eye for detail shines through in L’Avventura, particularly in the interior scenes. The film’s frame compositions are intricate puzzles, each element carefully placed to convey meaning beyond mere aesthetics.

As the story deviates – as it follows the two lovers (Claudia and Sandro) in their indifferent search, they travel through surreal spaces: deserted villages or, in stark contrast, the frenzied spectacle of lustful Southern Italian men, their gazes fixed intently as they stalk  Monica Vitti in the street.

This precision isn’t just about looking good; it’s a deliberate choice that echoes the film’s themes. The movie’s austere tone isn’t accidental. It’s a reflection of the changing Italian society of the time, grappling with rapid industrialization and a shift toward consumerism.

Antonioni makes a banquet out of his quiet, stark visual aesthetic to critique the emptiness creeping into people’s lives as traditional values give way to materialism. By stripping away warmth and emphasizing geometric, often cold spaces, Antonioni creates a world that feels devoid of genuine human connection. He tells the story through images – it’s almost a re-envisioning of ‘Silent Cinema.’ (Youngblood)

Antonioni’s artistic vision evolved to emphasize temporality and minimalist framing, balancing precision with a broad perspective that equally values human figures, architecture, and landscapes, emphasizing the characters’ connection (or lack thereof) to their environment. This approach created a unique cinematic discourse that challenged traditional visual hierarchies.

By placing images, atmosphere, and emotion at the core of the film, Antonioni creates a new cinematic voice that abandons traditional storytelling in favor of a more visually driven narrative. The barren island where Anna disappears becomes a metaphor for the characters’ emotional isolation.

Novelist and screenwriter Alain Robbe-Grillet (Last Year in Marienbad) notes that several shots in the film’s continental section are presented from the perspective of an unseen observer, suggesting that Anna is silently shadowing Sandro and Claudia to witness their actions. When Robbe-Grillet asked Antonioni about the missing scene, which depicted Anna’s body being delivered from the sea, Antonioni revealed that it had indeed been scripted and filmed but was ultimately excluded from the final cut due to timing constraints. The effect of the mystery of Anna is way more potent in the not knowing.

The extended takes are long, uninterrupted shots that force viewers to confront the characters’ inner turmoil. The symbolic settings, desolate islands, and foggy landscapes become metaphors for the characters’ isolation.

Antonioni’s framing – setting up extreme long shots that diminish and overwhelm characters against vast backdrops, emphasizes their insignificance and alienation. Meanwhile, urban isolation places them in empty streets or imposing architecture, highlighting their loneliness, boredom, emotional detachment, and disconnect from society.

Anna’s unsolved disappearance has sparked considerable discussion, with Roger Ebert linking it to the film’s affluent, entitled, and disenchanted characters, all of whom struggle with unfulfilling relationships. Ebert argues they are all “on the brink of disappearance.”

Claudia: Did you sleep well?
Anna: So-so. Last night I went to bed intending to think about lots of things–and then I fell asleep.

Shortly afterward, in the first stages of the film – Anna dissolves into the ether.

Through the overt existential emptiness, the meaningful dialogue is often replaced by pregnant silences and enigmatic glances, highlighting the characters’ inability to connect genuinely.

The characters’ affluent lifestyles fail to fill the void in their lives, leading to a pervasive sense of ennui. Through his direction, Antonioni transforms what could have been a straightforward mystery into a penetrating critique of modern society. The film’s languid pace and ambiguous narrative serve to amplify the sense of disillusionment and moral ambiguity that permeates the characters’ world. The film carries religious undertones through images of empty churches, emphasizing the institution of marriage, fidelity, and the ideal of everlasting love.

When this ideal remains unfulfilled, it leads to misery, yet people cling to it out of cowardice or complacency.

In a pivotal scene at the convent at Chiesa del Collegio in Noto, Claudia (Monica Vitti) turns to Sandro and says, “ I want to see clearly!” and she rings the church bells, creating a haunting moment of connection as the bell’s poetry surrounds the lovers its resonance echoes across the landscape.

L’Avventura presents a deceptively simple premise that unfolds into a complex meditation on human existence. Anna’s enigmatic disappearance during the yachting excursion to a barren Italian isle serves as a catalyst, exposing the fragile relationships and moral ambiguity of the characters and the unraveling of their relationships, setting in motion a narrative that’s less about finding Anna and more about exposing the existential void at the heart of modern life. As Sandro and Claudia embark on the search that gradually loses its urgency, their own relationship takes an unexpected turn.

Their growing attraction, tinged with guilt and uncertainty, becomes a lens through which Antonioni examines the fickle nature of human connections and the ease with which we replace the absent. Yet, beneath the surface plot, L’Avventura grapples with weightier themes: the omnipresence of the unknown, the futility of seeking meaning in a seemingly indifferent universe, and the hollowness of social conventions and materialism and impermanence. As fleeting as human bonds, an ancient vase unearthed from the island is dropped by one of the group, and it shatters carelessly, its destruction met with indifference—a poignant metaphor for the characters’ disregard for both history and intimacy.

From the outset, the dramatic setting feels raw and primal: an island surrounded by crashing waves against rugged inlets, with ancient rock formations and the wind howling as a storm brews. The people on this pleasure cruise along the southern Italian coast, privileged travelers, drift restlessly across Mediterranean waters off the coast of southern Italy, their relationships fraught with unspoken tensions and quiet desperation. Once Anna (Lea Massari) goes missing, the search begins.

It’s as if the characters are lost in their own emotional oasis, mirroring the barren landscapes of the Aeolian Islands, where part of the film is set. The barren island where Anna disappears becomes a metaphor for the characters’ internal emotional states, emphasizing the isolation and disconnection they feel.

This visual austerity serves a dual purpose. It not only represents the characters’ inner emptiness but also challenges us to confront the dehumanizing aspects of modern life as part of the film’s commentary. Antonioni isn’t just showing us beautiful imagery; he’s asking us to question the cost of progress and the nature of human relationships in this increasingly materialistic world.

Antonioni’s L’Avventura presents a profound exploration of human vulnerability in the face of life’s unpredictability. Anna’s sudden vanishing act serves as a stark reminder of our tenuous grip on existence, jolting Sandro and Claudia into a heightened awareness of life’s fragility. This abrupt confrontation with mortality and the arbitrary nature of fate catalyzes a complex emotional response in the two lovers.

Faced with the void left by Anna’s absence and the unsettling realization of their own mortality, Sandro and Claudia gravitate towards each other. Their burgeoning relationship can be seen as a reflexive attempt to find meaning and connection in a world suddenly revealed as chaotic and indifferent. However, this comfort is shaded by remorse and doubt and our often misguided attempts to fill the existential void. Their liaison becomes both a lifeline and a burden in the face of life’s fundamental uncertainties. Yet Sandro is incapable of a meaningful connection to any woman, while Claudia ultimately finds a connection to herself.

L’Avventura captivates with its visual splendor, offering a mesmerizing Mise en scène of monochromatic imagery by cinematographer Aldo Scavarda. This singular collaboration between Scavarda and Antonioni yielded a breathtaking visual feast despite their brief creative partnership.

Aldo Scavarda was an Italian cinematographer behind L’Avventura’s breathtaking cinematography, transforming what could have been a simple narrative into a visual poem. His lens captured landscapes and human emotions with almost painterly precision, making empty spaces and characters feel equally alive. Working closely with Antonioni, Scavarda essentially rewrote the visual language of cinema, turning each frame into a canvas that spoke volumes beyond dialogue. He collaborated with numerous notable directors, including Bernardo Bertolucci on Before the Revolution (1964), Mauro Bolognini on From a Roman Balcony(1960), and Luigi Comencini on On the Tiger’s Back (1961).

For L’Avventura, he created the film’s distinctive visual style, which emphasized mood and composition over traditional narrative techniques. In 1969, Scavarda won the Silver Ribbon prize for his cinematography on Salvatore Samperi’s Come Play with Me, and he also directed his own film, La linea del fiume, in 1975.

L’avventura showcases a cast of irresistibly alluring performers who exude sensuality. Monica Vitti, in her breakout leading role, captivates with her magnetic and quietly simmering screen presence. Her portrayal, along with those of her equally intelligent, sophisticated, and worldly contemporaries, redefined the archetype of the European actresses who shaped the perception of the new, sensually charged European film goddess. This reimagined persona of the Continental actress played a pivotal role in the triumphant infiltration of foreign cinema into English-language markets, drawing a new audience with a potent blend of intellect and sexuality. For cinephiles, the blend of artistic depth and erotic beauty was an irresistible combination.

The Faces Behind the Enigma: L’Avventura’s Defining Ensemble

Monica Vitti in Antonioni’s Red Dust 1964.

Alain Delon and Monica Vitti in L’Eclisse 1962.

Monica Vitti (Claudia): was a prominent muse in Italian cinema, particularly known for her collaborations with Antonioni. Besides L’Avventura, she starred in other Antonioni films like L’Eclisse (1962) and Red Desert (1964). She also showcased her versatility in comedies such as The Girl with a Pistol (1968).

Like Vitti, actresses who redefined the cultural zeitgeist of the 1960s were Anna Magnani’s with her intense portrayal of Mamma Roma in Pier Paolo Pasolini’s 1962 film of the same name. In this powerful performance, Magnani played a former prostitute striving to create a better life for her teenage son. Giulietta Masina for her whimsical performance in Juliet of the Spirits 1965, Claudia Cardinale emerged as a major star, known for her roles in acclaimed films like Federico Fellini’s 8½ (1963) and Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time in the West (1968), Jeanne Moreau became an iconic figure of French New Wave cinema, particularly for her incandescent, mercurial, and transcendent performance in François Truffaut’s Jules and Jim (1962) Sophia Loren solidified her status as an international star, winning an Academy Award for Two Women (1960) and starring in notable films like Marriage Italian Style (1964) Catherine Deneuve rose to prominence with her “cool, frigid femme fatale” persona in films like Repulsion (1965) and Belle de Jour (1967) Anouk Aimée gained recognition for her roles in La Dolce Vita (1960) and A Man and a Woman (1966) Romy Schneider became a defining figure in European cinema, acclaimed for her performances in films such as The Things of Life and L’Enfer.

Vitti, like these wonderful actresses of the decade, played a crucial role in shaping the landscape of European art cinema during the 1960s, contributing to its artistic and cultural significance.

Lea Massari

Lea Massari (Anna): Massari gained recognition for her role as the missing Anna in L’Avventura. She also appeared in notable films like Clara Chevalier in Louis Malle’s Murmur of the Heart (1971) and Christ Stopped at Eboli (1979). Gabriele Ferzetti (Sandro): had a long and varied career in Italian and international cinema. He appeared in other acclaimed films like Once Upon a Time in the West (1968) and On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (1969). Renzo Ricci (Anna’s father) spent his lengthy career in Italian theater and cinema. Apart from L’Avventura, he appeared in historical epics like Nero and the Burning of Rome (1953) and Garibaldi (1961).

Fusco’s score features “ the sounds of creaky nostalgic ‘Italian’ music(Koehler). The film’s evocative, at times, primal musical score, dissonant atonalities composed by Giovanni Fusco, was uniquely described by Antonioni as “jazz. The soundtrack features a variety of musical styles, including rhythm-centric, Jazz elements, dramatic themes, and variations, including Swing tunes and repetitive and jarring, offbeat rhythms.

Fusco’s music that appears in the film after the intro comes back in when they are all on the rocks looking for Anna. The composer worked on Red Desert 1964 and Resnais’ Hiroshima. Mon Amour 1959. Antonioni disliked the use of music in films – later, in his films, such as La Notte and L’Eclisse, he used very minimal music. Fusco wrote the beginning and ending music over the credits only.

Film historian Dr. Elena Marini argues that Michelangelo Antonioni’s approach to music in his films was revolutionary, particularly in his collaborations with composer Giovanni Fusco. Antonioni asked Fucso to infuse L’Avventura with a jazz mood but do it like the Hellenic era, which is monophonic using instruments like lyres or mandolin. Antonioni famously disliked traditional “commentary music”—scores that dictate emotional responses or serve as mere background noise, often referred to as “furniture music.” Instead, he sought to strip away such conventions, relying on imagery, actor choreography, and facial expressions to convey emotion and atmosphere. Marini emphasizes that Antonioni’s rejection of conventional film scores introduced a new cinematic language. His minimalist use of music ensured that the visuals remained dominant, preserving the contemplative and ambiguous tone of his work. This innovation has since become a hallmark of modern filmmaking, with many directors adopting similar approaches to avoid overtly manipulative soundtracks.

The film deftly navigates the liminal space between a fading era and an emerging zeitgeist still finding its footing. Giovanni Fusco’s opening score audaciously introduces this delicate balance, where wistful Sicilian melodies intertwine with edgy, prowling percussion. This auditory dance sets the stage for the film’s expansive exploration of tangible environments and psychological space.

Adrift: A Fateful Voyage: Anna’s Vanishing Act:

The film opens with Anna saying goodbye to her father with all the detachment of strangers meeting. Within the juxtaposition of the modern with the old world, Anna’s father is aligned with the architecture of the past. They live in the shadow of a neoclassical church that stands as a hidden gem in the landscape, unnoticed by this father and daughter due to their preoccupation with their own personal troubles.

He is in the middle of a cold business deal to sell off their sweeping property, which will be turned into low-cost housing. Anna (Lea Massari) and her friend Claudia (Monica Vitti) — who had, in her words, “a sensible childhood . . . without any money” meet at Anna’s father’s villa before embarking on a yachting trip along the Mediterranean.

Her father, a conservative diplomat, complains about her frequent travels away from home. “ I should have grown used to it by now.” For him, it is an ongoing issue, implying his displeasure about her struggle to conform to these expectations. She will not be domesticated, as shown by her intense inner life that overwhelms the ordinary aspects of her existence, leaving no room for conventionality.

Il padre di Anna: How long will you be away?
Anna: Four or five days.
Il padre de Anna: Well, I suppose I’ll spend the weekend alone. I’ll rest. I should have grown used to it by now.
Anna: Used to what, father?
Il padre di Anna: To rest, not only from my diplomatic duties but as a father.
Anna: Why do you say such things?
Il padre di Anna: It’s the truth. Allow me at least this much: after 30 years of never telling the truth, I might as well speak truthfully to my own daughter now.

The initial scenes of L’avventura illustrate a generational divide, as Anna – who first appears to be the film’s central character – informs her affluent father of her plans to get away on holiday in Sicily with her friend Claudia , who remains largely in the background, merely following along.

Anna first wants to spend a solitary moment and go for a coffee. “ I’m thirsty,” she tells her friend, who cannot believe she’d take such a detour from her lover, “ While a man you haven’t seen in a month has been waiting for you?” But the very serious Anna assures her, “ I’d happily give up seeing him today.”

However, she sacrifices her true desires in order to maintain a polite facade. She tries to make her case, “ It’s torture being apart. It’s difficult keeping a relationship going with one person here and the other there… But it’s convenient… Because you can imagine whatever you like. Whereas when somebody’s right in front of you, that’s all you get. Let’s go back. Come on!”

In the beginning scene with Claudia and Sandro, Antonioni introduces characters who indulge in the pleasure principle. First, Anna wants to abandon the idea of the boat trip; next, they are engaging in aimless sex. Antonioni had stated, ‘Eros is sick.’ Their sexuality fills the void of banality as a replacement for meaningful work and the unremarkable quality of a daily emotional life. That is part of what L’Avventura is about.

In the film’s initial moments, as Anna meets up with Sandro and they set out on their holiday boating adventure, Vitti’s heroine, Claudia, finds herself largely sidelined. She appears to be on the edges of the earliest scenes, her presence seemingly inconsequential. Still, her anxious gaze and subtle body language draw our attention, particularly when Anna’s palpable and pervasive angst is ever-present on screen —a discontent that remains unarticulated, even in her quiet moments with Claudia.

However, after Anna mysteriously vanishes during their boat trip to a deserted island, it is Claudia who steps into the spotlight —capturing the attention of Anna’s architect boyfriend, Sandro (Gabriele Ferzetti)—as the search for Anna gradually fades.

Claudia,is from a less privileged background, she hitches a ride with Anna. This act serves to emphasize the separation from the opulent lifestyle that Anna and her friends lead.

They travel to Rome to meet Anna’s fiancé, Sandro, near the Pans Fabricius. Not wanting to go through with their tryst, a broken attempt to stay away from her lover. Anna’s gesture falls short of her intended plan, and she winds up going to see Sandro.

One of the Antonioni close-ups is the abstraction of the frame; Sandro’s face falls out of the frame, nearly vanishing from the camera. Also, Anna is not truly there. She’s not passionate. She’s somewhere else while making love to him.

While Claudia waits downstairs, Anna and Sandro make love in his flat. [Anna starts to undress] –

Sandro: Your friend is downstairs, waiting. Anna: Let her wait!

Anna reveals early on that she is an indifferent lover. Although she is not truly captivated by her partner, Sandro, she impulsively makes love to him. But her body language signals her displeasure.

Sandro drives the women to the coast, where they join their wealthy friends, two Italian couples who plan to cruise the sea near Sicily on a yacht.

Reaching out of Sandro’s car with her hand, Claudia finds the impulse to engage the motion of the air as the convertible moves along the road. She connects with the environment as they travel. She reveals a sense of astonishment that is unfamiliar to her, as if experiencing something profound. This suggests the lightheartedness or spontaneity that she begins to feel, setting the stage for their journey.

The group takes a boat to an isolated island, and on the way, it becomes clear that each is involved in a loveless marriage, with each of them barely able to tolerate each other, if not outright loathe, their partner. Yet they choose to stay together, driven by weakness or simple inertia.

On the boat, we meet characters who show how hard it is for people to connect with each other—the idle rich who are lackadaisical and self-absorbed. And though Sandro comes across as arrogant, who must always have a woman in his life, he’s actually empty inside.

The people on the boat are adrift.
Antonioni has a unique ability to transform ordinary images into something psychologically impactful. In some instances, Claudia observes various scenes, including cliffs reflected in shimmering water. While these are simply rocks of an island, the director’s artistic choices imbue them with a deeper meaning. The rocks possess a striking presence. The director creates a subtle yet powerful emotional resonance through careful framing, lighting, and context.

The next day, while on their voyage, the group reaches the Aeolian Islands; they lay the anchor near the island, and Anna jumps into the water for a swim. Soon, Anna puts herself at the center of the stage again, as she did while she kept Claudia waiting while making love upstairs. Sandro follows her as she swims in the ocean after she cries in distress claiming to have seen a shark—only to discover later that it was a lie.

After creating chaos, Anna deliberately lies about the shark and then casually confesses to Claudia that she completely invented the story: “ You know, the whole shark thing was a lie.

There is a subtle undercurrent of eroticism in the scene where Anna confesses to Claudia about fabricating the shark incident. This moment ignites a palpable tension between the two women, their exchange charged with unspoken desire. Antonioni’s deliberate ambiguity has led many critics to speculate about Anna’s sexuality, particularly her potential lesbianism. They point to her restlessness and eventual disappearance as possible indicators rather than simply dismissing her as a capricious socialite.

The scene’s composition, with their bare backs turned to the camera in the cabin, reflects Antonioni’s idea of escaping one’s identity. His characters often are shot with their backs turned to the camera. The symbolic imagery hints at an impending shift as one is about to take the other’s place.

After Patrizia (Esmeralda Ruspoli) toys with her puzzle – life’s a puzzle – Raimondo (Lelio Luttazi) makes sexual overtures to her. They are not lovers, but he pursues her. Her rebuff stems not from a sense of marital fidelity or morality. Instead, they are born from a profound ennui that permeates her being.

The group arrives on a craggy island, where apples are casually shared among them. Anna and Sandro ascend to a higher point. They both go ashore, along with her friend Claudia and the others begin to explore.

Anna quarrels with her lover, expressing her growing discomfort with his absence, and she confides in him about her unhappiness with his frequent business trips, “ I got used to being without you.” but he dismisses her concerns as typical unease, assuring her it will pass. Sandro tells her, “ It’s the usual awkwardness. It will go away.” She answers, “It’s a little more this time.”

Anna, in the frame, emphasizes the gravity of their current situation. Meanwhile, Sandro dismisses her concerns with a tone-deaf suggestion that any serious issues will simply take more time to fade away, revealing his complete lack of understanding of Anna’s emotional state. Sandro – “ It’ll take a little longer to go away, then.”

Claudia –“Well, I think we should talk about it. Or do you think we won’t be able to understand each other?” Sandro – “ We’ll have time to talk. We’re getting married. What’s longer than a lifetime?” She walks away from him under the far-reaching sky. Isolated and melancholy, she sits on a rocky ledge, preparing to argue further., “ In that case, getting married would mean nothing. Aren’t we already acting like we’re married?” He asks, “ Why are we arguing… talking? Believe me, Anna, words are more and more pointless.

In Anna’s final, faltering attempt to reach out to Sandro on the rocky shore, she struggles to convey her sense that something is amiss. This moment illustrates Antonioni’s exploration of disconnection, as evidenced by their two-shot composition, where they face away from each other, embodying the essence of non-communication. The imagery of their turned backs symbolizes a profound alienation; they speak over their shoulders or into the void, highlighting the futility of their dialogue. Antonioni often depicts characters turning away from one another, suggesting that attempts at connection are ultimately pointless in a world marked by emotional detachment.

Sandro as he tries to kiss her, – “ I care for you, Anna. Isn’t that enough?”

Anna- “ No, it isn’t enough.” He tells her, “ I’d like to spend more time alone.” She insists, “ But you just had a month!” He tells her, “ More time!” She shouts. “ Two months, a year, three years!”

Sandro says – “ I know it’s absurd,”

She realizes he will never understand her pain, Anna tells him, “ I’m distraught. The idea of losing you makes me want to die… And yet, I don’t feel you anymore…”

Sandro smuggly – “ Even yesterday, at my place? You didn’t feel me?”

Anna says, “ You always have to dirty everything.” She watches as he leans back on his rock and covers his face. She is overheard saying she wants to be left alone as he takes a nap on the rocks.

This is the moment Anna truly vanishes. After the dissolve, there is a trace of a small boat off in the distance, leaving the smallest crest of waves. Could it be Anna leaving? What we will come to find out is that Anna will not be seen again. Their exchange highlights the growing disconnect between Anna and Sandro, foreshadowing the impending crisis in their relationship and setting the stage for Anna’s mysterious disappearance. After the argument, Claudia and is met by waves at her feet. Anna is gone.

We now see Claudia amidst the waves as if she is surrounded by turbulence.

The group becomes aware that Anna is missing and searches for her.

Guila watches Corrado as he walks far ahead of her. They are distant and lost to each other in their marriage. They are walking together yet separately in the scene.

Antonioni’s use of seemingly extraneous scenes, such as the old man in his cramped dwelling showcasing him pointing out his family photographs, serves a purpose beyond conventional plot advancement. While not directly contributing to the search for the missing Anna, these moments imbue the film with a profound sense of authenticity and depth. By traditional narrative standards, the director’s deliberate inclusion of such meaningless sequences initially bewildered and frustrated the Cannes audience, resulting in their notorious booing. However, these prolonged scenes where ostensibly “nothing happens” are, in fact, rich with subtle significance. These moments exemplify what film historian Seymour Chatman termed “the open text,” inviting viewers to engage in personal interpretation rather than passively consuming a predetermined narrative. What historian Gene Youngblood referred to as “found objects.” For example, the pharmacist and the young couple on the train.

Claudia, Sandro, and Corrado search an empty stone dwelling. Claudia stands by the window, looking out at the sunset. Another use of the camera to capture an open window.  Claudia wears Anna’s shirt like a skin. In this way, she is becoming her – taking her place and poised to transition to a pivotal moment. Now, with Anna’s absence on the island, the sexual attraction between Claudia and Sandro is about to be revealed.

In an atmospheric composition within a tight interior scene, Claudia awakens from a nap. Antonioni begins her arousal with a long contemplative shot. It is a beautiful portrait. Corrado is kind and gentle to Claudia yet is distant and cold to his wife Guilia – – it goes to the substance of marriage and to the relationships he has made in his own circle of friends. Claudia calls for Anna on the cliffs.

Between these two lovers, a volcano of sexual tension will eventually erupt.

The eloquent visual montage intensifies, embodying the emotional weight of the next defining, grand romantic moment. These two figures are framed against an infinite sky and a restless ocean. On the cliff’s edge, Claudia and Sandro stand in stark relief against the neverending sky; they remain motionless, silhouetted against the horizon. They hear a boat off in the distance.

There is a jagged rock in between Claudia and Sandro.

After a while, Anna is nowhere to be found. The others scour the island, which consists mainly of rocky terrain and sparse scrub trees, offering few hiding spots, and she remains elusive. We are left uncertain about whether she left intentionally, took her own life, hid away, or simply disappeared. While there are a only a few subtle clues that emerge upon multiple viewings, the truth remains ambiguous.

After Anna’s disappearance, Sandro shrugs it off as just her usual behavior.

They search the island, but their efforts don’t turn up any answers. Sandro, one of the vacationing friends – Corrado, and Claudia remain behind to continue searching while the others alert the police. As they look for Anna, Sandro becomes defensive when Claudia implies that he is partly responsible for Anna’s disappearance because of his neglect.

Anna’s vanishing act and the initial search on the island is notable as it takes up a third of the way into the film. At the time, it was a groundbreaking notion to shift away from such a central plot point so drastically and never return to it.

Antonioni executes a bold cinematic manipulation by abruptly flipping the switch in L’Avventura; it turns the primary narrative on its head—the search for Anna—dissolves, leaving us adrift in a narrative vacuum. This shift reflects the characters’ own internal void as they struggle with a sudden loss of purpose. What’s left is a group of individuals sleepwalking through their lives without any clear sense of direction.

A yacht is sent to get help. While Anna’s friends search the island, Aldo Scavarda’s cinematography creates a haunting atmosphere: the characters are positioned off-center in the frame, suggesting that the rocks have stood for ages and these visitors might easily fall into the sea—or fade into the sky or swallowed up by the camera. Even the moment on the rocks when the emergence of Claudia and Sandro’s attraction comes to life, by the end of the sequence, Claudia falls off the edge of the frame as if Antonioni obliterates her from the scene. They hear a boat in the distance, and there’s a cryptic shot where we catch a glimpse of it—or we think we almost see it like a ghost. Is it an illusion? And we wonder: Did Anna leave on it?

“These phantom boats are like the dead body that was or wasn’t on the park grass in Antonioni’s (Blow Up 1967). The 1975 Australian film Picnic at Hanging Rock is also about a person consumed by a landscape. The effect of Anna’s disappearance is disquieting; we want to know there either was a boat or wasn’t a boat, and Anna either did or didn’t leave on it. The film remains slippery.” (EBERT)

Eventually, the yacht returns to the island, bringing with it the police and Anna’s father, who seems like he can’t be bothered and appears displeased to be pulled away from his business having to come and try to find his missing daughter.

Sandro reports, “ Nothing, nothing…” Claudia brings two of Anna’s books from the yacht. Anna’s father feels encouraged as he considers his daughter’s fate. He takes note of both – Tender is the Night and the Bible. “ This is a good sign. I think someone who reads the Bible wouldn’t do anything rash because it means they believe in God.”

When the police conducted a search of their own, they found nothing. There is no need to wonder why the police aren’t questioning Sandro or Corrado, who had gone off in a boat to wander on a smaller island right before Anna went missing. You might go in expecting the film to be all about the search for Anna. In essence, all of its characters are on the brink of disappearing. ” Their lives are so unreal, and their relationships so tenuous that they can barely be said to exist.” (ROGER EBERT) But L’Avventure is not a mystery… it is a visual poetic reflection on the intricacies of human existence and the abyss of meaninglessness.

It has only been hours after his lover has gone missing, yet he follows Claudia onto the Yacht and tries to kiss her.

Sandro decides to investigate nearby smugglers, but first comes a scene that is startling because it feels almost ephemeral—like the phantom boat that may or may not have been there. Once the group returns to the yacht before Sandro leaves to continue his search, he suddenly seizes Claudia and kisses her. Taking her off guard, Claudia instinctively recoils from his embrace, and the moment quickly evaporates into thin air. What is going through her mind? Is she repulsed by his willingness to betray Anna so quickly? Like Anna’s mysterious disappearance, the truth remains an open question for the time being.

Sandro makes a report at police headquarters and follows Claudia to the station.

Claudia and Sandro share another closed-in space, while a bright window – one of many windows, to the right of screen is yet another means of escape.

Claudia and Sandro convince themselves that Anna might still be in the same area and possibly attend the next social gathering. Their search for Anna is represented as ineffective; Claudia becomes someone like Anna who begins to question things, while Sandro is the embodiment of weaknesses. As Claudia boards a train heading to Palermo, just as it starts to pull away, Sandro leaps on board and tells her that he loves her. She is annoyed by his impulsiveness.

As they head to Milazzo, they mock a working-class couple’s conversation at the train station. Their obliviousness overshadows this sentiment of the stunning coastal scenery along the train route. The rolling swells of the sea, which they ignore, symbolize a new world emerging, one that Claudia is beginning to sense despite her previous lack of awareness.

Claudia questions the wisdom of their attraction, but Sandro sees no reason to let it go. Meanwhile, Claudia is unsettled by how fleeting life is and how easily things can change. Ultimately, Sandro decides to step off the train at Castroreale. Sandro decides to bribe the journalist Zuria to write a false report that Anna has been spotted in Troina. Claudia winds up at Patrizia’s palatial Villa.

This turn of events allows Antonioni to take a closer look at the superficiality and emotional distance that often characterize the upper crust of society, holding up a mirror to the broader malaise of the times. The film dives into the inner lives of its characters, exposing their deep emotional isolation. Even though they are always surrounded by one another, there’s a striking sense of disconnection among them.

Claudia decides to search other islands by herself, and she and Sandro agree to meet up later in Palermo. The police conducted a thorough search but found nothing. And Sandro discovers the smugglers have nothing to tell him about Anna’s disappearance.

Claudia arrives at the estate, where the gravity of Anna’s disappearance is met with indifference. At Patricia’s villa in the South, there’s cynical talk about aging and loss of sensation.“ When you’re past 50, My Darling, you only feel cold.” Someone makes a dig at Patricia; a sarcastic suggestion is made to turn the villa into a clinic for nervous disorders. This is an allusion to Anna’s earlier awareness of the illness of the soul deeply rooted in society. “ Why don’t you sell this villa to a lovely clinic for nervous disorders?”

To Antonioni’s melodramatic style with Guerra’s added nuance.  “nervous disorders” are a long-standing human condition dating back millennia. The fline suggests that Anna was aware of these deep-seated issues in society.

The stunning tropical landscape surrounding the property goes unnoticed by its inhabitants, symbolizing their disconnection from natural beauty.

Claudia has entered a beautiful netherworld or dreamscape where people idle around for a living.

Claudia tries on a black wig the second time she takes on Anna’s identity. She has become a surrogate for Sandro, within a seemingly real space revealed as fantasy.

In the witness role again, Claudia catches Guilia coming up the stairs with the young boy she was flirting with. In his book, writer Seymore Chapman points out that it’s more about a moral and legal sense than passive observation. Claudia makes judgments about what she sees – Guilia takes the young artist to his room while Claudia watches them embrace – Claudia’s disapproval vexes Guilia, and she closes the door on her. Claudia gives a revealing smile as she exits the door. She has turned her back on this way of life. Claudia keeps herself emotionally and psychologically withdrawn from the pretext of the search for Anna while remaining on the periphery.

Claudia, however, is portrayed as someone capable of appreciating this beauty, with a hidden understanding of the need to counteract the venomous superficial lifestyle.

Claudia’s initial ignorance is seen as potentially constructive, suggesting her naivety might lead to growth. Giulia’s questionable indiscretion after she encounters the young artist painting nude women drawing a comparison to Titian’s early work. The young artist’s response of feeling “a shiver” while painting is highlighted as significant, even in an otherwise trivial context. Guerra’s intention is to show that even small moments of genuine feeling or inspiration can be meaningful.

Sandro and Claudia head to Troina, where they manage to find the chemist who claims he sold tranquilizers to a woman who matches Anna’s description. In their search, Sandro and Claudia learn that the woman identified by the chemist had taken a bus to Noto in southern Sicily. They drive there together.

As they journey south, they pause at an abandoned village, where they embrace on a hill that overlooks the town. Unexpectedly, Claudia and Sandro engage in passionate lovemaking near a rural train track. Claudia exclaims possessively, ” Mine. Mine. Mine…” Another beautiful montage – they are elevated above the landscape – the camera gets close up on their faces as the sounds of a train echoes in the distance. As film historian Gene Youngblood points out in his extraordinary commentary for Criterion, you would never see in a traditional Hollywood film the back of someone’s head obscuring their lover’s face while they were kissing. ” The camera shares the diegetic space of the story itself. When they leave it, the frame is empty. This seemingly random cutting against the action gives you a sense more of you being there.”

They quickly resume their journey. A fast train rushes by; its thunderous passage leaves a lasting impression. As they continue their hasty walk, Claudia admits to Sandro, ” What I’m doing is ugly…”

Continuing on to Noto, they search for Anna at the Trinacria Hotel but fail to get any answers. Throughout this journey, Claudia remains conflicted by her emotions—torn between her growing feelings for Sandro and her sense of betrayal of Anna.

He and Claudia’s connection to architecture is intricately linked to their physical presence as they navigate spaces that alternately elevate them above the Italian structures and nearly swallows them up; their shared intimacy begins in open spaces but gradually closes in on them, framing their confinement.

They reach Noto, drawn by whispers of Anna’s presence. As the journey unfolds, Claudia’s character undergoes a transformation. Initially introverted and hesitant, she gradually emerges from her shell, gaining confidence with each passing scene. In Noto, she assumes the role of witness once again, becoming acutely aware of the men’s intense gazes. The sequence takes on a surreal quality, with the town seemingly populated entirely by lustful men. Their exaggerated behavior, following Claudia and overtly ogling her, stands out as a theatrical element in a film otherwise known for its de-theatricalization (Youngblood).

Sandro is constantly placed against architectural edifices.

They climb up a church steeple reminiscent of Hitchcock’s Vertigo. Claudia engages with the beauty of her surroundings by pulling on a church’s bell rope, whose sound resonates with pure natural effect. The sound rings out to someone else who answers the call, creating a moment of connection through the bell’s song. Yet the emotional impact of Claudia’s stirring is undermined by Sandro’s absence of romantic intuition. Instead of appreciating the beauty and meaning of the heavenly sound, Sandro becomes distracted by his career and the architectural aspects of the church rather than connecting with Claudia or the moment.

She says to him, “ Such imagination, such movement.” Sandro,  “ I used to have ideas, you know.” She asks, “ Why did you stop?” He tells her, “ It isn’t easy to admit that a red floor suits a room when you think exactly the opposite, but the lady wants it red. So I give estimates…”

Claudia tells him, “ You could make beautiful things.” But lazily, he asserts, “ Who needs beautiful things nowadays? How long will they last? But then they built for the ages…”

At the Chiesa del Collegio, Sandro proposes to Claudia, but she turns him down. The next morning, despite the undeniable chemistry between them, Claudia feels uncertain and suggests they part ways. Ultimately, she comes to terms with her feelings for Sandro, allowing her thoughts of Anna to fade.
Neither of them mourns her absence; Anna, as a friend and lover, is now gone, and they move on without a second thought.

He changes the subject, “ Shall we get married?” She says, “ Not yet, anyway,” He tells her, “ I don’t know… Why can’t things be less complicated? I’d like to be clear-headed. I’d like to have clear ideas.”

She tells him, ” I want to see things clearly.”

Sandro voices his discontent. “ I’ve never met a woman like you who needs to see everything clearly.”

Near the Cathedral in Noto, while waiting for it to open, Sandro, distracted while observing a student sketching an old doorway, deliberately knocks over the artist’s ink maliciously, causing a black swath to spread across the drawing. He then boasts about his past street-fighting experiences and walks away, joining a church procession. His actions appear to be both accidental and intentional, symbolizing Sandro’s tendency to destroy or disrupt.

In their hotel room, Claudia continues to emerge more assertive, autonomous, and aware of her sexuality. She hears the music from a truck out on the street. She is now embracing something genuine and authentic in herself. But Sandro is preoccupied; no sooner does Claudia seem to be his, he is already pulling away.

When he returns to the hotel room, he is still distracted – Claudia exuberantly sings along to a pop song playing from a truck in the street as she lingers in her bedroom. Her performance is filled with joy and abandon. However, her elation quickly fades when she notices Sandro’s indifference cast a shadow over the room; particularly by the evocation of the church and its architecture across the way. He looks out the terrace and feels the emptiness of his failure. He closes the shudders and wants the only thing he knows  – sex. Claudia, first open to his embrace, becomes hesitant – there’s subtle uncertainty as she tries to ward off his rough advances. It speaks of how desperate Sandro is to stay detached. His silence lingers until it becomes an aggressive sexual advance toward her. After partially freeing herself from his unwanted attention, Claudia expresses her disillusionment, saying, ” I feel as though I don’t know you.”

The atmosphere shifts dramatically, from the euphoria atop the bell tower and the light-hearted melody echoing in the streets. Suddenly, it descends upon the scene, the sense of unresolved ambivalence.

They travel to Taormina and rejoin ‘the party’ and book a room at the San Domenico Palace Hotel. They check into a hotel room together, and while the bellboy looks on, Sandro attempts to kiss Claudia. However, once the bellboy leaves, Sandro refrains from trying again. At the same time, Sandro’s boss and his wife Patrizia are busy preparing to host the extravagant party in the hotel.

The mise-en-scène evolves, evoking a sense of decadent excess. This visual shift from uncluttered compositions underscores the scene’s emotional complexity, blending caprice and pathos while hinting at an underlying emptiness.

Claudia repeats the question, ” Tell me you love me.”

In this montage, Claudia is now a witness to herself. To her own internal reflections. Gene Youngblood points out that many critics have referred to this as revising the internal monologue, the close-up, and the voice-over off-screen. There are no words spoken as she looks out from under the covers, her eyes seeking answers. It is up to us to consider what she is thinking. She moves about the room, restless. She looks in the mirror. She looks at fashion magazines and scribbles over model’s faces. But Antonioni had said he would never do an internal monologue. He once visited painter Mark Rothko’s studio and told him, “ My films are like your paintings. They’re about nothing with precision.”

He criticizes Claudia for being sleepy and boasts about his ability to stay awake. For her, it seems like a good way to escape from the wealthy elite. When Claudia chooses not to go, Sandro decides to go without her. Claudia later wakes up, unable to sleep, and browses a magazine featuring a model who doesn’t interest her.

Joined by his other friends, mingling with the guests, he recognizes a striking woman named Gloria Perkins (Dorothy De Poliolo)—a beautiful 19-year-old aspiring actress who, in reality, is a high-end escort masquerading as a writer.

In L’Avventura’s concluding sequence, Antonioni, with Guerra’s writing, subverts expectations by eschewing a dramatic confrontation. Instead, he crafts a nuanced tableau of emotional betrayal.

The transgression unfolds in hushed tones, with Sandro’s infidelity manifesting not as a public spectacle but as a private wound; when Claudia discovers Sandro entangled with Gloria on the sofa the morning after the party. Her heart is shattered. She flees to the outside.

As Sandro runs off behind her, Gloria asks Sandro for a memento, and Sandro coldly throws money at her, their intimate moment reduced to a crude exchange.

In the morning, there is a long take as Claudia wanders through the empty hotel, now desolate from the night before, with the regaling of the very rich. She stumbles onto Sandro and Gloria on the couch. Sandro reveals what we’ve known about him all along and that he has become a pitiful figure – like a child.

Once again, she steps through yet another archway or portal. It is Claudia’s context to emerge through portals.

As she stands by the bombed-out church, her back to us, the sound of the trees rustles, perhaps to signify her quiet turbulence. Sandro follows after her. She weeps but also has a breakthrough, which we can see on her face. Antonioni brings in a collection of natural incidental sounds. From far off, a dog barks, an echoing train whistle, and the wind and uncanny waves. Antonioni uses sound strategically in L’Avventura to mark emotional shifts and remind characters of reality. Two key examples are the motorboat’s engine that interrupts Claudia and Sandro’s self-focused conversation in another scene, reminding them of Anna’s unresolved disappearance, and the train whistle, which breaks the intimacy after Claudia and Sandro’s lovemaking, disrupting their momentary escape and refocusing their attention.

After that initial shock, Claudia’s forgiving nature takes over. Sandro tells her, “ You know I wanted to be a diplomat, like Anna’s father. It’s strange, but I never saw myself in a rented room, a man of genius. Instead, I have two houses, in Rome and Milan. As for genius, it’s a habit I never picked up.” Now Claudia sees him as he truly is and questions whether their romance is a dead end.

Sandro’s moment of reckoning arrives through the mirror of Claudia’s response. As he witnesses the profound transformation in her, the weight of his actions finally sinks in.

In the final moments of L’Avventura, Antonioni paints a scene of profound emotional complexity on the terrace of the San Domenico Palace Hotel. Sandro weeps as they share a wordless, emotionally charged moment before the San Domenico church’s ruined tower, with Mount Etna’s looming silhouette etched against the horizon.

Ancient ruins… love in ruination.

It is ironic that the structure to the left of his close-up is a phallic symbol, ironic because he is a very impotent man.

To the right of Sandro, a blank wall … to the right of Claudia…  a potential volcano.

This wordless exchange becomes a powerful tableau of human frailty and emotional erosion. Claudia’s gesture—placing her hand on Sandro’s head—is layered with ambiguity, simultaneously conveying compassion and contempt.

This nuanced action brings full circle the film’s exploration of the intricacies of human relationships and the corrosive nature of modern ennui. The scene subtly suggests Claudia’s transformation. Once vibrant and hopeful, she now mirrors the jadedness of her lost friend, Anna.

This metamorphosis underscores the film’s themes of existential malaise and the struggle for authentic connection in a world of shifting moral landscapes.

Antonioni’s artful direction transforms this simple terrace into a metaphorical stage for his denouement, using the physical space to distill the film’s exploration of alienation. We are left watching the characters’ emotional journey, with Mount Etna’s distant presence serving as a silent witness to their internal struggle.

Love, Longing and Moral Ambiguity: The Unraveling Threads in L’Avventura:

L’Avventura is renowned for its deliberate use of vagueness, which contributes significantly to the film’s exploration of alienation. The film presents ambiguous character behaviors and motivations, particularly in the relationship between Sandro and Claudia: Their swift romantic involvement after Anna’s disappearance raises questions about their true feelings and moral standing. And their actions often contradict their expressed emotions, creating a sense of uncertainty and the suggestion of alienation.

The question of the film’s moral ambiguity is that it resists clear moral judgments, instead presenting situations that invite multiple interpretations and at times, reflect the characters’ spiritual and emotional emptiness in post-war Italian society.

It can be interpreted that Anna’s palely implied suicide is a significant event that stands out in the film’s bleak atmosphere and emphasizes the overall pessimistic tone of the film, suggesting that Anna’s possible death is one of the few moments that offers any form of meaning or possibility for change. She is the one “ opening a door that needs to be opened.” (Sam Juliano: Wonders in the Dark) She is the one who breaks from societal constraints or escapes from the existential ennui that pervades the film.

Anna’s father assumes when he discovers the two books in her room only focusing on the Holy Bible and not her copy of F. Scott’s Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night, a complex novel set in the 1920s, that deals with a glamorous American couple and explores themes of love, mental illness and the decay of the American dream. He interprets the presence of the bible to draw away from any conclusion that Anna has committed suicide. The characters’ apparent lack of concern for Anna’s fate challenges viewers’ expectations of appropriate behavior, and the film’s treatment of relationships and fidelity blurs traditional moral boundaries.

Morality is at the heart of the film. Most of the characters are immoral and lust-crazed. This includes Claudia and Sandro, but also the supporting characters. Guilia and Corrado are terrific examples of this. They exchange barbs during the island vacation, even after Anna goes missing, showing that their marriage is fractured. Guilia is tempted by a youngster and succumbs to his advances, obstinately telling Claudia to leave and tell Corrado that he can find her there. It is as if she is wishing to be found and have their marriage ended. These two characters represent the future of relationships, painting a bleak picture and helping Claudia reach a level of understanding. If things worked out between Claudia and Sandro, this could be their future. (AARON WEST-from Criterion Closeup 2006 essay: L’Avventura, Michelangelo Antonioni, 1960)

Antionio’s film is daring because of its rejection of the traditional plot structure and cinematic storytelling. It doesn’t maintain a fixed central focus, with no predictable or linear pathway to an ending. There are multiple centers. It is fluid and changeable. As Robert Koehler’s Sight and Sound article suggests, It moves from one center to another; there is continuous renewal. This implies that different characters, themes, or events take precedence at various points in the film, which is also ambiguous as it doesn’t have a clear-cut beginning or end. This unconventional structure challenges our expectations and reflects the film’s themes of uncertainty and existential drift.

He also forges a path through visual ambiguity: Antonioni’s use of composition and framing creates visual uncertainty and often places the film’s characters in vast, empty landscapes, emphasizing their isolation and smallness in the world. The use of negative space and prolonged shots after the action has ended creates a sense of unresolved tension.

” The fluidity of Antionio’s full range of symbolism for instance, the sense of new possibilities (new towns, new relationships) seen in the curve of a highway, a train hurtling down the tracks and through tunnels, the insistence on the Old World in the hulking presence of churches, formal dinner parties, rigid bodies against Claudia’s free and easy one, always in motion.” -Koehler Sight and Sound

One of the director’s compositions – the Old World, represented by the three nuns and the modern young women driving up in their sports car.

The images in the film are not traditional symbols or metaphors but integral elements of the narrative. They create a visual density that directly tells the story. The characters’ movements within the composition, such as frequently passing through archways, are not symbolic transitions but literal ones. This approach to visual storytelling made the film distinctive, blending imagery and narrative into a cohesive whole.

Anna’s disappearance while perhaps the central mystery of the film is never resolved. This ambiguity serves multiple purposes: It reflects the characters’ inability to find meaning or closure in their lives, and it acts as a catalyst for exploring the characters’ relationships and inner turmoil, symbolizing the broader theme of disconnection in modern society.

The idea that the ending might be the “beginning of something new” implies that the film’s themes and questions persist beyond its formal conclusion, inviting continued reflection.

Antonioni’s revolutionary approach reflected the film’s themes of alienation, uncertainty, and the shifting nature of modern life, which held a mirror up to the characters’ internal states and the ambiguities of their experiences.

Antonioni allows Anna to fade from Claudia and Sandro’s lives; while they search for her, their connection holds more importance over the quest for finding out where she is or if she’s even still alive. The film leaves that open for interpretation. It only emphasizes the significance of Claudia and Sandro’s shared moments rather than Anna’s fate.

Ultimately, L’Avventura is a meditation on nothingness.

This has been part 2 of The Journey to Italy Blogathon hosted by Gil at Realweegiemidgetreviews and Kristina at Speakeasy!

 

Under the Radar: The Unseen Side of Film Noir – Part 3 – It Always Rains on Sunday (1947)

Darkness Without Escape: British Noir’s Bleak Horizons

It Always Rains on Sunday 1947

In director Robert Hamer’s masterful film It Always Rains on Sunday, the relentless downpour that drenches nearly every scene serves as both a symbol of psychological downpour as it is one of torrential weather. This persistent rain reflects the bleak, oppressive atmosphere of postwar London, mirroring the emotional turmoil and shattered dreams of its characters.

A bleak, numbing damp seeps through the air, a haunting echo of the shattered, bombed-out dreams of the various characters navigating a single gritty Sunday on the rain-drained streets of postwar East End London where Googie Withers offers a safe haven to her former lover, the escaped felon Tommy Swann (John McCallum).

In a commanding performance as Rose Sandigate, Googie Withers embodies the frustrations of a disillusioned housewife from Bethnal Green trapped in a monotonous marriage.

Boxed in by good-natured yet intrusive neighbors, she grapples with the bitter feelings of envy toward her stepdaughter’s vibrant social life. When her mundane existence is abruptly disrupted by her ex-lover resurfacing, it forces her to confront her longing for the past and the constraints of her current reality.

Susan Shaw as Googie Wither’s stepdaughter Vi.

Concealed in the sanctuary of her bedroom, Tommy stays out of sight while the ordinary rhythm of domesticity plays out just beyond the walls. Meanwhile, outside the house, the relentless threat of police and journalists at her door looking for him will disrupt their plans.

“ But with that desperate situation as its emotional and narrative core, It Always Rains on Sunday fans out into a sprawling, Altmanesque tapestry of East End life.” ( from Film at Lincoln Center)

Condensed into a gripping hour and a half, the film unfolds with relentless intensity, where every moment is imbued with meaning. As day gives way to the nighttime realm, the despair and alienation culminate in a surreal Stratford train-yard finale. Here, elongated shadows dance amidst swirling smoke and intricate rear projections, creating a fever-dream landscape where all narrative threads converge.

It Always Rains on Sunday is a 1947 British film adaptation of Arthur La Bern’s novel of the same name. Arthur La Bern also wrote the story that became Hitchcock’s psycho-sexual thriller Frenzy.

Robert Hamer, who directed the film, also helmed the irreverent Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949), The Spider and the Fly (1949), Dead of Night (1945) sequence – the eerie and disturbing “The Haunted Mirror,” Pink String & Sealing Wax 1945, The Detective (1954) starring Frank Sinatra which dealt head-on with then considered deviant subject matter, To Paris with Love (1955), The Scapegoat (1959), and School for Scoundrels (1960).

The British writers Robert Murphy and Graham Fuller compared It Always Rains on Sunday to the poetic realism movement in French cinema a few years earlier.

The film features a screenplay By Angus Mcphail, Robert Hamer, and Henry Cornelius, with moody cinematography by Douglas Slocombe, who began his career as a photojournalist. Slocombe also shot Kind Hearts and Coronets 1949, The Lavender Hill Mob 1951, The Man in the White Suit 1951, The Servant 1963, and the taut psychological thriller starring Stephen Boyd, Jack Hawkins, and Pamela Franklin The Third Secret 1964.

It Always Rains on Sunday marked the first significant success for Ealing Studios in Britain, one of the oldest film studios in existence. It opened its doors in 1905 and is still operating today.

Googie Withers and John McCallum met while filming It Always Rains on Sunday. They married the following year and remained together until McCallum’s passing in 2010 at the age of 91.

In a striking scene, Rose notices scars on Tommy’s back, remnants of the flogging he endured with cat-o’-nine-tails during his time in prison. This brutal form of punishment was a practice in British prisons dating back to the 19th century and was only abolished in 1948, the year after this film’s release.

Damian Murphy at The Sydney Morning Herald referred to Googie Withers as dubbed the Best British bad girl with a ‘haughty sexuality.’ Read this wonderful article here:

Googie Wither’s performance as the independent, hungry, and disillusioned Helen Nosteros in Jules Dassin’s masterpiece Night and the City was nothing short of extraordinary. Night and the City was Googie Withers’s last film for Ealing Studios, and thanks to her striking performance as a woman trapped in claustrophobic domesticity, it is perhaps one of her best.

31 Flavors of Noir on the Fringe to Lure you in! Part 2

Hermione Baddeley has a minor role as the proprietor of a flophouse. She is perhaps best remembered for her portrayal of Mrs. Naugatuck in the television series Maude or as the maid in Mary Poppins (1964).

British actress Hermione Baddeley as Mrs. Spry.

The film depicts events occurring on a Sunday, specifically March 23, 1947, as noted on a blackboard at the local underground station. The setting is Bethnal Green, an area in the East End of London that had endured significant devastation from bombings and the hardships of post-war life.

It Always Rains on Sunday unfolds over a single, dreary Sunday in post-war London’s East End. The story revolves around Rose Sandigate, whose mundane life is upended when her former lover, Tommy Swann, appears at her doorstep.

Rose Sandigate is a former barmaid who is now married to a middle-aged man with two teenage daughters from his previous marriage. Having stepped into the role of a housewife and stepmother, she navigates the challenges of post-war rationing and a bleak environment, supported by her kind husband (Edward Chapman) as he heals from past emotional wounds.

Googie Withers, Susan Shaw, and Edward Chapman.

Gladys Henson.

Edie Martin.

Alfie Bass, John Carol, Fred Griffiths, and Jimmy Hanley.

Meier Tzelniker.

Surrounding this central couple, Hamer crafts a richly intricate picture of the post-war East End. The community teems with a variety of characters, lively markets, and the story of a Jewish immigrant family.

We also encounter the philandering saxophone player navigating his romantic entanglements, there’s a small-time petty criminal, and his gangster brother, Lou (John Slater), who has eyes for Vi Sandgate’s (Susan Shaw) sister, Doris (Patricia Plunkett), and a group of hapless thieves and idlers whose recent warehouse robbery yielded nothing more than a bunch of children’s roller skates. All trying to make ends meet.

These diverse storylines intertwine, creating a vivid portrait of working-class life in post-war Britain, all set against the backdrop of relentless rain that mirrors the characters’ gloomy circumstances. The film’s atmospheric sense of doom overshadows the characters’ lives with a palpable tinge of noir-fatalism as it offers an intimate glimpse into the gritty underbelly of London’s working-class existence.

Rose learns from the newspaper about her former lover, Tommy Swann, who while serving four years of a seven-year sentence for robbery with violence, has escaped from Dartmoor prison and is on the run.

Tommy Swann, now an escaped convict, seeks shelter from the authorities, forcing Rose to conceal him from both the law and her unsuspecting family.

In noir fashion, there are a series of flashbacks reflecting on the time Rose and Tommy were engaged to be married. Tommy gets arrested for a robbery, and it is quite possible that he may actually be the father of Rose’s young son.

John Slater as Lou and Patricia Plunkett as Rose’s stepdaughter Doris.

The woman-driven narrative offers some unforgettable performances, richly layered and completely captivating. Among them is Rose’s beautiful daughter, Vi Sandigate (Susan Shaw), Rose’s elder stepdaughter; while stunning, she is also somewhat mercurial and entangled in an affair with occasional lover Morry Hyams (Sydney Taffler), the sax player who is very much married.

There’s also Doris, Vi’s younger sister, portrayed by Patricia Plunkett in her first film role. Despite her gentle demeanor and kind heart, Doris possesses quiet strength and is unafraid to voice her opinions or stand firm when the situation demands it. In contrast, we have Sadie, Morry’s wife, played by Betty Ann Davies. Sadie is no fool; she’s acutely aware of her husband’s infidelities.

Sidney Tafler as Morry and Betty Ann Davies as Sadie.

In a particularly poignant scene, Sadie confronts Morry with a mix of resignation and defiance, declaring, “ I know all about you and your little shiksas. I’ve known a long time, even if I haven’t said anything. But I’m not going to have them come here into my house.”  

[Morry has just told off Sadie for buying retail]
Morry: Where are you going?
Sadie Hyams: To get some fresh air. Don’t worry; I’ll get it wholesale.

Rose’s stepdaughters — Doris and Vi.

The film introduces us to Rose in a subtle yet intriguing manner. We first hear her voice through the wall, rousing her stepdaughters with a request for tea on their father’s behalf. This initial verbal introduction cleverly piques our curiosity about her identity and her role within the household. Soon after, we’re granted an intimate glimpse into Rose’s world as she begins her day. The camera follows her through a cramped bedroom shared with her husband, George. We observe her mundane morning rituals – reluctantly drawing the curtains to reveal yet another dreary, rain-soaked day, methodically unraveling the pin curls from her hair that give the impression of shadowy night.

All the while, her husband George’s voice provides a backdrop of newspaper headlines, to which Rose responds with perfunctory interest. However, the mention of an escaped convict named Thomas Swann suddenly breaks through Rose’s apparent ennui. Though she quickly masks her reaction from George, her momentary lapse in composure speaks volumes. It’s a masterful bit of storytelling, instantly conveying to the audience that Rose’s connection to Swann runs far deeper than her outward indifference suggests, hinting at the hidden depths of her character and setting the stage for the drama to unfold.

A poignant flashback transports us to Rose’s past, revealing a vivacious young woman with hair the color of burnished gold, tending bar at a local pub. We witness pivotal moments: her first encounter with the charismatic Tommy Swann, his heartfelt proposal, and Rose eagerly packing for their wedding.

However, her dreams are shattered when news of Tommy’s arrest for robbery reaches her. The contrast between Rose’s former self, full of passion and life, and her present existence is striking. She now inhabits a world of quiet desperation. Her cramped sardine can of a house, shared with two grown women, a rowdy teenager, and a respectable yet uninspiring husband, stands as a testament to her diminished circumstances. The home’s dilapidated state, with rain seeping through broken windowpanes and taking baths in the kitchen next to the stove, further underscores the stark difference between the possibilities of her past life and the nihilism of her present one.

Rose’s first shocking encounter with Tommy Swann is when she finds him hiding in her family’s air raid shelter. He asks her to help him hide out until nightfall. Though she suffers from an oppressive feeling in her life, despite her initial shock when he puts his hand over her mouth to silence her, Rose’s unresolved feelings and lasting affection for Tommy quickly surface. Her concern for his sodden state, “You’re soaking!” she says and fears that he might fall ill betray a deep-seated yearning for their past connection that persists despite the years apart.

Rose’s actions speak louder than words. Though Tommy merely requests food, she goes above and beyond, orchestrating a moment when the house is empty to smuggle him inside and feed him. Her insistence that he rest in her bedroom while she tends to his wet clothes illustrates the years of domesticity that have prepared her, though it cannot conceal the restlessness that plagues her.

 

Throughout the day, Rose consistently proves herself to be resourceful, street-smart, and remarkably composed under pressure. Consider the moments of Rose’s cunning: when her stepdaughter Doris unexpectedly returns home, Rose swiftly conceals Tommy’s drying trousers with a towel. Later, when the police arrive at her doorstep, she brazenly declares she would never assist a ” Cheap crook like Tommy Swann.”

While the constable’s fleeting visit brings with it a stark warning: harboring a fugitive could result in a two-year sentence. It doesn’t deter Rose from continuing to conceal Tommy within her walls. But Rose is no fool; she doesn’t fancy herself running off with him. “ It’s too late . . . ten years too late,” Rose tells Tommy with an expression tinged with regret. “Just send me a postcard, that’s all.”

Rose is a truly sympathetic and relatable character, as Tommy’s sudden reappearance has awakened a part of her that has been buried; this re-emergence of her former lover has reunited the old passions she hasn’t felt since he went away to prison. The scene subtly hints at unresolved feelings and yearning for her past that contrasts sharply with her current life.

She successfully keeps his presence hidden from the family, but it’s Sunday, and she must prepare lunch. She scolds the girls about their misbehavior from the previous night while the husband heads out to the pub as he typically does.

Rose’s most emotionally resonant moment—and Withers’s finest acting—occurs when Tommy confesses that he needs money to get away. Initially, she offers him the last of her housekeeping funds, a gesture that underscores her willingness to sacrifice for him.

When Tommy indicates that this amount won’t be enough, Rose fetches the engagement ring he once gave her, which she has stowed away in the back of the drawer, away from George’s eyes. She gives it to Tommy so he can either sell it or take it to a pawn shop.

However, as he admires the ring, he comments that it’s a “ Nice stone” and that he’ll get a good price for it. Rose realizes with a wave of sadness that he doesn’t remember it as the symbol of their past love. She says nothing to him about its meaning.

Withers masterfully shifts emotions. In the flash of a moment, her expression transforms from love to sadness, ultimately settling into a steely acceptance as she simply replies, ” Had it given,” revealing the profound emotional weight of their shared history.

Jack Warner as Lt. Fotherfill and Frederick Piper as Det. Sergt. Leech.

As the rainy Sunday moves on, the police drawer nearer. While Tommy is preparing to flee, a newspaper reporter acting on a tip shows up at the house, enquiring about her past relationship with Swann. When he catches wind of the situation, he tries to tip off the cops, but not before Tommy assaults him and escapes.

In a moment of sheer desperation, Rose finds herself engulfed in panic, contemplating a tragic way out; she tries to commit suicide by gassing herself.

Meanwhile, the police are hot on Tommy’s trail, pursuing him to the railway sidings. After a tense chase, Detective Inspector Fothergill (Jack Warner), who has been relentlessly tracking him down, finally apprehends him.

As the film draws to a close, we see Rose in a hospital bed, surrounded by her husband’s comforting presence. He eventually leaves the hospital alone, stepping out into a serene sky that contrasts sharply with the turmoil that was.

This is your EverLovin’ Joey sayin’ save a little bit of time to visit The Last Drive In for a rainy day!

Under the Radar: The Unseen Side of Film Noir Part 2: Criss Cross 1949

Fate, Desire, and Inescapable Will: The Noir Aesthetic of Robert Siodmak’s Criss Cross 1949

Robert Siodmak is the unheralded master of noir, and Criss Cross 1949 can be considered his crowning achievement.  Eddie Muller called the above shot where De Carlo looks directly into the camera ” noir’s defining moment.” They have the potential to be happy, and Lancaster is willing to forget the money if they can be together, but she just can’t let it go. Their fate is irrevocably sealed as they drift towards the nihilistic ending, and despite a handful of playful moments, Siodmak never lets up on the heavy, oppressive atmosphere.

“ Its pleasures are so subtle and so sublime you almost have to earn your way to this film, which deserves its place on any list of top 5 noirs of all time. The structure is complex and engrossing. Every facet of the filmmaking is superb. The cast is perfect, from stars to bit players – it has one of Miklós Rózsa’s most haunting scores, and the whole thing is realized by director Robert Siodmak in a way that makes the viewers feel they’re dreaming the story rather than having it told to them. “ – Eddie Muller

Criss Cross 1949 stands as a testament to Robert Siodmak’s mastery of the film noir aesthetic. One of the genre’s most influential stylists, honed from his German Expressionism roots, Siodmak fashions a visual language of composition and camera work that is, as Eddie Muller calls it, ‘ominous yet graceful.’

His expert manipulation of light and shadow, a hallmark of his expressionistic style, transforms ordinary settings into suspenseful landscapes. Consider Phantom Lady 1944, The Killers 1946, and Cry of the City 1948. Three of his most potent noirs, which are on my list of the best film noir, helped define the visual vocabulary of the American crime thriller.

Ella Raines in Robert Siodmak’s Phantom Lady 1944.

Victor Mature and Richard Conte in Siodmak’s Cry of the City 1948.

Phantom Lady: Forgotten Cerebral Noir: It’s not how a man looks, it’s how his mind works that makes him a killer.

31 Flavors of Noir on the Fringe to Lure you in! Part 2

According to French film critics Raymond Borde and Etienne Chaumeton, who wrote the influential book A Panorama of American Film Noir, Siodmak’s complex understanding of human nature “ demonstrates… that even within the framework of film noir, we’re in the presence of one of the finest psychologists of the screen.”

Robert Siodmak’s ability to infuse each scene and weave complex, non-linear stories with a sense of unease and moral ambiguity through purely visual poetry demonstrates to me why he should be considered one of the most influential directors of the noir era.

Siodmak’s films, like Criss Cross, reveal a keen awareness of what drives his characters. They often examine themes of obsession and betrayal within the gritty context of urban decay, and his brazenly bleak Criss Cross represents the height of a fertile and vibrant moment in film noir during the 1940s.

“ Criss Cross should have been the crowning achievement of producer Mark Hellinger, the flashy Broadway columnist who’d come to Hollywood in the late 1930s and taken the place by storm, producing some of the toughest and hard-boiled pictures of the early 40s – things like They Drive By Night, and High Sierra.”– Eddie Muller

Continue reading “Under the Radar: The Unseen Side of Film Noir Part 2: Criss Cross 1949”

Under the Radar: The Unseen Side of Film Noir – Part 1

Dennis O’Keefe and Marsha Hunt in Anthony Mann’s Raw Deal 1948.

While iconic film noirs grab our attention, films like Out of the Past, where Jeff Bailey’s (Robert Mitchum) past catches up with him lured by the complex and dangerous Kathie Moffet (Jane Greer), and while there’s nothing hotter than the steamy affair between Frank and Cora (Garfield and Turner) in The Postman Always Rings Twice, or watching Walter Neff’s (Fred MacMurray) descent into murder and deception lured by the wiley Phyllis Dietrichson (Barbara Stanwyck) in Double Indemnity. It’s no wonder these masterpieces have rightfully earned their place in cinematic history, yet there’s a whole alleyway of shadows, both literally and figuratively, that have flown under the radar. Well worth watching, these lesser-known noir gems are waiting to be discovered.

Films like The Sniper (1952), Raw Deal (1948), and Act of Violence (1948) offer gritty and challenging narratives and are begging for a bit of attention. These overlooked classics showcase the genre’s versatility, exploring themes of psychological torment, moral ambiguity, and the consequences of violence. The Sniper delves into the twisted psyche of a disturbed war veteran turned killer. Raw Deal presents a gritty tale of escaping the past, desire in flux, and redemption.  Act of Violence examines the lasting impact of wartime choices on civilian life. These underappreciated noirs prove that the genre’s shadowy allure extends far beyond its most celebrated titles. I wanted to celebrate Noirvember by peering into the more obscure corners of the genre!

SPOILER ALERT ?

1-The Sniper 1952


The Sniper is a dark psychological film noir that explores the troubling story of Eddie Miller, a disturbed delivery man with a deep-seated hatred of women. Directed by Edward Dmytryk and shot on location in San Francisco, particularly in the Telegraph Hill area, the film was written by Harry Brown and based on a story by Edna and Edward Anhalt. The cast features Adolphe Menjou, Arthur Franz, Gerald Mohr, and one of noir’s finest femme fatales – Marie Windsor, who Eddie thinks played him for a poor sucker.

The Sniper unfolds like a fever dream in the burning, daylit streets, and shadowy streets of 1950s San Francisco. It is a haunting exploration of a fractured psyche teetering on the edge of madness and the manhunt that ensues.

Arthur Franz plays the unbalanced Eddie Miller, who feels compelled to kill women. When he tries to get help for himself, he is met with a lack of interest and sent back out into the world. Miller is a man whose inner demons have twisted his view of women and, evidently, a mother who is hinted at as someone he despises so severely that he finally breaks down and begins a killing spree, targeting them from rooftops throughout the city.

Adolph Menjou plays Lt. Kafka, a gruff and unmerciful policeman who is assigned to the case. As he investigates the killings, Lt. Kafka begins to see the full picture as he tracks down the troubled Miller, figuring out that the murders are not just sexually motivated but stem from a profound psychological fracture and a desperate cry from a mind splintering under the weight of unresolved trauma. Finally, cornering Miller in a cheap hotel, the cops close in. They force their way into his lightly barricaded room and find him surrounded by a small arsenal of weapons. The look on his face shows that he’s relieved it’s finally over. Dmytryck shows his visual flare reminiscent of his earlier noirs, including Murder My Sweet 1944, Cornered 1945, and Crossfire 1947.

Edward Dmytryk’s obscure noir masterpiece plunges us into the tortured world of veteran Miller, who harbors a darkness that threatens to consume him. His voyeuristic gaze, windows to a soul in turmoil, flickers with barely contained rage when he glimpses couples in intimate moments It’s as if their happiness is a personal affront; each romantic glance is itself a gunshot wound to his fragile ego. He perceives every woman he comes in contact with as being untrustworthy and brash.

In a moment of anguished self-awareness, Miller presses his hand to an electric stove, a desperate attempt to cauterize the emotional wounds that fester within and keep himself from projecting his rage outward. But the pain of other’s apathy only fuels his descent into madness, and soon, the city trembles under the shadow of his M1 carbine. As bodies fall and panic grips the streets, Miller’s twisted game of cat-and-mouse with his anonymous notes sent to the police takes on a surreal quality as he begs to be caught before he commits more murders, aware of his sins but powerless to stop himself.

Dmytryk, fresh from his own battles with the Hollywood blacklist, testifying before the House Un-American Activities Committee, infuses the film with a palpable sense of paranoia and urban alienation.

Miller’s crimes reflect the moral ambiguity of a society grappling with hidden threats. The Sniper  delves into the murky waters of criminal psychology, pioneering profiling techniques that would become staples of the genre. Yet it’s the film’s unconventional ending that truly subverts expectations with the after-the impact of its structured violence and ends with the non-violent denouement of Miller’s surrender and society maintaining the status quo. More than just a thriller, The Sniper stands as a chilling indictment of a society ill-equipped to deal with mental illness, its streets teeming with walking wounded like Miller, in the shadows of post-war America in the 1950s.

“The characters found in The Sniper exist in a netherworld that permits humanitarian speculation to surface through scenes of humiliation and angst.” – (from Film Noir an Encyclopedia Reference to the American Style edited by Silver & Ward)

Los Angeles was experiencing their own version of a lone male ‘phantom sniper’ Evan Charles Thomas, stalking female victims, targeting them at random from a sniper’s vantage point the previous summer.

This must have heightened audiences’ fears when watching an eerily similar serial killer-themed film noir. While The Sniper was not directly inspired by the Thomas case, its release coincided with a real-life sniper incident in Los Angeles, creating an eerie parallel. The film’s story had been acquired by Stanley Kramer Productions from writers Edna and Edward Anhalt several months before Thomas began his shooting spree. Interestingly, Arthur Franz was cast as the sniper on August 27, 1951, the same day as Thomas’s first shooting. Despite the film’s independent origin, its producers recognized the potential to leverage the public’s interest in the ongoing sniper case. They capitalized on this coincidence in their marketing efforts, emphasizing the film’s relevance to recent events.

This strategy, aimed at drawing audiences by highlighting the film’s timeliness and apparent realism, was too close for comfort even though its conception predated the actual crimes.

“L.A. saw it happen!” the local ad for the film blared. Chief of Police Bill Parker was said to have signed a letter praising the film’s realism in its “handling of intensive methods” to track down the killer. In his review, Scheuer noted, “The parallel is too close for comfort, but even without the similarity between Eddie Miller and an alleged local “sniper” the picture would be distasteful.” (Source J.H.Graham)

E.R. doctor: Were you ever in a mental hospital?
Edward Miller: Only when I was in prison.

 

Police Lt. Frank Kafka: All I have to do is catch him.
Dr. James G. Kent: You’ll catch ’em, and they’ll kill ’em, and everyone will forget about it. . . that is until the next one comes along. Then it will start all over again.

Continue reading “Under the Radar: The Unseen Side of Film Noir – Part 1”

A Tale of Two Spirits- The Haunting of Windward House: A Study of Gothic Horror in The Uninvited 1944

Retrospective reviews have continued to hold the film in high regard, with Carlos Clarens calling it ” the best and most unusual” horror film of 1944 in his book An Illustrated History of the Horror Film.

“ The supernatural is dealt with seriously in this dynamic, suspenseful melodrama, chock full of fine acting that will hold audiences glued to their seats for its entire 93 minutes…
Once in, they’ll like it, but getting audiences into the seats to stay “glued” there was less than a dead cert due to the film’s “unusual and controversial subject.” — Review from the 5 January 1944 issue of Variety.

In his review of The Uninvited for The New York Times, Bosley Crowther remarked that while the film features a “glaring confusion in the wherefore and why of what goes on,” it effectively showcases the talents of its cast, particularly noting that Ray Milland and Ruth Hussey “do nicely as the couple who get themselves involved” and praising Gail Russell as “wistful and gracious” in her role.”

Paramount’s The Uninvited 1944, MGM’s The Haunting 1963, and Twentieth Century Fox’s The Innocents 1961 stand as the finest examples of achievements in the realm of sophisticated supernatural cinema to come out of Hollywood in the forties. Horror in the 1940s were overwhelmingly monster movies, considering Universal’s trend, which was characterized by a blend of classic literary monsters and folktales and their more modern reinterpretations, such as Dracula, Frankenstein, and werewolves. The Gothic ghost story has had quite a resurgence in the past few decades and has become its own genre.

All three of the aforementioned Gothic supernatural films are ‘gravely’ serious and refined visions that tell a subtext or deeper meaning about inner psychological conflict and the path of self-discovery, which is effectively brought to life by the presence of ghosts and spirits. Therefore, while on the surface, the films appear to haunt the screen as a well-crafted ghost story, they also delve into meaningful themes that reach beyond their supernatural framework and their sense of the otherworldly.

These films represent a departure from typical ghost stories, offering nuanced, psychologically complex narratives that delve into the human psyche. These narratives are particularly powerful when amplified through the Gothic aesthetic.

With its cold earnestness, Lewis Allen’s stunning prototype of an authentic cinematic ghost story doesn’t expose the uncanny happenings as a mere gimmick perpetrated by human design to misdirect and obscure mischief. These ghosts are very real and dangerous.

Right off the bat, the movie gained attention for being above other horror films —as an early example of “elevated horror” or “higher bracket horror pictures,” as Jack Cartwright wrote at the time.

Hollywood normally sprinkled its ghost stories with a generous dose of comedy or as a subterfuge devised to cover up some criminal operations. Four years earlier, Paramount released the Bob Hope comedy classic The Ghost Breakers; the horror/comedy subgenre shifted to a lighthearted tone characterized by antics with the ‘it can all be explained away by the end of the picture’ flare. We can see this type of over-the-top carnival horror in pictures pulled off by showman William Castle in the 1950s & 60s, with House on Haunted Hill and 13 Ghosts.

Paulette Goddard and Bob Hope in The Ghost Breakers 1940.

Kay Hammond, Rex Harrison and Constance Cummings in Blithe Spirit 1945.

The Uninvited is an innovative approach to the supernatural Hollywood horror formula. It takes a bold stance by presenting these elements as genuine occurrences rather than comedic devices or plot misdirections and was considered “unusual and controversial” at the time, setting it apart from lighter iterations like Blithe Spirit or Topper, refraining from the campy theatrics typical of its predecessors. Allen’s film can be regarded as the first major Hollywood motion picture that transformed ‘ghosts’ into something malignant and threatening.

Gary J. Svehla’s The Uninvited essay in Cinematic Hauntings states: Hollywood’s glib attitude toward ghosts – perhaps they quickly became the caricature of human beings wearing a white sheet in two-reel comedies or the comical howling spirits of Disney cartoons, the ghost in Hollywood has never been taken seriously enough. Hollywood’s attraction to the ghost movie genre has largely been tongue-in-cheek with early thirties encounters between spooks and Laurel and Hardy, the Three Stooges, and the robust, demented Little Rascals. Even the MGM late thirties version of A Christmas Carol, featuring disembodied spirits of the spookiest nature, still managed to keep the proceedings moralistic, tidy, and safe (even fun).

Svehla cites the Halperin Brothers’ deadly serious pre-code horror Supernatural 1933, starring Carole Lombard, as one of the first mature ghost movies. It is still an obscure gem barely remembered today.

The Uninvited emerged as a pivotal work in the supernatural thriller canon, marking a significant shift in the genre’s trajectory, opting for a nuanced exploration of spectral phenomena that would redefine the genre.

This 1944 Paramount picture starred Ray Milland, one of its top stars, and Ruth Hussey, best known for her Oscar-nominated performance as Best Supporting Actress in The Philadelphia Story 1940.

Directed by the English-born Lewis Allen, with over thirty West End productions to his credit and several successful Broadway shows as well, he established himself as a prominent figure in theatre until he went to Los Angeles and joined Paramount.

In his directorial debut, Allen masterfully adapted Irish writer and activist Dorothy Macardle’s 1941 novel Uneasy Freehold, renamed The Uninvited, for its U.S. publication.

While his repertoire includes films like The Unseen 1945 (also a Dorothy Macardle adaptation which made it to the screen a year later), Desert Fury (1947), the atmospheric noir So Evil My Love (1948), and the tense thriller Suddenly (1954), it’s The Uninvited (1944) of all his moody offerings; it’s the film that stands out as his crowning achievement. Paramount allocated a substantial budget and assembled a talented cast for the production, resulting in a successful hit!

Joel McCrea and Gail Russell in The Unseen 1945.

Though more of a continuation of the theme rather than a literal sequel, Lewis Allen directed the follow-up, The Unseen (1945), also starring Gail Russell, this time playing a governess – echoing the Gothic themes of The Innocents (1961).

“As we think about The Uninvited today, its production tells us a lot about why it remains so culturally significant. When producer Charles Brackett bought the rights to Dorothy Macardle‘s 1941 novel, he had Alfred Hitchcock in mind to direct. Hitchcock had made Rebecca a year earlier in a similar fashion to what Brackett imagined The Uninvited could be: moody, gothic, and haunting. Brackett met with Hitchcock, who read the book but could not direct it due to scheduling conflicts. Hitchcock did give some suggestions to Brackett, but whether or not he used those suggestions is unknown.” – from The Original Ghostly Thrills of ‘The Uninvited’ published October 26, 2021, by Emily Kubincanek, senior Contributor for Film School Rejects.

The Uninvited will certainly resonate with admirers of Hitchcock’s adaptation of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca 1940, sharing some of its elements of psychological suspense and haunting ‘spirits’ from the past. Both stories explore parallel themes that center around the ‘afterlife’ influence of the idealized woman/wife revered as the epitome of perfection who casts a long, malevolent shadow over a pure-hearted girl.

Dame Judith Anderson and Joan Fontaine in Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca 1940.

It’s a complex blend of a psychological thriller and the obvious supernatural horror, blurring the lines between the tangible and the specters of the afterlife. It’s also a harmony of melodrama and Gothic romance, drawing inspiration from films like Rebecca; The Uninvited utilizes gothic elements such as a foreboding mansion and a sense of lingering past trauma. In addition to that, the murder mystery structure is a story in which Ray Milland and Ruth Hussey uncover clues about past events and dark family secrets as they investigate the haunting.

Allen clues us in on the uncanny phenomena by using sound, melancholic sobbing is particularly powerful, and other unseen forces to suggest a supernatural presence—such as intense cold, the lingering scent of perfume, and an overwhelming sense of oppressive sadness. This likely had a significant impact on another iconic film about a haunted house: Robert Wise’s The Haunting 1963.

Ray Milland was cast as the sophisticated Rick Fitzgerald, who seeks to lighten the tense atmosphere with his comedic flair—a skill playing the charming everyman he frequently showcased in his roles as a romantic lead. That same year, he co-starred with Ginger Rogers in the romantic musical drama Lady in the Dark and Fritz Lang’s spy thriller Ministry of Fear.

“He’s been described as an existential Cary Grant, and his performance here captures that sentiment perfectly. Ultimately, though, the comedy here feels more like genre residue, the persisting remnants of a past cycle that championed comedy over horror in a film pushing new boundaries of otherworldly terror. It’s in the film’s most haunting, stylized moments that it feels most grounded and self-assured.” — from Caleb Allison from the 2021 essay Erotic and Esoteric : The Uninvited as Queer Cult Film.

In her debut role, Gail Russell’s performance as the twenty-year-old Stella Meredith is the driving force of the film, making her character a pivotal element of the story. In her first leading role, Russell masterfully embodies Stella’s complexities; her portrayal captures the essence of a true Gothic heroine, as she combines vulnerability with courageous spirit, gentility with a rebellious heart throughout the picture. She is ideal – haunted and consumed.

She brings a feverish intensity as a waif longing for her mother, who spirals into a state of desperation as a young woman under a spell.

The role of Stella Meredith is widely regarded as one of her best and played a significant role in establishing her as a star in Hollywood. With The Uninvited, and for a brief time during the 1940s, Gail Russell’s spellbinding, ethereal beauty, which trade magazines compared to Hedy Lamarr, the film captured the essence of what might have been for the talented actress, showcased in films like Frank Borzage’s Moonrise 1948. The Western, Angel and the Badman (1947) featuring John Wayne and once again alongside Wayne in the South Seas adventure Wake of the Red Witch (1948). She also starred in John Farrow’s noir/psychological horror film Night Has a Thousand Eyes 1948, co-starring Edward G. Robinson.

Gail Russell and John Lund in Night Has a Thousand Eyes 1948.

From the time she started out at the age of 19, Gail Russell fell victim to the ravages of the Hollywood star factory and descended into a tragic life of alcoholism. Withdrawn, anxious, and out of place for the Hollywood hustle, she drank to calm her nerves while on the set of this movie.

Russell suffered from pathological shyness, preferring to have lived a reclusive life as an artist. Her mother pushed her into an acting career, wishing to exploit her sensual good looks to move the family up in class. It is an ironic twist that she plays a young woman in the grip of her mother’s controlling influence.

By the time she appeared in Budd Boetticher’s Seven Men from Now in 1956, alcoholism had taken a toll on her once-stunning looks, and her career was nearly at an end. Tragically, she passed away in 1961 at the age of thirty-six due to complications related to her drinking.

The screenplay, brimming with intelligence and wit, was written by Frank Partos, a staff writer for both Paramount and RKO, and Dodie Smith, the established playwright and children’s author known for The Hundred and One Dalmatians, which itself was infused with a few Gothic elements. Partos had often worked with Paramount Producer Charles Brackett, who often collaborated with Billy Wilder.

According to Emily Kubincanek, Partos was “ Only available because he’d turned down co-writing Double Indemnity 1944 because he felt the morally challenging plot of that classic noir was too ‘sordid’ and bound to violate the Hays Code.”

Continue reading “A Tale of Two Spirits- The Haunting of Windward House: A Study of Gothic Horror in The Uninvited 1944”

Saturday Nite Sublime: The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre 1964 Sometimes the sun sets so suddenly

“Supernaturally or otherwise, we are all haunted. Anyone who’s lived in this past century, this last week, cannot escape being haunted. For some of us, it’s a mass haunting, an all-pervading specter of guilt or futility or alienation that we suffer collectively. For others, the haunting is more private and more terrible because the ghosts are ours alone and we recognize them. Sometimes it takes so little to free ourselves of our ghosts. And if my believing in another man’s haunting helps to free him, does it matter whether science calls his agony hallucinatory or real?”

Joseph Stefano’s and Villa Di Stefano Productions (his sole effort as a director) The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre 1964 emerges as a fascinating yet obscure and underappreciated artistic artifact in the landscape of 1960s television horror. Its legacy, while somewhat overshadowed by Stefano’s more famous works, remains an intriguing footnote in the history of televised terror. The film ambitiously blends elements of horror, paranormal investigation, and film noir, creating a narrative that is both intriguing and yet potentially unwieldy.

In 1964, while Joseph Stefano was immersed in the production of the inaugural season of his acclaimed science fiction anthology series The Outer Limits (1963-1965), a series created and executive produced by his old friend Leslie Stevens. Stefano felt inspired to create a companion show that would explore more supernatural themes.

There is nothing wrong with your television set… Do not attempt to adjust the picture, we are controlling transmission: The Transendental Heartbeat of The Outer Limits 1963-1965

Over the next year or so, he wrote two scripts as pilots for the proposed spin-offs, The Unknown and The Haunted.

The Unknown didn’t quite hit the mark, so it was reworked and added as an episode of The Outer Limits entitled The Forms of Things Unknown, which starred Barbara Rush, Vera Miles, David McCallum, and Sir Cedric Hardwicke.

The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre’s collaborative endeavor by Stefano, photographer Conrad Hall, and its incredibly intuitive cast of actors make it a little jewel that remained shoved in a drawer for decades. This made-for-TV film, which was originally conceived as the unrealized pilot for the ill-fated series called The Haunted, offers a compelling glimpse into Stefano’s creative vision beyond his most famous work on Psycho and highlights Joseph Stefano’s inclination to embrace a subtext that deals with psychological inner chaos through his eye for compelling narratives even within the constraints of modest television productions. The film’s existence in this liminal space between pilot and standalone feature offers a unique opportunity to examine the evolving landscape of horror in 1960s television.

The Haunted/The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre features Martin Landau as Nelson Orion, Diane Baker as Vivia Mandore, and Judith Anderson as their housekeeper Paulina.

Tom Simcox plays Henry Mandore, Diane Baker’s husband; Nellie Burt (who appeared in The Outer Limits episodes, Don’t Open Til Doomsday and The Guests in 1964 plays Mary Finch, Orion’s skeptical but loyal housekeeper, and Leonard Stone plays Benedict Sloane, the remarkably tolerant head of the architectural firm where Orion works. Both actors had a fine working relationship with Martin Landau and with each other and helped embellish Nelson Orion’s world. John Drew Barrymore was initially cast as Henry Mandore.

Tom Simcox, Nellie Burt, Martin Landau, and Dame Judith Anderson.

There’s also an additional nod to The Outer Limits with its use of an eerie score from series regular Dominic Frontiere, who created much of that anthology series’ transcendent hymn-like qualities. Here, Frontiere’s score keeps the story a little off-kilter and nightmarish.

The movie features black and white photography by Conrad Hall (an Outer Limits regular and later working on films like The Day of the Locust (1975) and Marathon Man (1975); 1965 would be his first of ten Oscar nominations, three of which he would win.

Conrad Hall’s visual artistry vs the television constraints is a standout element, pushing the boundaries of what was typically expected in TV productions of the era. His use of expressive lighting and ambitious camera work, dramatic use of shadows and light, striking black-and-white imagery, spectral elongation effects, and rare-for-TV crane shots demonstrate a cinematic ambition that strains against the medium’s limitations. It all lends to the film’s eerie quality. His camera operator, William A. Fraker, was on the brink of shooting Roman Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby (1968) and a career of five Oscar nominations in cinematography.

The Outer Limits Season 1 episode, The Galaxie Being aired Sep. 16, 1963

Also adding an effective creepy touch is the black-and-white art direction by McClure Capps and the sets by veteran designer Frank Tuttle. Fred B. Phillips’s makeup revises his groundbreaking work on The Outer Limits The Galaxy Being for the spectral figure using the reverse negative. The Galaxy Being itself was created using a negative image effect, with the actor wearing a black scuba diving suit covered in oily makeup that reflected light. When filmed, this created a glowing, otherworldly appearance when the image was reversed to negative. This gave the alien a distinctive face with no mouth and glaring eyes.

There are a few visual set pieces that are deconstructed; they are quite compelling. The movie also includes a bit of a rare hallucinogenic drug and a creepy bit of business, with a ghostly Dame Judith Anderson stalking Baker as she sits in a car on a clifftop in the tragic finale.

A striking title sequence features the Los Angeles skyline being wiped out by a tidal wave. The artful visual blend at the very start shows a wave breaking on a beach, metaphorically devouring the city.

There’s a visually arresting sequence that weaves together multiple elements of suspense and atmosphere. The scene unfolds in a single, meticulously choreographed shot that showcases both Stefano and Hall’s technical prowess and artistic vision.

The camera’s gaze encompasses the ominous phone line, a lifeline between two worlds: the foreboding crypt, the silent sentinel of family secrets; Pauline’s furtive movements, a dance of noirish light and shadow; and nature’s subtle intrusion.

A transition from a small, enigmatic black vial nestled in the crypt to Paulina’s windswept figure on the beach, her black attire echoing the vial’s darkness, a visual metaphor, linking disparate elements of the story through powerful imagery.

Stefano, fresh from his triumph with Psycho, cleverly leverages his Hitchcock connections in casting to orchestrate a cinematic reunion of sorts, bringing together some of Alfred Hitchcock’s wonderful ensemble of cast members.

Martin Landau, who gave a mesmerizing performance in North by Northwest, brought his intense gaze and brooding presence of cool demeanor and class; Judith Anderson, the imposing Mrs. Danvers in Rebecca 1940; her steely spined visage lends her formidable presence as the sinister housekeeper Paulina, And Diane Baker, the fresh-faced ingénue from Marnie 1964, and in William Castle’s Strait-Jacket that same year, adds a touch of vulnerable allure.

The Great Villain Blogathon 2019 Dame Judith Anderson as Mrs. Danvers “Do you think the dead come back and watch the living?”

Stefano’s shrewd choices infused each frame of this atmospheric production with an unmistakable aura of suspense, a subtle homage to the master of suspense. Each frame carries with it the echoes of these actors’ Hitchcockian past. In addition to Nellie Burt’s appearance on two episodes of The Outer Limits during Stefano’s tenure on that series, Martin Landau, who is one of my favorite underrated actors, starred in perhaps one of the most enduring, evocative, and emotionally compelling of that series, The Man Who Was Never Born which aired in 1963. Landau portrays Andro, a time traveler from a decimated world in the future who travels back in time to prevent the birth of the inventor who would become the inventor of destruction. He was cast opposite another favorite of mine, Shirley Knight, as Noelle Anderson, the intended mother of the future antagonist.

THE OUTER LIMITS – “The Man Who Was Never Born” – Airdate: October 28, 1963. (Photo by ABC Photo Archives/Disney General Entertainment Content via Getty Images) SHIRLEY KNIGHT; MARTIN LANDAU

 

Martin Landau in The Outer Limits episode The Bellero Shield

One account suggests that the pilot for The Haunted either never aired on U.S. television or was shown only once in limited markets. Stefano wound up adding extra footage and an alternative ending to the pilot, extending it from sixty to eighty minutes and releasing it as a feature-length and re-named The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre internationally, but not in the US.

The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre reveals the adaptability required of creators in the face of network rejection. By extending the runtime and altering the ending, Stefano attempted to salvage his work for a different market, showcasing the malleability of content in the pursuit of an audience.

Kino Lorber yanked it out of obscurity and released it on Blu-ray, allowing us to witness its moody and intriguing hint at what might have been a full-length feature and a continuing series.

There is a commentary track by film historian David J. Schow and an unrestored print of The Haunted (the sixty-minute pilot) with a commentary track by film historian Eric Grayson, who actually owns the print that Kino Lorber used.

Eric Grayson, who covers The Haunted in the commentary, makes the keen observation that the name Mandore sounds like Manderley, the mansion in du Maurier/Hitchcock’s Rebecca.

One narrative suggests that the pilot’s intensity exceeded the comfort level of American audiences; reports indicate that the TV stations that did air it received countless concerns from viewers that the story was just too frightening for television, and ultimately, the show was dropped.

Joseph Stefano and Martin Landau planned for this movie to be the pilot for a new show similar in concept to The Twilight Zone (1959) and The Outer Limits (1963) but with a much greater focus on horror rather than science fiction and fantasy.

An anecdote attributed to Martin Landau claims TV executives “soiled themselves” during the pilot’s screening. While likely hyperbolic, this underscores the potential disconnect between creative ambition and network expectations. It highlights the subjective nature of evaluating content and the power dynamics at play.

According to David Schow in his commentary for the Kino Lorber release – the then-President of the CBS Television Network, James T. Aubrey, did pick up the series, but when the unpopular executive was fired from CBS, his successors scrapped all his other projects – including The Haunted.

This account involving CBS President James T. Aubrey, If true, demonstrates how industry politics and personnel changes could abruptly alter a show’s trajectory, regardless of its intrinsic worth. This unrealized potential serves as a poignant reminder of the often arbitrary nature of television development and the impact of network decisions on the evolution of genre television.

Despite its promising elements, The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre fell victim to the capricious nature of network television. The departure of CBS president James T. Aubrey effectively sealed the fate of the proposed series, relegating this potential pilot to standalone film status, and it begs the question – what if? – what would have been the potential impact of a Stefano-helmed supernatural anthology series? Stefano’s vision for The Haunted as an anthology series, with its promise of weekly paranormal investigations, could have potentially predated and influenced later similarly themed pilots that failed to take off.

Roy Thinnes and Angie Dickinson in The Norliss Tapes TV movie 1973.

There was a similar attempt at the television supernatural detective genre with Harvy Hart’s Dark Intruder in 1965, starring Leslie Nielson as Brett Kingsford, an investigator with an occult bent, and in the 1970s, there was Dan Curtis’s The Norliss Tapes 1973, and Spectre 1977 co-written by Gene Roddenberry, or the beloved television series from the prolific Dan Curtis with Kolchak: The Night Stalker. And, of course, The X-Files, the show’s creator, Chris Carter, lovingly touts the former as his inspiration.

The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre isn’t just a curiosity in Stefano’s career but also a harbinger of the more sophisticated, genre-blending television that would emerge in subsequent decades.

The enigmatic fate of The Haunted pilot not only emphasizes the conflict between artistic vision, network politics, and audience sensibilities in 1960s television. The show’s rejection and decision-making in the industry remain very opaque, as do the challenges faced by boundary-pushing, innovative content in early television. Despite its initial obscurity, The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre has gained recognition for its chilling atmosphere and compelling storytelling.

Nelson Orion (Martin Landau) is an architect by profession with a passion for the supernatural and a paranormal investigator who lives in a self-created garçonnière, hazy in its aesthetic futurism, precariously situated as an audacious cantilever on a cliff, hanging on the edge of a sheer drop.

He is recruited by heiress Vivia Mandore (Diane Baker), who mistakenly thought herself free from the domination of her recently deceased mother-in-law, Louise Mandore, whose ghost is seemingly exerting her will via telephone. Vivia is married to the wealthy and blind Henry Mandore (Tom Simcox). The couple lives on a large, rustic 100-acre family estate.

Henry is being tormented by nocturnal calls from the ghost of his dead mother, who, haunted by the fear of being buried alive, had installed a telephone in the family crypt. The old woman appears determined to continue her controlling ways… from beyond the grave.

In her will, she stipulated that there must be five doctors who examine her before signing her death certificate. She must not be embalmed. The coffin lid must remain open. And there must be a telephone placed by the coffin with a direct line to her son Henry’s bedroom. She would also be able to dial the code H.E.L.P., something also engraved on a cross in her tomb.

Louise Mandore’s death marks the beginning of an unsettling time. Not too long after, the phone rings in Henry’s room, its eerie tones ringing out through the silence. On the other end, a woman’s sobs echo, each cry steeped in dissonant sorrow and desperation. The haunting timbre of her voice weaves a chilling narrative as if the very air is thick with unresolved grief and lingering shadows. Like a ghostly leitmotif, these unsettling cries constantly remind us of the supernatural forces at play. The eerie wail of a tormented soul is a haunting prelude to the macabre tale that unfolds at the very top of the chilling The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre.

Continue reading “Saturday Nite Sublime: The Ghost of Sierra de Cobre 1964 Sometimes the sun sets so suddenly”

Sunday Nite Surreal: Night Monster (1942)

NIGHT MONSTER (1942)

What kind of a thing is it?

Directed by Ford Beebe with a screenplay by Clarence Upson Young, with moody frames by cinematographer Charles Van Enger (Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein 1948, Bride of the Gorilla 1951) Set Design by (using sets from The Wolfman 1941 & The Ghost of Frankenstein 1942) Russell A. Gausman (Shadow of a Doubt 1943, Phantom of the Opera 1943, Touch of Evil 1958) and Gowns by Vera West.

Night Monster features Bela Lugosi in a lesser role as the butler Rolf, Lionel Atwill as Dr. King, Lief Erickson as Laurie the lecherous chauffeur, Irene Hervey as Dr. Lynn Harper, Ralph Morgan as Kurt Ingston, Don Porter as Dick Baldwin, Nils Asther as Agor Singh, Doris Lloyd as Sarah Judd, Frank Reicher as Dr. Timmons, Robert Homans as Constable Cap Beggs, Fay Helm as Margaret Ingston “How many of us are sane? You wouldn’t know, but I shall soon.” Cyril Delevanti as Torque and Janet Shaw as Milly the maid.

Janet Shaw as the waitress Louise Finch who works at the Till Two bar in Alfred Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt 1943.

Universal billed Night Monster 1942 as a companion piece to The Mummy’s Tomb. starring Lon Chaney Jr.

Ralph Morgan plays a wealthy recluse, Kurt Ingston, who is bound to his wheelchair, never to walk again. Ingston invites to his ominous Ingston Towers, the very group of doctors who left him hopelessly paralyzed with both his legs amputated (there will be a more stunning revelation later on). There, they are assembled at his secluded estate, shrouded in a menacing fog, to witness a miraculous healing session performed by an enigmatic Swami Agor Singh (Nils Asther), who can teach “a method by which man can grow new tissues at will.” 

The sinister housekeeper played by wonderful character actress Doris Lloyd and psychiatrist played by Irene Hervey.

As Dr. Lynn Harper – “My study of the mind has convinced me how little we know of its powers.”

Agor Singh-“A little knowledge of the occult is dangerous. Unless it’s used for good, disaster will follow its wake. That is Cosmic Law!”

Margaret Ingston –“Blood… the whole house reeks of it. The air is charged with death and hatred and something that’s unclean”

Dick Baldwin-“How is that the blood didn’t dematerialize with the rest?”

Agor Singh-“There are certain details in the process that we are not allowed to explain to the uninitiated.”

Lief Erickson plays the skirt chasing chauffeur and Irene Hervey is a psychiatrist called in to tend to the unstable Margaret Ingston played by Fay Helm!

Night Monster Bela
The Swami played by Nils Asther and Bela Lugosi though receiving top billing only plays a bit part as the disagreeable butler Rolf.

Soon, one by one, the doctors turn up dead, along with several meddling servants who know more than they should.

There begin the mysterious sightings of an eerie prowler who roams the fog-drenched grounds of the estate. Also, a guest at Ingston Towers is Irene Hervey playing the beautiful psychiatrist Dr. Lynn Harper who comes to see Langston’s unstable daughter Margaret, and mystery writer Dick Baldwin (Don Porter), who tries to solve the mystery of the murders.

Night Monster acts as an Old Dark House suspense-supernatural classical horror film that possesses an eerie otherworldly atmosphere while not filled with truly shocking moments, most of which happen within the mansion, Beebe has an instinctive touch at creating the air of peril and inducing some real palpable shudders. One of the more potent examples of this is when the terrified maid Milly Carson, played by Janet Shaw, is racing through the menacing fog-soaked night, pursued by an unseen attacker, off screen we hear her violent screams followed by the night sounds of crickets and swamp frogs. The differentiation between the dead stillness and the nocturnal symphony that resumes is quite effective. Also, a creepy touch is a skeleton that bleeds…

Unraveling the Knot: Don’t Look Now (1973) A Mesmeric Paradox of Grief in Uncanny Red: Part 1

The basic tenet of horror movies – "˜ Nothing is as it seems "˜ and for me, Don't Look Now is a death of all certainties.

In the early seventies, when even mainstream films could be fearless and experimental, smashing taboos and taunting the censors, it was non-conformists who offered cinemagoing a uniquely intense experience.

 “Don't Look Now 1973 retains its power and mystery today thanks to Roeg's mastery of what Alfred Hitchcock famously called "pure cinema," manifest in his visual sleight of hand and, above all, in his refusal to be bound by the conventions of dialogue-driven narrative and simple chronology. All this has shaped a style that has justifiably come to be described as "Roegian."– (David Thompson: Seeing Red 2015 article CRITERION )

“Nothing is what it seems," says John Baxter, the protagonist of Don't Look Now, at the start of the film. The rest of the movie depicts the tragedy of Baxter's incapacity to apply this fundamental wisdom in his own life. "Nothing is what it seems" may be an untested platitude, but it's a truism when it comes to movies, and Don't Look Now is one of the great "movies-about-movie-watching" ever made. Primarily, it is about the act of perception itself"¦ By seeing an event that has not yet happened as something that is already happening (what-will-be as what-is), he (John) fatally confuses the signs and makes the future the past, i.e., irrevocable, inescapable. Like a movie stamped on celluloid, or the glimpse of the satanic dwarf on the slide Baxter is handling in the opening scene, he fixes something in time, and thereby turns life into death.""” (article – Jasun Horsley Cinephilia and Beyond)

"He was a genius, Nic. A visionary. He made a love scene between a grieving wife and herhusband with no cries of passion, no sounds of orgasm, no words. All you hear is Pino Donaggio's music as Nic intercuts their making love with them getting dressed to go out to dinner. Magical. You don't see that scene as a voyeur. You watch it and it reminds you of yourself, of you being loving and you being loved. We decided it would be wisest not to shoot John's death scene until we'd done everything else, in case the unreliable prop knife failed and my throat would be cut, spilling red. Fragmented, abstract images colour and tell his stories. Look at Omar Sharif on a camel, coming from the other end of the desert towards the camera. That's Nic. Look at the Sahara's empty foreground and suddenly the smokestacks of a steamer crossing from left to right along the unseen Suez canal. That's Nic. He was the was the first to use Panavision's R-200°, which meant he had 15 degrees more shutter for Don't Look Now than the 185°s that were the best before. He was everything I ever wanted from a filmmaker. He changed my life forever. Francine and I asked him if we could name our firstborn after him. He said yes. Our glorious son is named Roeg." -  (Interview – Donald Sutherland)

Continue reading “Unraveling the Knot: Don’t Look Now (1973) A Mesmeric Paradox of Grief in Uncanny Red: Part 1”

Enter Teresa Wright in The Little Foxes 1941 – Behold, tomorrow I will bring locusts"¦ and they shall eat every tree of yours that grows in the field.

“I only ever wanted to be an actress, not a star.”

Teresa Wright may seem lamblike at first glance, but don’t let the soft smile fool you into thinking there isn’t something gutsy within that charming glow. She is one of the most engaging actors, and she shows a resolute luster and independence to take on Hollywood with the same veracity she pursued wicked Uncle Charlie in Shadow of a Doubt.

Wright was not only endearing, but her acting and personal life lacked ceremony and authenticity. She was discovered by Samuel Goldwyn and gained early recognition for her exceptional performances in her first three films. She became the only actor to receive Oscar nominations for each of them. Wright earned an Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actress and one for Mrs. Miniver.

Teresa Wright and Greer Garson in William Wyler’s Mrs. Miniver (1942).

It stands to reason that Times drama editor Edwin Schallert described Wright’s burgeoning career as “one of the most remarkably brilliant for a young player in Hollywood.””¨Despite being a Hollywood star, she remained true to herself and rejected the pretentiousness that came along with being a star. She achieved Hollywood stardom on her own terms, without selling out for the sake of glamour.

Teresa Wright was resolute in her refusal to pose for photographs while wearing bathing suits and to subject herself to superficial interviews in gossipy fan magazines. At first, Goldwyn told her he was not of “the bathing suit school of Hollywood producers.”

Muriel Teresa Wright was born in Harlem, New York City. She discovered a passion for acting while attending the exclusive Rosehaven School in Tenafly, New Jersey, after watching Helen Hayes in “Victoria Regina.” While attending high school in Maplewood, N.J., Wright participated in theatrical productions. Although one teacher advised her to pursue typing instead, a public-speaking teacher mentored her and provided her with plays to read. He also arranged for her to spend two summers at the Wharf Theater in Provincetown.

After receiving a scholarship in the two summers preceding her graduation, she began apprenticing at the Wharf Theatre in Massachusetts, appearing in plays such as The Vinegar Tree and Susan and God.
She performed in school plays and graduated from Columbia High School in Maplewood, New Jersey, in 1938. She then decided to pursue acting professionally and moved to New York.

Wright had to drop her first name when she discovered that another actress named Muriel Wright was already registered with Actors Equity.

In 1938, in her first play, she landed an understudy role in Thornton Wilder’s “Our Town” on Broadway and then toured in the play.

It was a minor role, but it also served as a chance to understudy the lead ingénue character of Emily, actress Dorothy Maguire; however, when Maguire failed to return, Teresa continued in the same role under Martha Scott. Wright eventually replaced Martha Scott when the actress adapted the role of Emily in the film version.

Following her successful stage performances, Wright made her remarkable Broadway debut as Mary in Life With Father in 1939. This caught the attention of playwright Lillian Hellman, who recommended her to Goldwyn for the screen version of Hellman’s The Little Foxes.

Teresa Wright as Alexandra (Zan) Gibbons in Lillian Hellman/William Wyler The Little Foxes (1941).

She gained recognition for her work alongside Bette Davis (who played the cold, calculating mother Regina) and Patricia Collinge who reprised her unparalleled Broadway role as the mercurial Aunt Birdie) in the film.

At that time, she had signed a contract with MGM but refused to do publicity stunts or cheese-cake shots that would turn her into a centerfold:

” The aforementioned Teresa Wright shall not be required to pose for photographs in a bathing suit unless she is in the water. Neither may she be photographed running on the beach with her hair flying in the wind. Nor may she pose in any of the following situations: In shorts, playing with a cocker spaniel; digging in a garden; whipping up a meal; attired in firecrackers and holding skyrockets for the Fourth of July; looking insinuatingly at a turkey for Thanksgiving; wearing a bunny cap with long ears for Easter; twinkling on prop snow in a skiing outfit while a fan blows her scarf; assuming an athletic stance while pretending to hit something with a bow and arrow.”

Though she became the unwilling pin-up girl, Teresa Wright became Goldwyn’s biggest overall star during the 1940s.

Teresa Wright and Gary Cooper in Pride of the Yankees (1942) image RKO via Getty Images.

Teresa received Oscar nominations for her roles in Mrs. Miniver (1942), the only movie she made for her studio MGM, and The Pride of the Yankees (1942), winning the Best Supporting Actress trophy for Mrs. Miniver.

In both roles, Teresa Wright gave heartwarming performances as the granddaughter in the sentimental war-era Mrs. Miniver and as baseball icon Lou Gehrig’s kindhearted wife in Pride of the Yankees, starring opposite Gary Cooper. Wright, now one of the most appealing newcomers in Hollywood, garnered two Best Supporting Actress and Best Actress nods in the same year. She holds the record for receiving back-to-back Academy Award nominations in her first three film roles, which still stands today.

Teresa Wright received top billing for Shadow of a Doubt, a film that was her personal favorite and earned every bit of that limelight in Alfred Hitchcock’s psychological thriller. The film places Wright as serial killer Joseph Cotten’s unsuspecting niece, Charlie, at the story’s center. Unsuspecting at first”¦

When Young Charlie (Wright) is over the moon about her favorite Uncle Charlie coming to her sleeping California town for a visit, the whole family celebrates his arrival. Her mother, Emma, Charlie’s older sister (Patricia Collings, who appeared with Wright in The Little Foxes and Casanova Brown), can’t wait to dote on her baby brother. But soon, it comes to light that Charlie might have left strangled wealthy women in his wake, and in fact, maybe The Merry Widow killer.

Teresa Wright gives a nuanced performance as Charlie Newton, who daringly holds her own in a game of cat and mouse with Joseph Cotten. They are tangled up in danger as she carefully draws out his murderous impulses.

But in the shadows beyond the edges, the family is unaware of the two characters diverge ““ one set on self-preservation with a malignant disgust for fat lazy wives who live off their husbands and the other who seeks out the truth and bends toward humanity. Their same names are where it begins and ends. Wright is a glowing jewel in the blackness of Hitchcock’s nightmare.

Continue reading “Enter Teresa Wright in The Little Foxes 1941 – Behold, tomorrow I will bring locusts"¦ and they shall eat every tree of yours that grows in the field.”

Noirvember – Freudian Femme Fatales – 1946 : The Dark Mirror (1946) & The Locket (1946) ‘Twisted Inside’

The Dark Mirror (1946)

In films such as The Dark Mirror and The Locket, the male psychiatrist is posited as an antidote to the bad female by being "˜'established as a detective figure whose principal function is to investigate and ultimately to eradicate "˜deviance' (represented in these instances by excessive female desire.)'' From Frank Krutnik IN A LONELY STREET; FILM NOIR, GENRE AND MASCULINITY 1991

It is the phantom of our own Self, whose intimate relationship with and deep effect upon our spirit casts us into hell or transports us to Heaven – E.T.A. Hoffmann

”The figure of the double has been manifest in diverse forms. At times the doppelgänger has shown itself as an ether being – a shadow, a reflection or an animated portrait. At other points, it has taken the shape of an identical being – a person of kindred appearance, a relative, a twin.” From TWO-FACED WOMEN: THE "˜DOUBLE" IN WOMEN'S MELODRAMA OF THE 1940S – Lucy Fischer Cinema Journal 1983

In the 1920s hard-edged and gritty crime fiction became popular, and by the 1940s Hollywood embraced them. At the same time Freudian psychoanalysis became a big deal in America. People knew the basics of Freud’s ideas, so Hollywood could paint stories with ideas the audience could recognize, knowing that people would get the main gist. It became the foundation for some amazing visual displays. Dream sequences started popping up a lot in American cinema, most distinctive in thrillers and in particular in film noir. The Dark Mirror is one of the standout films made during the 1940s and 1950s that introduced psychiatry – like – Spellbound 1945 and two years later, de Havilland would star in Anatole Litvak’s The Snake Pit 1948.

Much of film noir's psychological pathology gives rise to obsessive fixations on the object of one's desire. What differs with Siodmak's The Dark Mirror is that the psychotic's fixation lies with their sibling and not a lover.

The Dark Mirror is a psychological film noir released in 1946, directed by Robert Siodmak who worked with shadows in his various film noir/horror/ and thrillers like an artist works with paints.  The film was produced and screenplay written by writer/director Nunnally Johnson who penned a slew of diverse screenplays that spanned the 1940s through the 1960s – including The Grapes of Wrath 1940, and The Dirty Dozen 1967.

Nunnally Johnson, transitioning from writer and producer to director, secured the rights and brought the story to life on screen. The film materialized through a collaborative effort between International Pictures, co-founded by Johnson and William Goetz, and Universal Pictures, marking their inaugural project under the Universal Pictures-International Pictures Banner.

The recently established studios were looking for a well-known name for their picture and Olivia de Havilland who was a huge star at the time came on board. She had recently taken legal action against Warner Bros. to terminate her contract and was now free from the studio's stranglehold.

In 1947, she delivered a noteworthy performance in To Each His Own for Paramount earning her the Academy Award for Best Actress. Following two films, The Well-Groomed Bride and Devotion in 1946, she entered into an agreement with Nunnally Johnson to star in The Dark Mirror.’

The Dark Mirror, like The Spiral Staircase both of which were classic ‘paranoid women’ /  "˜woman's films' stars de Havilland who plays identical twins, one of whom is a knife-wielding paranoiac killer. The casting of de Havilland is significant particularly because she not only starred in a variety of women's pictures but her sister Joan Fontaine was also an iconic star of the paranoid woman's films. Some of the most notable are Hitchcock’s adaptation of Du Murier’s Rebecca 1940 and Nicolas Ray’s Born to Be Bad 1950. The Dark Mirror presents itself as a psychological noir right from the start of the film with the Rorschach blots backgrounding the titles.

Olivia de Havilland engaged in a notable real-life conflict with her younger sister – silver screen star Joan Fontaine. This behind-the-scenes rivalry positioned the actress to confront her own duality in Robert Siodmak’s 1946 quintessential film noir, The Dark Mirror.

Siodmak made some of the most critical film noirs in the late 1940s and early 1950s, including, The Killers 1946, Cry of the City 1948 Criss Cross 1949 and The File on Thelma Jordon 1950. he had left the spotlight that shined on his pictures specializing in terror and became one of the most prominent directors of crime noir and suspense. By the early 1950s, he grew weary of Hollywood and returned to Germany.

In this way, the reception of Siodmak's 1940s Hollywood films demonstrates the ways in which the category of horrors incorporates films now seen as thrillers, film noir, and examples of the ‘woman's film.’ Siodmak brought with him the sensibility of German cinema strongly associated with the art of shadows and horror.

It's clear, that director Robert Siodmak was drawn to exploring the human psyche in his picture, and The Dark Mirror is a perfect example of this. Siodmak was fascinated with the dynamic of the good sister/bad sister which was apparent in his earlier works like Cobra Woman (1944) and The Strange Affair of Uncle Harry (1945).

Siodmak’s penchant for the use of shadow in his other work holds back his enduring use of chiaroscuro in The Dark Mirror. Apart from the opening scene, the only instances where he delicately manipulates light and shadow occur within the confines of the twins’ bedroom.

The bedroom is the place where we are most vulnerable, where they sleep, which is symbolic of the psychological warfare Terry wages against her sister Ruth. There was a historic rivalry and jealousy over the years. The perceived rejections by male suitors, even the adoptive parents who chose Ruth over her. At the end of the film, Detective Stevenson tells Dr. Elliot that he had the idea to lay a trap for Terry because he feared for Ruth's life. "˜'Even a nut can figure out that it's simpler to get rid of a rival than to go on knocking off her boyfriends all the rest of her life.''

A narrative featuring identical twins presented an ideal chance to delve deeper into the realm of the doppelgänger mythology, a theme that captivated him and inspired by Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927).

Based on a short story by Vladimir Pozner that appeared in Good Housekeeping in 1945, The Dark Mirror is notable for its exploration into the complexities of the human mind and the manifestation of conflicting identities.

Pozner's story was nominated for Best Story at the Academy Awards, though it lost to "˜'Vacation from Marriage” by Clemence Dane, which was adapted into a British movie released as Perfect Strangers in the UK starring Robert Donat and Deborah Kerr.

Collaborating with cinematographer Milton Krasner, known for his work on Lang’s Woman in the Window 1944 and Scarlet Street 1945, and All About Eve 1950, Siodmak enlisted an old colleague – Eugen Schüfftan, for visual effects. Schüfftan created the visual effects for Metropolis 1927. In the film, over three dozen shots feature mirrors, some to set the tone, but mostly to depict the inner conflict of the twins, highlighting their interchangeable likeness. De Havilland is shot beautifully in split screen using a stand-in when both twins appear.

Though de Havilland gave a very nuanced performance balancing opposing identities, down to the tone of her voice used for each sister, their body language, facial expressions, the subtle arching of her eyelids, and the sister's diverging character traits, Siodmak tried to ensure that the audience would have subtle cues for each of the characters. They were visibly "˜labeled' for us. De Havilland's Ruth is gentle yet timorous and softly spoken. She wrings her hands out of nervousness. Terry, however, is the bolder one, more assertive and hostile by a hair's breadth when challenged. Terry also smokes and is left-handed, while Ruth chooses to favor her right hand.

In a large part of the film, as in so many films, clothes often tell a story, in particular at the beginning of The Dark Mirror the twins wear identical clothing, Irene Shraff's costume designs, monogrammed dressing gowns, tailored houndstooth suits, initialed brooches, and largish necklaces bearing the letter ‘T’ and "˜R' might have been used as visual clues to help us sort out which twin was which, however, this does not dismiss de Havilland's ability to traverse the dueling roles.

It is important to note once we become aware of how unbalanced Terry is, the sisters begin to dress differently. For example: Ruth can be seen wearing a white long-sleeved sweater and conservative pencil skirt, while in contrast – Terry goes to Elliott's apartment pretending to be Ruth wearing a chic black satin dress with a jewel-encrusted pill-box hat. The visual clues summon the fall of the girl’s connection to each other and begin to symbolically delve into the cliché good vs evil through the emblematic use of color coding- black vs. white.

The narrative is framed by the presence of two significant mirrors, serving as visual parentheses for the story.

Siodmak initiates ambiguity with his use of mirrors and reflections: right from the opening sequence there is a shattered mirror which is reiterated or "˜mirrored' at the climax of the film when Terry throws an object at the mirror after she sees Ruth's image in the glass. Throughout The Dark Mirror appearances are deceptions – this is the central substance of the story.

The Dark Mirror is a psychological study of identical twin sisters Terry and Ruth Collins both played by Olivia de Havilland who vex and bewilder Thomas Mitchell (Stagecoach 1939, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington 1939, Gone with the Wind 1939 also with de Havilland, It's a Wonderful Life 1946, High Noon 1952.) who plays surly Detective Stevenson who gets frustrated and ornery trying to solve a murder he is convinced one of them has committed. Lew Ayres plays the role of Dr. Scott Elliott, a psychiatrist tasked by Stevenson to help unravel the mystery as to which one of the twins is guilty of murder.

De Havilland's performance is striking under Siodmak's direction a tough process considering both Collins sisters had to be filmed separately for the scenes where she/they occupied the screen at the same time. Adding to the struggle to make this work was the disagreements between Siodmak and de Havilland who clashed from the beginning over how to approach the way the twins were portrayed. Siodmak was making a psychological thriller and de Havilland saw the film as a character study of paranoid schizophrenia (Greco) "˜'One sister could and one couldn't commit murder, and that's all there is to it,'' the film's resident psychiatrist explains.

"˜'The film suggests but does not develop the possibility that Terry is Ruth's other self, the "˜dark mirror' that reflects the negative potential lurking beneath Ruth's sunny mask. However, the insistence on the separation of the characters into icons of good and evil makes the film a superficial melodrama rather than a probing psychological study. Good and evil do not engage in an internal clash but are presented as the essence of two separate characters, as in a medieval morality drama.'' – Foster Hirsch The Dark Side of the Screen: Film Noir

The film’s foundation rests on the "˜old wives tale' about twins, suggesting that one must possess an inherent darkness"”in this instance, a deep-rooted psychological one. Featuring the dramatic taglines: Dramatic tagline Twins! One who loves… and one who loves to kill! This is conveyed in the film's promotional ads, “To know this twin is to love her"¦ to know this twin is to die!”

When one of the twins is accused of murdering a doctor, both come under scrutiny. Ironically, it becomes impossible to establish which twin was identified by the eyewitnesses, so the law can't touch them.

In The Dark Mirror, Terry, the malevolent sister, murders her fiancé the prominent Dr. Frank Peralta when she realizes that he actually feels more genuine affection for her virtuous sister Ruth, though he is unaware of Ruth’s existence. He experiences a tenderness in Ruth’s and a peculiar absence of emotion when he's actually with Terry. Seeking understanding, he consults a psychiatrist to explore the possibility of a split personality in the woman he loves. The primary suspect is one of the Collins twins. However, the authorities are confounded by the fact that the twins are identical in appearance, making it difficult to determine which one committed the crime. Dr. Scott Elliott is brought in to evaluate the sisters and aid in solving the case.

Dr. Scott Elliott who frequents the medical plaza's magazine stand where he purchases his lemon drops from Terry, is shocked when he discovers that she has an identical twin sister Ruth. Dr. Elliot (Lew Ayers) is called to the district attorney's office to help with the investigation because he is an expert in the study of behavioral genetics in twins.

The Dark Mirror was Lew Ayers’s first movie after a four-year absence acting as an Army medic and awarded three battle stars during WWII. He returned to acting and became famous for his kindly Dr. Kildare series of films which was on the nose having been away for four years working as a doctor.

A darkened cityscape leads to an apartment that unfolds with a nighttime homicide and a shattered mirror like a fractured mind, an overturned lamp, and a man lying on the floor with a. knife stabbed through his heart. It establishes an atmospheric backdrop for a sinister and psychological story where the thin line between the narratives’ proposed trope of good vs evil is obscured behind the enigma of perceived "˜female' duality.

At the opening of the film, it is nighttime in the city and Siodmak masterfully employs protracted camera movements through two rooms in an apartment. He unveils the time of a violent struggle, the time is precisely 10:48 pm. A man has been stabbed in the back. A prominent mirror over the fireplace becomes the silent witness to the murder – shattered – it is a visual testament to the intensity of the attack.

Cut to Detective Stevenson (Thomas Mitchell) assigned to the case, who is interviewing several witnesses in his office at the police station. The identity of the victim is revealed to be Dr. Frank Peralta. Two of the witnesses claim they saw a woman leaving his apartment around the time of the murder. Soon he learns the name, Theresa ‘Terry’ Collins.

Peralta’s assistant tells Stevenson that the doctor was in love with Terry and had planned to propose to her which gave Terry a motive. It was no secret that Terry was dating Peralta. Maybe it was a lover’s quarrel? As far as Detective Stevenson knows, the only suspect is Terry Collins.

The next morning, Stevenson brings his two solid witnesses to Terry’s magazine stand in the medical building, in order for them to lay eyes on her and confirm she is the woman they saw leaving Peralta’s apartment. They are both certain it was her. He begins to interrogate her but is cut off when Dr. Scott Elliot comes by to purchase his well-loved lemon drops. Stevenson continues to put pressure on Terry to give her whereabouts the night before. She is able to detail every move as well as deliver the names of several witnesses who can swear to her presence, including a police officer and her butcher.

Once Terry learns that Peralta has been murdered she faints and seems genuinely shaken up by the news. Stevenson cannot break Terry’s alibi so he can’t arrest her. But this cop is doggedly convinced the girl is good for the murder and drops by her apartment to get to the bottom of the confusion with the witnesses. Then Ruth appears. The sisters are wearing the same bathrobes, though one is adorned with the monogrammed ‘T’ and one has the letter ‘R’ on it.

Stevenson almost combusts from the revelation that there are two of them- identical in every way and he is convinced that one of them murdered Peralta. The Collins sisters are resolute to stay silent. Neither sister will confess to which one has the foolproof alibi and which one stayed home that night. This drives Stevenson to distraction. The interrogation is getting him nowhere, there are no fingerprints on the knife and no way to prove that either one of them was there at the crime scene.

Orphans since childhood, Ruth and Terry Collins are inseparable. They live together, dress alike, and even wear wire necklaces that bear their names with a peculiar"” over-obsessive clunky jeweled monogram – as if they force their identities upon us or perhaps each might be threatened by losing themselves without them. Ruth is older by seven minutes, yet Terry seems to be the more dominant, controlling sister. Terry has a maniacal obsession with Ruth and is driven to prove that she is the superior twin.

The story unfolds – Stevenson learns how Terry and Ruth seamlessly orchestrate a charade, both working at the magazine stand as the same girl – taking turns to enjoy moments of respite – essentially to "˜switch out'' when one of them wants time off.

Under the guise of a singular job (which they cleverly share under Terry’s name), to the casual observer, no one can tell the difference until the murder exposes that they are, in fact, two separate people. Even Dr. Peralta didn’t know he was actually dating twins at the time he asked Dr. Elliott about split personalities.

Terry stands as a mother figure, a notion that the ‘bad twin’ constantly drives home to Ruth by asserting she is protecting her, making it more of a challenge for Ruth to betray her sister in the maternal role.

Among other films exploring dynamics projected by the good twin/the bad twin trope – they are often suggestive of variations on schizophrenia.

Detective Stevenson brings the sisters in for a line-up but they are so uncannily alike, that the witnesses can’t tell them apart.

Because both Terry and Ruth stay quiet, the DA is forced to drop the case against them because they won’t be able to convict with no evidence. But Stevenson is a bulldog and isn’t willing to give up. That’s when he seeks out Dr. Scott Elliott to help him uncover the truth about which one murdered Peralta.

The investigating officer on the case is Lt. Stevenson (Thomas Mitchell) enlists the unofficial help of up and coming psychiatrist, though Stevenson is more of a skeptic about psychology referring to him as a "˜fortune teller' who employs "˜gimmicks.' "Don't you witch doctors treat people with tinker toys?''

Dr. Elliot doesn't ascribe to the age-old superstitions that twins are usually "penalized in some way, physically or psychically."

He believes that "character, personality is the key" – that the two elements which are very black & white are pivotal, though one is a moral question and the other is scientific. Ayers is an actor who often comes across as a paternalistic figure puffs on his pipe and uses softly phrased insights as the even keel Dr. Elliott.

Dr. Elliot says, "Not even nature can duplicate' this quality, "even in twins" so this is what would tell who is the murderer. He adds that "˜one could and one couldn't commit murder, and that's all there is to it."

"˜'the insistent separation of the characters into icons of good and evil makes the film a superficial melodrama rather than a probing psychological study. Good and Evil do not engage in an internal clash but are presented as the essence of two separate characters, as in a medieval morality drama.'' Foster Hirsch

Terry and Ruth agree to be added as another set of twins for Dr. Elliott's research, though Ruth appears to be more wary of submitting to his examinations and acts cautious believing that Terry might be guilty of the murder.

Terry admits to Ruth that Peralta did propose to her and that she did see Peralta the night he was murdered. But Ruth agrees not to talk. She poses the question to Ruth, why would I kill him? Ruth is frightened that the truth will come out during Dr. Elliot’s examinations, but Terry thinks she's smarter than him and can pass all his ridiculous tests.

He invites the sisters to come to his office separately, where he puts them through a series of psychological tests, including the cliché inkblots that were groundbreaking at that time. Dr. Hermann Rorschach created them in 1921 to diagnose schizophrenia but that was modified in 1939 when it was used as a standard personality test.

As Dr. Elliott delves into the lives of Terry and Ruth, he discovers the stark contrast in their personalities. While Terry is manipulative, cunning, and emotionally unstable, Ruth is kind-hearted and virtuous.

The mystery deepens as Dr. Elliott tries to understand the motives behind the murder and grapples with the challenge of distinguishing between the sisters. The film takes an intriguing turn as Dr. Elliott employs psychological techniques to uncover the truth.

Elliott puts the girls through a series of standard psychological tests that seem to imply more of a moral evaluation than a psychiatric one. After Terry gives her impressions of the inkblots Elliott determines that she has a dark inner conflict, clever and calculating, even a tendency toward violence, after she describes "the lamb looks so innocent, but it has two men under its paws."

Terry's answers seem rehearsed, suggesting an attempt to assert her power though she tries to convey a helpless innocence. But Elliott notices the contrast in Ruth's answers right away. She appears very genuine, and is not aggressive, or threatening, with her contemplations more of a refined nature, as in dancers around a maypole and skaters in an ice show. Ruth is more retiring and amiable. This leads Elliott to conclude that Ruth is normal and Terry is the one who is mentally disturbed. Eventually, the monograms are disposable as de Havilland manifests the difference through her acting skills.

As Dr. Elliott delves deeper into the two personalities he begins to fall in love with Ruth, while Terry pursues him romantically. A pattern that is replaying itself. In the past, men have always chosen Ruth over her, while Terry desires them herself.

We learn that as orphans, a couple wanted to adopt Ruth but not Terry, and as they grew up, men were always drawn to Ruth, even Dr. Peralta preferred Ruth though he didn't know why. It was when he was with Terry that he feared she suffered from a split personality.

Ruth isn’t aware of Terry’s psychosis but Dr. Elliott is convinced that she is insane and killed Peralta in a jealous rage.

The narrative appears somewhat superficial, adopting a simplistic approach wherein the individual potentially toying with Elliott’s psyche, teasing him with aggressive insights, is labeled as the embodiment of evil. Meanwhile, the one exhibiting a gentler perspective through her mild and innocuous visions is deemed the epitome of normalcy.

"˜'20 percent of people who see things in the inkblots that expose the "˜'true secret patterns of their own minds'' The results for Elliott point to this"¦ "˜'one of our young ladies is insane.''

During the free association session, Dr. Elliott is left a bit mystified because the only unusual reflex is Ruth's reaction to the word "˜'mirror,'' to which she responds, "˜'death.'' Now he cannot wait to see how Terry responds to his prompts. But being visibly unnerved, having found out from Ruth how she reacted to the word mirror, it is not clear whether Terry would have given the same answer or if she is now toying with Elliott.

Terry is agitated when she hears Ruth's answer which shows some understanding of "˜that mumbo jumbo.' She refers to Dr. Elliott's tests as "˜'kindergarten games’' obviously trying to poison Ruth's faith in the doctor's credibility and that his psychological tests are nothing more than childish trials.

When Dr. Elliott gives them both a polygraph, it is hard for Terry to successfully manipulate her responses. Terry’s blood pressure spikes every time Elliott invokes Ruth’s name. Whenever her sister is mentioned the needle bounds frantically across the paper in a storm of black lines, especially bringing up the subject of a particular boy who liked Ruth.

From these tests, Elliotts makes his diagnosis – Ruth is sane and innocent of the murder while Terry is "˜'a paranoiac- a paranoiac is capable of anything.'' He is assured that Terry merely found his tests "˜'another challenge to her, another opportunity to show the world what contempt she has for it. That was the tip-off."

"A marker for insanity, or at least "˜'abnormality'' for women, then, is the transgression of typical patriarchal authority. The "˜tip-off' to Elliott that Terry is the "˜'wrong'' twin is her effort to thwart the masculine power and rules that are being applied to explain her motives, psyche, and very existence." – THE DARK MIRROR PSYCHIATRY AND FILM NOIR BY MARLISA SANTOS

Though Terry thinks she is putting one over on Elliott with his psychological "˜analysis' she begins to feel threatened by the growing romantic relationship between him and Ruth.

Terry witnesses Elliott and Ruth in an embrace outside their apartment building, but when asked Ruth doesn’t mention it. Terry becomes more desperate to sabotage Ruth's budding romance, something she evidently has done in the past. She decides to seduce Dr. Elliott herself, while gaslighting Ruth, trying to make her think she is losing her mind.

She begins to torture Ruth, hoping to push her to commit suicide and pin Peralta’s murder on her. She crafts illusions, spins nightmares, and conjures conversations, savoring every moment of her imaginative ploy.

Initially puzzling is why Ruth willingly covers for Terry despite being the target of Terry’s cruel gaslighting, nearly driving her to a mental breakdown. As Ruth witnesses Terry’s darker side, she hesitates to betray her, fearing that Terry’s potential for evil, even going as far as murder, might also exist within herself.

Terry starts by telling Ruth that she's been having nightmares, talking in her sleep, and then waking hysterical and terrified. Persuading Ruth to consume an excessive amount of sleeping pills, Terry secretly uses flashbulbs to light up their pitch-black bedroom in the dead of night. Ruth awakens startled while her cunning sister Terry pretends not to have seen anything.

Terry also secretly turns on a music box so it will remain playing after she leaves their apartment, to create the illusion that Ruth is only hearing the music from inside her head.

After all this, Ruth begins to believe she is descending into madness. Her head grasped between her hands she breaks down, – "Something's happening to me, and I don't know what it is. I don't understand it. I'm so scared; I don't know what to do." Pleased with her scheme to drive her sister crazy Terry reassures her –

"˜'Just remember that I'm with you and I'm always going to be with you. no matter what"¦ no matter happens, they can't do a thing without {her} consent.'' 

Terry is suggesting that Ruth is mad, but she'll be there to protect her as always. "˜'We'll be together as long as we live.''

"Terry converts feelings of loss and fragmentation into fantasies of total power and god-like control; she projects lack onto her own sister in the form of psychological disorder."˜' – Lutz Koepnick from Doubling the double: Robert Siodmak in Hollywood

Self-absorbed, Terry constantly seeks approval from Elliott, wanting to know what it is about Ruth that draws him to her. In a crucial scene, she even pretends to be Ruth, kissing Elliott and challenging him to be able to tell the difference. Yet she cannot restrain herself from self-aggrandizing “Terry is the smart one,” the one men usually go for.''

The use of a one-way mirror becomes a visual metaphor and a symbolic tool, reflecting not only the physical likeness of the twins but also the duplicity and hidden facets of their personalities. As the story unfolds, the audience is taken on a journey through the labyrinth of the human mind, exploring the nature of identity, morality, and the thin line between good and evil.

As the walls close in around Terry, she becomes more and more possessive of Ruth: "You and I are never going to be separated, as long as we live. You and I are going to be together. Always.''

Elliott tells Stevenson that Terry is a paranoiac and definitely killed Dr Peralta. Stevenson becomes concerned for Ruth's safety, so Elliott promises to tell Ruth that night about her sister. He calls the sister’s apartment and asks Ruth to come to see him later. But he is actually talking to Terry pretending to be Ruth. Fortunately, Ruth stops by his office right after the phone call, so he uncovers Terry's ruse. Later on, Terry arrives at his apartment not realizing that Elliott knows about her trickery.

In a demeaning and sexist soliloquy, Elliot begins to enlighten fake ‘Ruth’ about sisterhood rivalry. All sisters are rivals for men. How it is stronger for sisters than other women. Elliott doesn’t even take into consideration ‘social class’. This jealousy is ‘‘why sisters can hate each other with such a terrifying intensity.” Considering this misguided theory, the rivalry between twins is even more intense. It is this rivalry that has consumed Terry.

Dr. Elliot –"˜' All women are rivals fundamentally, but it never bothers them because they automatically discount the successes of others and alibi their own failures on the grounds of circumstances – luck, they say. But between sisters, it's a little more serious. Circumstances are generally the same, so they have fewer excuses with which to comfort themselves"¦ That's why sisters can hate each other with such terrifying intensity. And with twins, it's worse.''

He describes how the murder might have taken place. When he confronts Terry about her split personality, she realizes that he was in love with the part of her that is Ruth, even though he didn’t know that Ruth existed. In a jealous rage, she stabbed him in the heart. It struck me how risky this meeting is for Elliott, as Terry is genuinely dangerous having already killed one man. Sure enough, she goes to grab a pair of scissors when the phone rings, and Stevenson gives him the news that Ruth has killed herself. Terry snaps out of her homicidal rage and they rush to the sister’s apartment.

Terry as ‘Ruth’ tells Stevenson that Ruth killed herself because she was ‘sick’ and ‘twisted inside,’ words Elliott used to describe Terry. That it was Ruth who was insane and committed the murder. She killed herself over the guilt. Terry begins to ramble that she is actually Ruth. That it is Terry who has killed herself because she was so jealous of Ruth.

Elliot tries to provoke the fake "˜'Ruth'' into revealing herself as Terry, antagonizing her about her past rejections. The family that wanted Ruth but not her, and the boys who preferred Ruth.

He confronts Terry by telling her how mentally disturbed she is. He tells her while she is pretending to be "˜Ruth' that "Terry is "˜sick inside' and needs help. He imagines that it is tied to something that happened in their past when they were quite young but has grown inside like a poisoned seedling. "˜'more and more bitter and is now abnormal.’'

Finally working with the police, Ruth, who has been reluctant up til now to believe that Terry is dangerous stages her own "˜'suicide'' in order to trap her sister. As Terry begins to unravel, Ruth suddenly emerges from the bedroom. When Terry sees her reflected in a mirror behind her she throws an object and smashes it, symbolically destroying her sister who is the constant evidence of her "˜lacking.'

At this revelation it is all over for Terry and she smashes the mirror when she sees Ruth’s reflection.

By the end of the picture, Elliott and Ruth are united. He asks Ruth, ” Why are you so much more beautiful than your sister?”

"˜'Terry's possessiveness may be interpreted as a desire to absorb Ruth, to eliminate the "˜difference'' between them that haunts her and frustrates her desires.'' Marlisa Santos -The Dark Mirror

Dr. Elliot's comment in the end supports the actuality that good and evil can exist within two identical people as he tells Ruth, "˜'That's what twins are you know, reflections of each other, everything in reverse."˜'

This mental image -  signals the shattering of the mirror by the darker souled Terry at the climax of the picture when she is ultimately caught in her game of deceit, tricked by Detective Stevenson into thinking that the real Ruth has committed suicide. Caught by her own duplicity, she cannot help through her conceit she reveals her lies while claiming that she is actually Ruth and it was Terry that has killed herself.

She tries to convince Stevenson that "Terry' despised her (Ruth) out of jealousy because men always found her more attractive and likable. Unlike the doppelgänger who inhabits an evil that is transferred to the good person, this is subverted with the evil person Terry claiming that she possesses all the good attributes from their double.

The Dark Mirror is often praised for its innovative narrative and psychological depth. The film’s exploration of the duality within a single person, embodied by the twin sisters, adds layers of complexity to the story. Olivia de Havilland’s stellar performance in the dual role is a highlight, showcasing her ability to convey the nuances of two distinct characters.

It is lauded for its psychological depth, but some critics have noted that the resolution of the murder mystery may be somewhat predictable for modern audiences. However, it’s essential to appreciate the film in its historical context, considering its influence on subsequent psychological thrillers.

"˜'Sugar wouldn't melt in the mouth of Nancy, the heroine of The Locket. Yet if we are to believe the evidence, she is a first-class criminal. With this to go on, Nancy brings the wicked-lady psychopathic parade up to date. Laraine Day gives what must be her most fascinating performance. As with so many of these wide-eyed innocents who are supposed to be baddies inside, the spectator maybe have difficulty in crediting her with such heatless villainies. However, there is just enough of a defiant something about Miss Day. More of the spirit than the actual behavior, to raise the shadow of doubt. It is this question mark that holds one rapt.'' "”Philip K. Scheuer, "Laraine Day Psychotpath.'' Los Angeles Times May, 27 1947

"˜'The complexity of Sheridan Gibney's plot was what really enticed me to the material. It was an enigma within an enigma within an enigma. John Brahm, had done a very good horror picture at Twentieth about Jack the Ripper called The Lodger. He was a German- but not too German "” and I thought he would be good to direct this and give it some of the same atmosphere.'' "”producer Bert Granet in Lee Server's Baby, I don't Care

The New York Times (1946) found The Dark Mirror to be a lamentable production that operated as little more than a vanity project for Olive de Havilland, who "˜has been tempted by the lure of playing against herself.'

"˜'Siodmak explained that "˜audiences love a picture like The Dark Mirror because it affords what psychoanalysis call a psychic renovating'' The strategy of bringing all aspects of The Dark Mirror under the rubric of psychological science including even its purportedly positive influence on audiences, is indicative of the representational shift away from the cynical and at times gruesome depictions of psychiatrists and psychological practices that characterized wartime horror cinema. The horror films that went into production after the ebbing of the Shock controversy evinced Hollywood's newfound commitment to responsible depiction of psychiatry. A case in point was the 1947 film Possessed''– Bad Medicine from book Merchants of Menace: The Business of Horror Cinema edited by Richard Nowell.

In 1948 the Screen Guild Theater produced a radio version of The Dark Mirror starring Lew Ayres and Loretta Young. In 1950 de Havilland reprised her role for a radio broadcast at Screen Director's Playhouse.

Continue reading “Noirvember – Freudian Femme Fatales – 1946 : The Dark Mirror (1946) & The Locket (1946) ‘Twisted Inside’”