Cleansing the doors of cinematic perception, for a better yesterday

Friday, March 10, 2017

Shhhh! At long last, lost Lewtons: ZOMBIES ON BROADWAY, THE FALCON AND THE COEDS



Shhhh! Let us speak of Val Lewton, but quietly, a man whose oeuvre of poetic B-movie horrors we knew even in the 80s of Central Jersey suburbia, taping them off local TV like a fisherman dipping his claw into the soft stream. If his movies were merely subtle and shadowy noir-horror, mere wisps of smoke through the threader, how come even my Journey-crankin' gearhead brother liked Cat People and I Walked with a Zombie too? I taped them back-to-back when they came on WORs Creature Double Feature and we watched them nearly every night one long ago summer, the fan on next to the window, drowning out the crickets,  and the harp and frond shadows whistling all around the dark verandas. We dug the growls in eerie WMCA basement pools, and the rustle of the cane fields. Being 16 and an avid reader on old movie books from the local library, I was expecting too much at first, maybe, but the fifth time around even my brother was on board. We 'got' these two classics. They didn't shout and telegraph their emotions --they talked in low, conspiratorial voices, and operated on a level of subtlety that drew us in (we had to lean into them), leaving us transported, and... then... suddenly realizing, as does the lovelorn birthday girl in Leopard Man, that it's gotten dark and we're locked in with some strange deadly force (though I avoided Leopard Man due to being too creeped out by the blood under the door scene as a kid).

These films chilled the blood but they were also deeply life-affirming --they cooled us along with the fan, never crossing the line between either 'genuine supernatural' or 'vivid imagination / demons of the mind"  --in the process they tapped into a deep dream-like level of involvement. Where most horror was like a crazy derelict shouting at us over shrill orchestration, Lewton's movies lured us close with seductive calming whispers, then dug their claws deep in our souls. Maybe that was part of their appeal --the low, quiet talking was part of the wartime experience. Loose lips sink ships! The guy on the park bench reading the paper might be a Nazi spy! We could watch these films all night and never wake the parents (and they were good for hangovers, too).


It being the war, the thinking at the big studios was that if one must make horror films, make some of them hilarious, so that America might laugh at its Euro-thrashing boogeyman fears. Boris Karloff was on Broadway with Arsenic and Old Lace, and 1942's underrated Boogeyman will Get You was at Columbia; Lugosi was chasing the Dead End Kids around moldy Monogram passageways; but at RKO, on the B-lot with Lewton and Tourneur, a new way to exorcise the horror of war was manifesting, a style the both looked forward to film noir and backwards to classic literature and ancient myth, and with a minimalist leave-it-to-your-imagination approach to monsters. The latter was something that we young Famous Monsters of Filmland devotees were initially turned off by, but then later-- when confronted with too many bad monster suits--we finally realized how seeing is never the same as believing; a really dark black shadow, is itself scarier than any monster hiding within it.

That shadowy minimalism in combination with the quiet whispering and the mostly-indoors filming, and the supernatural--unconscious--power-of-suggestion-genuine supernatural transformation aspects-- give these films a dreamy quality hard to find anywhere else--it makes them seem very personal. Everyone in the world could be wearing I walked with a Zombie T-shirts and we'd still think we were the only one who resonated with its weird dream poetry. It was just some small precious thing that spoke only to us in a 'psssst' sort of conspiratorial whisper, like some girl you meet at four AM outside on a stoop and have an hour-long conversation with in low voice to not wake the neighbor while you share a cigarette (and then you realize she was never even there - just a dream, your anima projected onto the smoke). I'm always amazed when I hear other people say they love these films, for I presume they're my discovery alone, and so perhaps do they.


That's why we fans--especially those who love both film noir and art films as well as horror pics, feel protective of them. I don't like all Lewton's later movies as well as the first four; I think it was a mistake to separate him and Tourneur after the third film, a mistake to start dealing with children (as in Curse of the Cat People and The Body Snatcher), and a mistake to lose narrative steam by getting hung up on polemics on 'authority in tight spaces evoking madness '(Ghost Ship, Isle of the Dead). All the tri-corner hats and clattering hooves and smiling coachmen (Bedlam, Body Snatcher), make me feel like I'm being dragged through Colonial Williamsburg as a bored, thirsty kid with aching feet (an experience which left me with a lifetime aversion to period pieces and the smell of horses). For Lewton was clearly losing interest in horror per se, and whereas before he brought the classics to contemporary horror, now he was just bringing B-budgets to period piece classics, sliding in a lot of death and sadism in the margins and hoping the suits wouldn't give him shit about the more 'literary', less supernatural stretches Tourneur had been gone long enough that there was no longer real shadowy noir poetry to Lewton films by the end, just 'literature' which meant frickin' horses, children's diseases, and oil lamps - a few shadowy death/stalk walks of course, to keep one's hand in. 

The later Lewton would have no doubt done an actual Jane Eyre instead of I Walked with a Zombie, for example. If only the executives in their infinite wisdom didn't give him such easy literary titles as Body Snatcher and Bedlam! Better they got weirder and more prosaic like The Thorned Glove of the Time Traveler or I was a Voodoo Vampire. 

All of which is a tortuously long preface to the discovery of two 'sort of' Lewton films made by RKO's other B-units but using many of the same people, same actors, crew, sets, props and ghostly mythopoetic flavors and signifiers from the first four films (all from 1942-1943) in the Lewton RKO series. When I've run the Lewton circuit and got to have more, and am eyeing the Bedlam, Body Snatcher last gasp with grim countenance, I'll turn to these instead.  By comparison, over on RKO's A-lot, Orson Welles' Journey into Fear (1943) is a more enjoyable Welles film (with its 'Mercury' title fonts and expressionist angles and Welles himself ) than one he actually directed, The Magnificent Ambersons (1942). 

In short, RKO in 1942-3 must have been quite a place. In addition to Lewton's B unit, there was also another group, with Tom Conway as the Falcon in a string of popular B-pics, and some of RKO's own attempts to jump on the wake-of-Arsenic bandwagon. So it's natural I guess that there was plenty of cross-over both in front of and behind the camera, with--in some lovely instances--crossover in sets, writers, and tone.

So here are two I have found and folded into my Lewton box, if you get my meaning. None of this will mean much to people not in love with the breezy interiority of I Walked with a Zombie. Or--as that snotty Helen says in Cat People--I'm afraid of all this is dull for Irina.

It won't be for you though, will it? Shhhhhh.



THE FALCON AND THE CO-EDS 
(1943) Dir William Clemens
***

From its crashing waves close-ups and swirling romantic piano music score, right down to the title font, the resemblance of Falcon and the Co-Eds to the opening of I Walked with a Zombie is uncanny; I only noticed it though as I recently saw them both--quite by accident-- back-to-back (1).
In addition to cast, font and mood, the figure of a gloomy fragile-doomed poet hangs over both this film and Lewton's fourth, The Seventh Victim. All three of them are from 1943, and two were written by Ardel Wray, a mysterious poetic figure who seems clearly to have modeled these fragile doomed poets on himself, possibly exorcising some inner doomed poet, forever at odds with the RKO B-movie system, looking for one muse to lift him from suicidal despair.

In both instances, a poet is hanging around and wafting in his (spacious) apartment, clearly nursing a fabulous dreamy crush on some girl who's really a shimmering reflection of his own dream anima. In sum, he's a classic puer aeternus lost soul of the sort Maria von Franz would probably reduce to tears. A teacher at the all-girls school, the dead poet/English professor has fans who are sure it wasn't an accident or suicide and that the dean just wants to avoid scandal. Hence a saucy student heads down to the city to steal the Falcon's car so he'll need to go up there to get it. Once he's in the dead poet's bungalow with his manuscript, billowing curtains, cliffside view, and gloomy comfort, we think instantly of Seventh Victim's Jason (Erford Gage) and his original draft of poetry that Dr. Judd accepts from him on their way to the Satanic mass, or thereabouts. Reconstructing the personality from mute evidence, the Falcon declares this dead poet "a man who perhaps demanded too much from people and had to live in books to get it, who spent most of his time alone,.... who took refuge in his new imagination (...) how easily a man like that could be dominated by others." and "He lived such a narrow empty life that it finally suffocated him." Nimbly prowling around the grounds, Tom romances or confounds the endless string of suspects, manages to maintain the student body's collective crush without either dampening or indulging it, and employs three singing moppets to shadow suspects, the very cool 'Ug Sisters.'

Haunting Co-Eds with otherworldly presence is a dreamy psychic student named Margueritte, with a dead composer father--supposedly similar in temperament to the dead poet (but more famous)--who keeps having premonitions of death ---voices whisper to her in the wind to kill herself. We hear what she hears in the sound mix, and it's pretty creepy as the whispers blend with the wind until we almost feel like we're going crazy. And for a supposedly grounded mystery, the film keeps a tactful and open-minded opinion on the supernatural, mirroring that of Lewton's films, wherein the real and the vividly imagined merge into a poetic realism (i.e. Irina is a cat and/or a frigid hysteric in Cat People; Jessica is a zombie and/or a casualty of tropical fever in I Walked with a Zombie - the supernatural as a dweller on the threshold of existence).


Tom Conway seems to have been quite busy amidst the RKO B-lots, for in 1943 alone he was in three Falcons and two Val Lewton pictures (Seventh Victim and I Walked with a Zombie). Like Lewton, Conway was born in Russia (St. Petersburg) to a wealthy family that fled the Bolsheviks, bringing with them with barely any of their vast fortune). Looking at Cat People now I realize that it is not really my favorite Lewton film anymore - it lost some esteem when I lost my own virginity (and stayed human). But whether the curse is real or not, I'm a huge fan of Conway's lascivious Dr. Judd. I'll grant you he doesn't really buy into her story and he should, because he's already losing his chance to get her on the rebound, but then it's too late; one certainly can't hold it against him if he turns up the following year after supposedly being torn up, to go around pimping Jean Parker and pissing off more poets in The Seventh Victim. 


Here are some more similarities
Many Women

Cuzza the war. With women doing so many of the jobs usually taken by men it's imperative to remember while women suffer at the hands of soldiers and blah blah, its a great time for feminist advances in the workplace and a great time for those men still at the homefront to get a lot of women fighting over them, for a change. That's part of the noir fantasia we so love in The Big Sleep for example, all the hot available lady cab drivers, librarians, book store managers, etc. We think 'oh how novel!" now, but these films reflect a very real facet of life at home during the height of the war (just as the noir era--men returning home, armed, to find some louche mule kicking in their stall - Bang! Bang! Noir is born).

The girls' school, seen in both Co-Eds and 7th Victim is a prime example of an Edenic safe space in the time of war (ala the woman's dorm in A Matter of Life and Death). This is a kind paradise a man overseas can imagine without feeling either sexual desire or protective paternal affection but something in between, reflecting the 'not a girl / not yet a woman' femininity. For example, Lawrence never seems tempted by all these colorful young starlets throwing themselves into his lap, but at the same time he never belittles them -- even the Ug Sisters are given respect, as in his engaging in a kind of casual spywork game with them in town.

THE AMBERSON STEPS


Astute viewers will also notice the school's main stairwell (built for Welles' Ambersons and used regularly by the B-unit) used for the interior of the all-girls' schools in both Co-Eds and Seventh Victim - leaving us to wonder - is it the same school?

Alas, Jean Brooks

Jean Brooks, one of my least favorite actresses from this or any period but she was in three Falcon movies with Conway, and two back-to-back with Lewton. In other words no 1943 RKO B-picture unit was safe from her buzzkill presence. Look at her above there, at left - those frown lines from hell --seeming to be pimping out lovely but trapped, turned-off Rita Corday to a concerned but horny Lawrence. Hell, you know me, I love most all women but Jean Brooks makes me furious. Every time someone calls Brooks beautiful I imagine the lines were written long before she was cast. I just do not get why she's in these films --she's short, boxy, and dour -- she snarls her lines like they're in imposition. She's safely long dead from smoking and alcoholism and had no kids, so I don't expect any hate mail on this call. If you disagree, fine. But your glasses are dirty and your hearing is bad, for her voice is not as music.


For example: her sudden evil arrival onto the scene of the drama class that the Falcon is crashing is torturous - up to then we've had lyrical a capella three part jive harmony from the Ug sisters, a giggling but spot on recitation of Romeo's soliloquy and so forth - Brooks wades into the scene like Margaret Hamilton at the Oompa Loompa-munchkin reunion bash, snarling viciously at the girl who, at any rate has the words memorized because she's reciting them with a wink in her voice, she's going to fail her. or telling the Ug sisters they can be in the talent show until "they're grown up," then viciously balling out a girl for not wanting to wield a sword after she has a premonition of death and 100% of her premonitions have come true. Brooks is the anti-anima. She's the shrew that the Falcon, who usually cuts through crap like butter, is obligated to pretend is attractive, like if Shelly Winters trundled into the idyllic A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH (1946 - below right) girl's residence hall to grab David Niven away from Kim Hunter.

I mention that film for two reasons: 1) the idyllic scene of an all-girls school/dorm engaged in uninhibited Shakespeare practice and other angelic behavior; and 2) Hunter was Brooks' little sister in 7th Victim. Though Brooks in that film is decked out in one of the worst Bettie Page-banged black wigs in cinema history, Hunter is forced to constantly call her beautiful, which makes me wonder if my glasses are dirty.

It's not just physical beauty I refer to either (in some angles Brooks' trademark "B-list Joan Bennett"-ness works for her) but the way Brooks come across in persona and acting. All flat notes and bitchy attitude, she comes on so unpleasantly it's as if she seeks to mock the script's constant referral to her charisma and ability to "light up a room." I have to fast forward not to want to clock her one and then Tom Conway's Dr. Judd/Tom Lawrence falls for her? Prescribe her some SSRIs and leave her to heaven, Dr. Judd/Tom. I'm sure Heaven will be thrilled.
---

ZOMBIES ON BROADWAY
(1945) **

Deconstructing the horror / war mindset is tricky. We can understand the psychology behind the horror ban as a classic example of Hollywood misdiagnosing the contradictions that abound in viewer psychology. The feeling was that audiences didn't 'need' more horror (the war provided plenty). Lewton's B-unit and Universal's THE WOLF MAN proved audiences needed the old horrors more than ever, but they also needed to be able to laugh at their fears. Thus, horror comedy became a huge parallel program, stretching from Bob Hope in CAT AND THE CANARY (1939) and GHOST BREAKERS (1940) through to BOOGIE MAN WILL GET YOU (1942 and the stunning success of ARSENIC AND OLD LACE on Broadway, which kept Karloff out of films for almost a year.

RKO finally loaded itself into the horror-comedy canon for ZOMBIES ON BROADWAY in 1945, a clunky if well-crafted little blend of scares, laughs and island intrigue as a pair of shifty talent agents try to appease gangster Sheldon Leonard's yen for nightclub entertainment by procuring a real 'live' zombie for his voodoo-themed lounge. What makes it, like Co-Eds, a long lost Lewton is that the boys go to Sen Sebastian, the same island setting as 1943's I WALKED WITH A ZOMBIE, and includes several actor/characters from that film, including the tall scrawny bug-eyed zombie, Darby Jones (above- the skeletal tall black man who plays the scariest of the zombies in Lewton's film, Carrafour) and the strolling calypso singer, Sir Galahad.

The best part, though not part of the Lewton crew (he'd only appeared in a small role in the same year's Body Snatcher), Bela Lugosi has a florid, full-tilt villain role as the zombie maker who ensnares our bumbling pair of Abbot-and-Costello-esque comics (2), tying them up and then letting them run amok through his trap doors and passages, chased by himself and Darby Jones (here called 'Kalaga').


As with Lewton's Zombie, a real chilling highlight is a song from Galahad, this one as the boys disembark on the San Sebastian dock, first singing happily about how San Sebastian is a tropical paradise, when the boys walk past him and he's behind them, and all the other passengers have gone, the song gradually darkens and slows to a tale of menace, paranoia and woe.
Sir Galahad's songs are always direct addresses, which is what makes him uncanny - as in his slow ghostly walk across the empty veranda towards Frances Dee after brother David has passed out, leaving her alone, singing about all the stuff she will shortly learn the hard way, in Walked. But of course the boys are imbeciles, and don't think it could apply to them.

Though played for comedy, these little termite moments gives it the Lewton vibe. Also, it's entirely studio-bound, with atmospheric lighting especially in the night/dungeon scenes The front of the club where the boys go find zombies could easily be the same club in Leopard Man or the same city storefronts once they return to NYC, seen in 7th Victim.


As for the boys, they're fairly forgettable. The one guy screams like a hysterical baby the moment anything goes wrong, even while sneaking up on a voodoo ceremony, making the panic of Mantan Moreland in KING OF THE ZOMBIES (1941) seem like square-jawed heroism. I'm also not a huge fan of Darby Jones' doofus ping-pong ball eyes this go-round. It's not a good look. His eyes were plenty buggy in Lewton's film, so what's the rumpus? Luckily we wouldn't see ping pong ball eyes in style again for zombies until 1972's SUGAR HILL. At any rate, Bela makes up the difference. He seems to be having a grand time here, stretching his muscles in real sets after loping around Monogram's waterlogged too-dark cutaways for so long, Best of all, there's no Jean Brooks!

So enjoy what ye can while ye can, for the war can't last forever and once Johnny comes marching home, all that dizzy poetry will have to be stopped. Played by Alan Ladd or Robert Mitchum, he'll be brooking no umbrage from 4F poets who've had it too good for too damn long. Until then... Shhhh!


NOTES:
1. I thought I was the first to make the Ardel Wray connection, only to find Time Out London's Film Guide had beaten me to it, them crafty Brits.
2. Strangely, aside from Hold that Ghost in 1941, Abbot and Costello stayed away from horror until well after the war (... meet Frankenstein came out 1948), preferring westerns, period pieces, and sports spoofs.
Special shout out to the indispensible DVDBeaver from whom I copped some of the above Co-Eds stills

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