PAUL ROBESON: PORTRAITS OF THE ARTIST - SANDERS OF THE RIVER/JERICHO - #372

I am jumping into Criterion's Paul Robeson boxed set in the middle, so I am having to play some catch-up in terms of context. My inspiration for beginning with 1935's Sanders of the River is my still-in-progress review of The Private Lives of Alexander Korda and my current interest in the Korda brothers in general. Sanders of the River was directed by Zoltan Korda, who also helmed The Four Feathers [review] and The Jungle Book [review], and it fits in with the director's seeming fascination with stories set in Africa.

As an actor, Paul Robeson is best known for the James Whale version of Show Boat, a film that was to follow a year after Sanders of the River. By 1935, he had already made several films, including The Emperor Jones, but his reputation had largely been made on the boards. In fact, he originated his Show Boat role on the London stage, and according to the liner notes, a large reason why the performer made this film with the Kordas was that England afforded him more opportunity than America. Robeson, whose efforts as an activist now overshadow his career as an actor (though it's clear the point of Paul Robeson: Portraits of the Artist is to show how both vocations are inextricably linked; this particular disc is classified as the "Pioneer" phase), wanted to avoid the kind of cliche manservant roles that Hollywood was likely to exile him to. Sanders of the River, then, is a fascinating and somewhat perplexing notch on his belt, partially achieving Robeson's goal, if imperfectly so. Sanders of the River offers a complicated view of British colonialism, one that partially validates the rightful, albeit dubious, might of imperial law.

Surprisingly, Sanders is not Robeson's character, but is instead a British commissioner overseeing Nigeria (and played by Leslie Banks). Paul Robeson plays Bosambo, a one-time criminal and opportunist who presents himself as a leader of the Ochori people when the "Old King" from a neighboring tribe (portrayed by Tony Wane) makes aggressive moves on the Ochori. Despite seeing through Bosambo's ruse, the fair-minded Sanders takes the opportunity himself, assigning temporary rule to his new ally. If Bosambo keeps the peace and becomes the eyes and ears of the Empire, he can keep his position. Bosambo takes to this well, only losing ground when Sanders leaves his post and the territory in the hands of another. Without the respected leader in place, a devious British official sees the opportunity to make a profit by stirring up old rivalries. Though this inspires Bosambo to take his kingly duties seriously and shed his vainglorious desires, only Sanders' return can restore order--and only an even more timely arrival can save Bosambo's skin.

Quite literally, as it turns out. The Old King wants Bosambo's flesh to cover a drum, the tenth of its kind, his preferred punishment of his enemies. I am not expert on the truth about Nigeian customs or African tribalism, so despite the expected doubts I may have in Sanders of the River's depiction of the nation's people, I really have little reason to question Zoltan Korda's motives or successes here. The Nigerians aren't portrayed as mere savages, but as a people whose rituals and history are simultaneously relevant to their existence and anachronistic next to modern Western points of view. It would be easier to see Sanders as less than sincere if white men were only portrayed as conquering heroes, but the betrayal of other Brits puts them on equal footing with the bloodthirsty king. Plus, Korda's interest in African traditions led him to include documentary footage in the film, photographing several actual tribes dancing and singing according to their custom. (Also, Korda splices in a fair amount of footage of the local wildlife.) These scenes would seem like unnecessary detours if not for the fact that Sanders of the River was obviously designed as a vehicle for Robeson and his powerful voice, so the movie is as much a musical as it is an adventure picture. Robeson unleashes his baritone on several songs included in the movie, ranging from a rallying war cry to a somewhat distasteful heroic ballad about Sanders (the conquered praising the conqueror). There is also a very Western-sounding lullaby performed by another musical mainstay, the actress Nina Mae McKinney, in her role as Lilongo, Bosambo's headstrong wife.

Lilongo is another interesting character in that she is a kind of precursor to the take-no-guff cliché that has become a prevalent type in Hollywood portrayals of African American woman. The big man, and big personality, crumbles under her scorn. Her sass is not the only aspect of her or her relationship with Bosambo that comes off like it was beamed in from another time. While I hate to use the term "civilized," their marriage doesn't quite jibe with the "jungle" stereotype. For however else one might scratch his or her chin about Korda's politics, there is no denying that his direction is progressive in how he allows for Robeson's natural masculinity to come through. It was not even remotely common for a black actor to be a potent sexual presence in a positive way in movies until probably the 1970s. yet here Paul Robeson is allowed to be very much a man. The scene in which he first meets Lilongo and they enjoy their initial flirtation is not staged like some kind of backwoods courtship; rather, they approach each other with a hunger that was even lacking in most white motion pictures of the time. They display their desires and verbally maneuver around one another as if they were in a New York bar rather than an African village. Sanders of the River surely raised many a pale eyebrow in 1935.

In a way, this makes the final scenes of the white-man-as-savior forgivable. There was likely only so much Korda could get away with, there had to be some compromise. Plus, if you remove the colonial aspects of the story, then Sanders of the River is really a film about a white man and a black man getting along, and of the black man actually gaining real power within a society that otherwise would not allow it. Sure, it's still a position where he is only in charge of people of the same race and still answerable to white governance, but it doesn't come across as either a token hand-out or a reward that comes as a trade-off for dignity.

Which ends up explaining why Robeson would have been drawn to Sanders of the River. Scrolling through the actor's filmography, I don't think I've seen any of his other movies, which appear to be a mixture of politically minded films and straight musicals. In another era, Robeson would have been a much bigger cinema star. He is naturally charismatic in front of the camera, a comfortable yet forceful presence on the screen. Bosambo gives him plenty of opportunity to show his range. He is at turns cagey and clever, confident and seductive, a husband and a father, and also a righteous warrior. In other words, it's a multi-faceted part, the kind that only white actors were really getting at the time. He is a real person rather than a racial caricature. Sanders of the River may suffer from some rickety technique when it comes to filmmaking (particularly in battle sequences), but it definitely pushes the boundaries in terms of script.

1937's Jericho is a far more straightforward--and, were it starring a white actor, I'd say traditional--vehicle for Paul Robeson. Directed by Thornton Freeland (Flying Down to Rio, Over the Moon), Jericho stars the actor as Corporal Jericho "Jerry" Jackson, an NCO in an African-American regimen in WWI. When Jericho's ship is attacked by the Germans en route to the front, he goes to heroic measures to rescue his fellow soldiers. Unfortunately, a meddling sergeant (Rufus Fennell) gets in the way, and Jericho accidentally kills him when pushing him aside. Jericho is charged with striking an officer and defying orders and sentenced to death. When an opportunity presents itself, Jericho flees this unjust punishment, unknowingly condemning his one ally, a white officer, Captain Mack (Henry Wilcoxon). While Jericho begins a new life in Africa, becoming a chief and organizing an alliance amongst neighboring tribes, Mack spends the rest of the Great War in the brig.

Once again, there is some upending to the usual race dynamic. When on the run, Jericho teams with another deserter, an America flim-flam man named Clancy (Wallace Ford). Jericho quickly becomes the head of this new partnership, and the further they travel into the desert, the more Clancy becomes his fast-talking functionary. This was not the normal relationship dynamic between a black man and a white man in Hollywood movies at the time. Ford is Robeson's sidekick. He is the comic relief, and he is also expendable. Robeson is likewise given the romantic subplot. As in Sanders of the River, he meets a beautiful African woman and marries her (she is played by the one-named Egyptian actress Kouka).

Jericho is a fairly solid B-picture. It could just as easily have starred Humphrey Bogart (whom Freeland directed in Love Affair) as a poor America down on his luck, the wrongfully accused idealist looking for a way out. The plot has a tacked on Les Miserables-esque final act, with Mack determined to clear his name by bringing Jericho back to the States. Naturally, the man he finds has already redeemed himself, and is still determined to do the right thing, even if it means sacrificing his new life. This compels Mack to relent and make his own sacrifice instead.

The B-picture tag is not always an automatic positive, however; while we have elevated the extraordinary lower-level genre movies of the past, there were far more that were exactly what they were designed to be: merely competent diversions. This is where Jericho falls. Though never really boring, and also featuring numerous quality songs that allow Robeson to grandstand as a soloist, it's not entirely memorable. Freeland's direction is pedestrian and often stagey, and Robeson suffers for it. The actor often appears trapped within the static frame, confined to its four corners, the camera locked down. There is an awkwardness to the more physical moments, including a firefight in the desert, that suggest Robeson maybe forgot he wasn't acting on a stage, he need not be so contained.

Still, there is an interesting, and somewhat volatile, idea at the center of Jericho: the movie is simultaneously anti-war and critical of racism, and in a genius stroke, uses the former as a metaphor for the latter. Jericho is an example for the other negro soldiers (most of whom, it should be noted, skirt dangerously close to wartime stereotypes), and so he is not afforded the leniency his alleged crime deserves. And it can't be ignored that the solution to the problem is for the doomed soldier to return to Africa, to the home of his ancestors, for salvation.

Thus, a so-so picture becomes a far more fascinating one. Jericho has more subtext than the filmmakers knew how to handle. Placed in context, it was perhaps even more subversive for how simple and ordinary it seemed. As we've learned over the years, the most powerful images are the ones that don't push it, but rather derive their meaning and achieve their impact simply by existing. A movie like Jericho is one you wouldn't normally expect to find in the late '30s, but by virtue of Paul Robeson's stardom and his convictions, here it is. Who knows? Maybe it did more by not trying to do too much.

SABU!: THE DRUM/JUNGLE BOOK - ECLIPSE SERIES 30

This is the second part of a two-part review of the Sabu! boxed set; read the first part here.

Sabu's sophomore feature was a more stodgy affair than the first, and it also saw him relegated to more of a supporting role next to British star Roger Livesey (I Know Where I'm Going, The League of Gentlemen [review]). Following just a year after the success of Elephant Boy, The Drum (1938; 98 minutes) was Zoltan Korda's first adaptation of an A.E.W. Mason novel, a precursor to the more artistically successful The Four Feathers [review], the epic adventure that would follow immediately after. (Interesting side not, Livesey played the role of Harry as a child in the second film version of The Four Feathers in 1921; he was not in Korda's remake.)

Set in India at a time of political upheaval, The Drum features Livesey as the enterprising Captain Carruthers and Sabu as Prince Azim, a naïve but earnest young ruler who befriends the colonialists. He is particularly fond of a bratty young drummer (Desmond Tester) in the British Army band and of Carruthers' kindly wife (Valerie Hobson, Contraband [review]). When Azim's uncle, the appropriately named Prince Ghul (Raymond Massey in brownface), kills the boy's father, the child prince must go into hiding, biding his time until the British can overthrow Ghul and put him back in power.

Okay, am I the only one who thinks of the The Lion King [review] here? Is that bad of me?

To be fair, it's a pretty common plot, and The Drum obviously appropriated it first--though it's disappointing in execution here because the embattled prince isn't so much passive as he is incompetent. Sabu isn't nearly as comfortable onscreen in The Drum as he was in Elephant Boy; his "serious" acting features a lot of squinty eyes and pursed lips. He is best when joking with Carruthers or the drummer boy, and the way Azim kowtows to the white men who taught him to be "civilized" leaves a somewhat sour aftertaste. Far more interesting, actually, is the villainous Ghul, who, like Skar in The Lion King (sorry!), is not entirely wrong. There is something rotten in India, and some question as to the rightful heir's ability to rule. Unlike Skar, however, Ghul also has an element of nobility. His designs on the throne aren't entirely selfish. Korda and screenwriter Lajos Biro's attempts to ridicule Indian beliefs and customs backfire. Ghul ends up looking like a defender of his country's ethnic traditions, refusing to accept the British charges of barbarism.

Two positive things about The Drum: (1) Georges Perinal and Osmond Borradile's Technicolor photography is lovely and vivacious (even if this print is a little faded and beat up). The sets and the costumes have an exotic opulence that must have been thrilling to see in the late 1930s, and still has charm now. (2) The climactic battle is impressively staged and daring in complexity. The crowd scenes before and during are huge, and Korda doesn't show a heavy hand in dictating how the throngs behave. The old tag line for the film boasted a cast of 3,000, and the authenticity of the mob goes a long way to make that claim appear to be true. Plus, Roger Livesey is surprisingly badass manning a Gatling gun.

Next up for Sabu was the Michael Powell-directed, Korda-produced The Thief of Bagdad [review] in 1940 before rejoining Zoltan in 1942 for their second version of a Rudyard Kipling story. Jungle Book (106 Minutes) is Sabu's most enduring work, as well as the most famous live-action version of the classic adventure tale--and with good reason. Sabu has not only matured as a man and an actor, developing into a physically agile performer, but Korda's film, as shot by W. Howard Greene and Jack Okey, is a visual marvel. The team creates a thriving Technicolor jungle, filled with lush plant life, exotic animals, and the remnants of man's beautiful folly.

Sabu plays Mowgli, a boy lost to the wilds after a tiger attack leaves his father dead. Adopted by wolves as a toddler, he returns as a teen to rejoin his village, much to the delight of his mother (Rosemary De Camp) and the suspicion of the town swindler, Buldeo (Joseph Calleia), who also serves as the storyteller whose own tale frames Mowgli's.

Mowgli adapts to village life, learning English and the baffling ways of society. Money holds little interest for him, though it buys him a knife to hunt the tiger, Shere Khan, who has vowed to kill him since he was a baby. He also takes a shine to Buldeo's daughter (Patricia O'Rourke), giving the man all the more reason to hate the jungle boy. Worse, Mowgli leads the girl to a grand treasure, only to leave it where it has remained hidden for decades rather than succumb to the evil that jewels and gold inspire. (It's ironic, given most Western iconography, that a snake warns the boy away rather than leading him into temptation.) This sets up Jungle Book's climax and sets up the foundation for its theme of man's greed and superstition being his downfall.

The story of Jungle Book is familiar to most people, though again we must invoke Disney, as the common memory often goes back to their animated version. In that, Mowgli cavorts with talking animals and the human world is mostly out of it. Many of the same characters are here--the snake Kaa, the panther Bagheera, and the bear Baloo--and Korda anthropomorphizes them, though not to the same degree. Mowgli is said to be able to speak all animal languages, and as we go deeper into his world, we begin to hear their voices as he does. Most of the time, the animals we see are real, including the predatory cats and elephants and the monkeys. In other understandable cases, they are puppets or props, though the only distracting effects are the rubbery snakes. In all fairness, the snakes tend to get bigger acting parts than the furrier animals, so some sacrifice had to be made for narrative demands.

More impressive than the animal wrangling, though, are the sets. Korda uses a combination of matte paintings and physical sets to bring to life a colorful jungle setting. There are plants with fiery red leaves and giant blue statues and light tumbling through the trees that takes on astonishing purple hues. Sabu runs through each attractive set piece as a free spirit, utterly convincing as the wild boy who swings on vines and howls at the moon. Indeed, while the trained British actors come off as overly mannered and comical through most of the movie, acting down to the material, Sabu is perfectly comfortable in his chosen environment.

All three of Sabu's first movies with Zoltan Korda are now part of Criterion's Sabu - Eclipse Series 30 boxed set. I'd like to believe that Elephant Boy and particularly Jungle Book could still stoke the imagination of young viewers. Despite our technological advances, one assumes the untamed forests still hold some sway over our basic human instincts. This set would make a nice companion with the other Criterion younger viewer titles, namely Albert Lamorisse's The Red Balloon [review] and White Mane [review], and Bill Mason's Paddle to the Sea[review], all of which feature children interacting with the wonders of the natural world in exciting, yet vastly different, ways.

This disc was provided by the Criterion Collection for purposes of review.

SABU!: ELEPHANT BOY - ECLIPSE SERIES 30

Any mystery of why the Kordas picked a particular twelve-year-old Indian boy to star in their 1937 Rudyard Kipling adaptation Elephant Boy (82 minutes) is cleared up the moment Sabu steps onto screen. The film begins--and indeed, opens the latest Eclipse boxed set from Criterion, modestly titled Sabu!--with the wide-eyed child addressing the audience directly, explaining to one and all the nature of the story they are about to see. He is in character as Toomai, a would-be elephant hunter with a history remarkably similar to Sabu's own, but for as scripted as the words he says may be, they sound like the gospel truth coming out of the boy's mouth.

Indeed, the youngster's personal history is remarkably similar to how Toomai's is depicted in John Collier's screenplay. The son of an elephant driver is orphaned on a hunt, later to be taken under the wing of a rich British colonialist. Though Sabu's personal trajectory would see him starring in several films for Alexander Korda, Toomai's was different. He dreamed of being a hunter, and his particular affinity for elephants leads to him proving himself where otherwise the small fry had been doubted. Toomai and his pet bull, along with his old man (W.E. Holloway), join the hunting party of a wealthy white hunter named Petersen (Walter Hudd, Major Barbara [review], The Importance of Being Earnest). The expedition embarks on a particular dismal season when elephants are scarce and tigers are plenty. Though the rest of the party doubt Toomai's ability, he is the only one who can control his pet, and together they find where its distant relatives have disappeared to, thus saving the day.

Elephant Boy is entertaining, if slight. It gears toward the young, as do most of Sabu's early features. Most boys dream at some point of wilderness life and communing with animals, and so the eager wish fulfillment has a resonance even if the times have changed drastically. Zoltan Korda co-directed the picture with Robert Flaherty, whom film buffs will recognize as the director of Nanook of the North, which is generally considered to be the template for documentary filmmaking. Unsurprisingly, the startling footage of Indian life and particularly the remarkable scenes with the wildlife is mostly Flaherty's doing, giving Elephant Boy a pleasing authenticity that would not have been possible back at Denham Studios. Directing children and animals is supposed to be the hardest thing a director can undertake; in Elephant Boy, both look easy.

This left Zoltan Korda (The Four Feathers [review]) to direct the narrative scenes, bringing a traditional British storytelling veneer to the simplistic plotlines. For the most part, the joint effort is seamless, with only a few instances of a jarring disparity between the two styles (editor Charles Crichton should probably get a special mention here; he began his career as an editor in the 1930s and ended it as a director, helming his last feature, A Fish Called Wanda, in 1988). Naturally, deeper issues of colonialism are left for others to contend with. Instead, Elephant Boy's main themes are moral determination and a dedication to duty. Hunting is presented as a noble profession (the elephant hunt is more like a cattle drive, there is no violent slaughter), and Toomai's dreams eventually come to. Presumably so did Sabu's, though he may not have been aware these particular adventures were his dreams until the picture business came calling.

Elephant Boy was followed in pretty rapid succession by several more Sabu vehicles with the Kordas, including the magical 1940 classic The Thief of Bagdad [review]. This Michael Powell feature fell between the next two movies in Sabu! - Eclipse Series 30, 1938's Drums and Sabu's other Kipling adaptation and probably his best-known film, The Jungle Book, released in 1942. You can read about those two color adventures here.

This disc was provided by the Criterion Collection for purposes of review.

THE FOUR FEATHERS (Blu-Ray) - #583

Zoltán Korda's 1939 epic The Four Feathers is an entertaining anachronism. It's a war picture that celebrates colonialism, that decries cowardice and glorifies reckless valor. It uses outdated terminology to describe the opposition, yet except for a couple of very small scenes, manages to avoid draping the face of caricature over the Arab masses. The Brits are racist, but strangely, for the most part, the film is not.

It's also a lot of fun, and despite a slow start, genuinely rousing as the combat heats up. It starts in the 1880s when Islamic rebels reclaim the Sudan and take Khartoum from the English, killing one of their generals. This is seen as a terrible disgrace amongst the old guard who fought to grab the region originally. General Faversham (Allan Jeayes), General Burroughs (June Duprez), and Dr. Sutton (Frederick Culley) all have white hair now, but at one time, they made blood run red. General Faversham in particular has concern for his young son Harry (Clive Baxter initially), who prefers reading the poems of Shelley to hearing his doddering father's anecdotes about war.

Power cut ten years ahead, and the British are finally ready to take back their foothold in Egypt. General Haversham is dead, and Harry is grown up and an army officer. Played now by John Clements (At Dawn We Die), he is in the same regiment as Burroughs' son Peter (Donald Gray) and also engaged to his daughter Ethne (June Duprez). Ethne has chosen him over his comrade John (Ralph Richardson, The Fallen Idol [review]), seeing something more appealing in the dark, brooding gentleman than the stiff-upper-lip type that John represents.

It's a pretty tangled social clique, but important groundwork for the adventure to follow. As the boys are about to ship out, Harry decides he'd rather not go and resigns his post. John, Peter, and their other friend Willoughby (Jack Allen) all feel betrayed, and they send Harry a package with a single white feather from each of them. It's an old custom, basically throwing down a gauntlet and calling Harry a coward. The fourth feather comes from Ethne, who doubts Harry's true motivations for bailing on his duty. Harry doubts these things himself, and to earn the right to return the feathers to their original owners and free himself from their stigma, he travels to Egypt. Since he's no longer in the army, he infiltrates a group of ethnic outcasts and poses as an Arab, slipping unnoticed into the battlefield. Once in the desert, he finds his old pals and saves them from trouble, at first anonymously but eventually revealing his identity as the situations grow more hairy.

The Four Feathers was based on a book by A.E.W. Mason. Though popular enough to spawn multiple film versions--the Korda boys made the fourth--I had never heard of it prior to a remake with Kate Hudson and Heath Ledger a few years back (which I never saw). While Zoltán's adaptation, which was written by R.C. Sherriff (That Hamilton Woman [review]), makes me curious to see how other filmmakers might have handled it, were I to never see any of the other versions, I'd be totally happy. I found this Four Feathers to be an engrossing piece of cinema, full of drama, interesting characters, and exciting battles. Zoltán Korda stages large combat scenes on open desert plains, using the elements as an additional weapon, almost as if the land itself were trying to get rid of all human invaders. The situation with John and Harry is particularly memorable, with the bright desert sun doing more damage to John than his enemy ever gets a chance to. Richardson delivers a solid performance, balancing on a fine line when a touch of humor is called for, but careful not to overdo it and undercut the pathos that is essential to his character's fate.

Despite the backdrop of war, The Four Feathers is ultimately about loyalty more than it is the far more simplistic cowardice/courage dichotomy. Perhaps that's why it's aged so well, actually. The sense of duty Harry feels is less to his country than it is to his countrymen, and more specifically his friends and the woman he loves. Had the patriotism had more of a rah-rah feel, the colonial aspects would probably be a lot harder to take. What makes Harry so compelling is his desire to prove himself to the people he cares about, and instead of doing it in the way that might be expected (i.e. rejoining the army as a foot soldier or begging his dad's cronies to give him back his ranking), he finds his own way to be a part of the action. It's the more romantic solution, so maybe reading all that Shelley paid off after all!

Or perhaps the fact that The Four Feathers was a family affair had some influence on how it all came together. Alexander Korda produced the picture, and Vincent Korda did the marvelous set design, creating a pronounced contrast between the colorful British homes and the harsher conditions of the desert battlefields. Apparently there was some tension between Zoltán and Alexander, and the lingering shots of the insurgency prepping for their raid was representative of the director's more sympathetic viewpoint. Had he not won out, The Four Feathers would have been the kind of jingoist propaganda I feared it might be. A more straightforward war film would have been a lot less interesting. Even on a scale as grand as this one, nuance proves to be everything.

For a complete rundown on the special features, read the full review at DVD Talk.

Also, please note that the images here are promotional stills and not taken directly from the Blu-Ray.