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.

READER MEET AUTHOR: Signing at Heroes in Fresno, December 12!

Just a quick heads up, I'll be signing at Heroes Comics in Fresno, CA, tomorrow, December 12, in the morning and early afternoon. Come by if you're in the area. Say hello, get some comics. I am there to celebrate the release of It Girl & the Atomics #5, which is the end of the first story arc.

Details are over at my other blog.

You can also join the event's Facebook page here.

BRAZIL (Blu-Ray) - #51

"Everything is connected all along the line. Cause and effect. That's the beauty of it."

In between finishing re-watching Brazil and starting this review, I tweeted, "One day I'm going to program a triple-bill of Blade Runner, Brazil, and Soderbergh's Kafka." It strikes me that all movies are of a similar piece: strange visions of an alternate world with shades of 1940s noir style, all three misunderstood, a trio of troubled productions where the film is regularly overshadowed by the respective failures and battles for creative freedom. That they all also involve a singular hero lost in bureaucratic nightmares of varying complexities, terrorist organizations, and, in the case of the B-movies, a woman who is going to be strangled in red tape, also doesn't hurt in terms of the grouping. (It's been a while since I've seen Kafka. I forget how exactly Theresa Russell's character figures in the plot.)

Brazil is Terry Gilliam's vision of a George Orwellian future, released a year after the author's 1984 predictions failed to come to pass. The film stars Jonathan Pryce (Glengarry GlenRoss) as Sam Lowry, a low-level clerk in the Ministry Of Information (moi?) with no aspirations to rise higher, despite strings being pulled on his behalf. Sam's dreams are of a different nature. He imagines himself as a winged warrior, soaring through the cloudy sky, challenging shadowy hordes of deformed creatures and a giant samurai made out of technological bits and bobs. Such dreams are not very lucrative, however; in this future, information is a top commodity, and when the government requires it from you, you are also required to cover the cost. So begins a plot where an accidental typo causes a man named Buttle to be wrongfully detained. When he dies in custody, Sam tries to make amends by delivering Buttle's refund check to the man's widow.

As many Kafka-esque heroes have found before him (as well, as Kafka's own; see also Joseph K. in Orson Welles' adaptation of The Trial), attempting to untangle a disorganized filing system only causes further complications and likely get your own personal file dropped down a round bin. Sam is suddenly on the other side of the line that divides his official, privileged world and the common man. There are organizations that resent the interfering government and terrorists who lash out at tyranny and mass consumption alike. One such agent of chaos is Harry Tuttle (Robert De Niro), a freelance repairman who circumvents official channels to fix Sam's heating system. He may also have been the man that was supposed to be on the arrest warrant instead of Buttle. Another new acquaintance of Sam's is Jill Layton (Kim Greist), Buttle's neighbor, a truck driver, and a dead ringer for the girl of Sam's dreams. Jill's been trying to clear Buttle's name, and now she's possibly marked for future arrest herself. If Sam can keep her out of the system, he can save her in real life the way he does in his fantasies.

Gilliam rebuilds society from the ground up. His sci-fi imaginings are more in line with how futurists envisioned the oncoming world back in the 1940s, full of pneumatic tubes and criss-crossing wires. Computers are a hybrid of what systems were really like in the mid-'80s and classic typewriters. Men dress in suits, while art deco buildings scrape the sky. Women's fashion has grown outlandish, though even now we will recognize the quest for beauty through fad diets and cosmetic surgery as a wholly accurate identification of social trends. Sam's mother Ida (the excellent Katherine Helmond) allows her surgeon (Jim Broadbent) to push and pull at her face to smooth out the wrinkles, while her best friend submits to acid treatments that burn her flesh. Theirs is a world disconnected from the working man. It's a dichotomy we also see in living conditions. The poor live in rundown slums resembling disused factories. Beyond the city lines, life is more functional, less aesthetically pleasing.

Brazil's labyrinthine constructs are matched by the twists and turns of the screenplay, which Gilliam co-wrote with his regular script partner Charles McKeown (Plunkett & Macleane) and master playwright Tom Stoppard (Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, Shakespeare in Love [review]). Sam must navigate the back streets and dark alleys along with the corporate structure of the Ministry of Information. The further he travels, the more the illusions fall away, even as the system tightens around him. As with the best Gilliam, Brazil is desultory and loud and often overwhelming. It's easy to overload on any one entry from the director's oeuvre. Yet, there is a purity to Brazil, a go-for-broke overabundance of design that smacks of ambition and naïveté. This is Gilliam before the system broke him, before the studio thugs gutted his dreams the way M.O.I. ultimately lobotomizes Sam. Most of the supplements on the Criterion editions of Brazil have been about the different permutations and the fight for the film, and the Blu-Ray is no different. It also includes the studio's version, which is considerably shorter than the approved director's cut. It's known as the "Love Conquers All" version, and lacks the visual bravado that concludes Gilliam's original, when Sam's romantic fantasies take over. The last section of Brazil is a surreal run through all that came before, like a mini remake of the entire film, a mad dash through Sam's psyche.

It's also a love letter to the creative spirit. Sam loves old movies, he surrounds himself in imagery from classic Hollywood. In a different version of his fantasies, he maybe fancies himself a celluloid hero. This is Gilliam's most realized irony: Sam actually is a celluloid hero. He is a noir detective, he is Hitchcock's wronged man, a pulp-fiction pugilist. He's not Humphrey Bogart, but maybe Dick Powell. Likewise, Brazil, with all its trials and tribulations, is a vibrant capsulization of cinema history, of Terry Gilliam's own bid for a star in the hall of fame, and all the heartbreak that comes with dreaming big. Brazil is its own self-fulfilling prophecy, audacious and mesmerizing and as fascinating today as it was nearly 30 years ago.

Criterion's new edition of Brazil features the expected high-definition transfer, presumably updated even from their single disc release of the film, struck from a 35mm source. The picture is shown at its original 1.78:1 widescreen aspect ratio, MPEG-4 encoded at 1080p. Overseen by Gilliam, the presentation here is exquisite, with an exceptional level of detail and beautifully varied colors. The film still shows its age at times, with minor instances of surface noise and a few scenes where the edges of the frame grow a bit warped, but the overall look of the transfer is strong. Shadows and gray fog alike look excellent, skin tones have a natural sun-deprived pallor, and the fantasy material really shines. In other cases, with other films, high-definition sometimes exposes the seams, spit, and glue used to hold old special effects together and removes some of the illusion. This is not a problem with Brazil. On the contrary, you can enjoy the remarkable art direction as never before.

This Blu-Ray release comes as a two-disc set, packaged in a standard-sized plastic case with a staggered tray. The accompanying booklet has pictures, credits, and a critical essay. The main disc features the full-length, 142-minute director cut along with the exceptionally candid and detailed audio commentary with Terry Gilliam. This is the same commentary from Criterion's original boxed set, issued in the mid-1990s, and indeed, the overall package here replicates that phenomenal collection.

For a complete rundown on the special features, read the full review at DVD Talk. Images here were taken from promotional materials and were not taken from the Blu-Ray under review.

FILM SHORT: THE LIFE AND DEATH OF COLONEL BLIMP - #173

The NW Film Center is showing The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp this weekend, a rare treat that Portland-based folks will want to check out.

While I hope to do a full review of the film one day (I doubt I'll be making it out to see it myself, alas), the Portland Mercury asked me to do a capsule review this week, and I share it here because I think these short bursts (50-100 words) require a certain talent and style unto themselves. You can read a slightly edited version in the paper this week, or on their website.

THE LIFE AND DEATH OF COLONEL BLIMP Though buoyant entertainment through and through, this 1943 Powell & Pressburger movie smuggles a sturdy “war is hell” message in its titular hero’s walrus mustache. The Technicolor adaptation of David Low’s comic strips tracks a British career soldier through three wars. Fueled by the filmmakers’ usual visual panache and a tremendous performance from Roger Livesey, Colonel Blimp shows how youthful ideals can be overtaken by the obsolescence of age, leading to a bittersweet finish that pays honest tribute to the brave men who answer when duty calls. JAMIE S. RICH NW Film Center

PRIVATE LIVES OF ALEXANDER KORDA: THE PRIVATE LIFE OF DON JUAN - ECLIPSE SERIES 16

"What is romantic about spending your life telling women they are everything they are not?"

The jocular tone of Alexander Korda's 1934 film The Private Life of Don Juan is evident from the get-go, as is its sexual undercurrents. Or should I say overcurrents? The movie opens on a fountain spraying high into the air as a minstrel sings the ballad of the titular lover, the unseen Don Juan, desired by wives, hated by husbands. Women all across Seville are forlorn because their love lives have dwindled since the famous ladies man departed, only to have their spirits lifted as a mysterious figure, appearing to us only as a shadow, arrives beneath their despondent balconies to toss them a flower. Could it be that Don Juan has returned to woo them anew? Passion erupts, just like that fountain, rising up and going...well, nowhere.

The Private Life of Don Juan isn't so much a romantic comedy as it is a comedy of romance. Korda and writers Frederick Lonsdale and Lajos Biro (a regular on Korda movies, but who also wrote von Sternberg's The Last Command [review]), working from a play by Henri Bataille, aren't interested in the legend of Don Juan, except to skewer and deflate it. Screen legend Douglas Fairbanks, here in a rare talkie and also starring in his final feature, leads the film as the heroic lover. He has snuck back home under a veil of secrecy, hoping to avoid being jailed for debts that his angry wife, Doña Dolores (Benita Hume), has purchased in order to lord them over his head. Don Juan has seen better days. He is older and tired, maybe a little like the aging actor who plays him, not as ready to perform as in the old days, and also finding that he is being replaced. The man handing out flowers wasn't Don Juan, though now the whole town thinks it was. It's a new casanova looking to follow in the Don's footsteps.

Opportunity strikes when Don Juan leaves his wife waiting yet again, choosing instead to woo the pretty dancer Antonita (Merle Oberon). While he makes love to her, his doppelganger is straining his back to climb a balcony in another part of town. When the fake Don Juan is run through with an angry husband's sword, the real deal sees a way to sneak off, avoiding handcuffs by playing dead until he can save up enough to buy his way out of jail. Only, once Don Juan has gone, a new industry springs up around his memory. A scandalous, exaggerated biography becomes a best seller, and an opportunistic playwright crafts a stage production celebrating his alleged exploits. Fearing his legacy has gotten beyond his control, Don Juan returns to Seville to announce he is alive.

And here is where the true sting comes. No one will believe this middle-aged man is the real Don Juan. Antonita remembers him as younger, with a different mouth and blue eyes. The theatre audience laughs at the legendary lothario when he interrupts the play. There is no way for the man to live up to the mythology that exists around him. The truth is not important. When the play's author asks the audience which they'd prefer, a Don Juan who is just a man or the one who is a heroic phantom, they choose the phantom.

It's a fairly prescient depiction of the downfalls of fame. Old Hollywood and its stars had a particular knack for creating actors to fit a predetermined image. Douglas Fairbanks Sr. was known for his stunt work and his suave persona, and he must have more than once been in a situation where the truth couldn't live up to the publicity. One has to respect his lack of ego for poking fun at himself here. He's still very charming on screen, smiling and laughing, even as the Don Juan act falters. In the film's final scene, his usual lines are turned down, the woman he says them to has already heard them. Don Juan has no defense. That gambit is all he has. It's a revelation both mirthful and mournful. The old soul is accepting his new position. The myth is learning to be fine with being just a man.

Jim Jarmusch fans will likely recognize the funeral scene in The Private Life of Don Juan from Broken Flowers, the indie director's own film about the twilight of a ladies man. It's the movie that Bill Murray's character, also named Don, is watching early in the film, as he realizes how alone he really is. Jarmusch has picked this section for a reason. Korda's scene has a lot of emotional subtext. Here is the man, believed dead, standing amongst a legion of black-clad women who have come to mourn his passing--and he knows not a one of them. These aren't his actual lovers, these are women who believed in the fantasy, who are crying over something they never had. In reality, for all his conquests, Don Juan is alone. Sure, he is amused to be cut loose, but then frustrated that he can't reclaim his identity. Don Juan has to shed everything to learn what's truly important. He has to understand his biggest fib is not his practiced rap, but everything he pretended to be. People believe the lies because there was no other truth.

The Private Life of Don Juan has a heavy meaning, but it's not a heavy movie. Far from it. It's the lightest of the Alexander Korda pictures in the Eclipse set. The episodic script moves quickly from one scenario to the next, a series of quick comic bursts, some of them schticky, some of them sensual, sometimes both. The culmination is probably when the exiled Don tries to show a barmaid (Binnie Barnes) that he can be everything his biography claims him to be, but it takes a couple of tries to deliver the "hot lava." Korda is having fun peeling back the curtains to peek into the bedroom, to show the construct behind the myth. Just as Flora Robson stole The Rise of Catherine the Great [review] in her showy supporting role as the Empress, The Private Life of Don Juan is taken over by Melville Cooper, playing Leporello, the long-suffering organizer of Don Juan's life. He's the one who makes sure Don Juan eats the right food to stay in shape, and who organizes his social engagements. Cooper is like the 1930s equivalent of F. Murray Abraham, blustery and forceful and very funny. The biggest laugh comes midway through the film when he cuts one of Don's hostesses to the quick, saying his favorite meal is a gabby old woman's tongue. And not while it's still in her mouth.

What really makes The Private Life of Don Juan work, though, is that Korda doesn't sacrifice that glib tone in order to make his point. Don Juan settles down and expresses his lesson learned, but he delivers his epiphany with the same blithe manner as he has said everything leading up to it. It's a new seduction, you see, one that is about allowing himself to be seduced as much as he is doing the seducing. He's falling in love with life in a whole new way.

SIDELINE: MORE REVIEWS FOR 11/23

My reviews of non-Criterion movies for November.

IN THEATRES...

* Anna Karenina, in which Joe Wright goes as crazy as his heroine and throws cinema under the train. But in a good way!

* Killing Them Softly, the reteaming of Brad Pitt and his The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford director takes on and dismantles the crime genre the same way they did the Western.

* A Liar's Autobiography: The Untrue Story of Monty Python's Graham Chapman sounded like a good idea. In 3D, animated, built with audio recordings by the late comedian. Too bad it sucks.

* Life of Pi. The 3D or the tiger? Definitely worth seeing in the theater to see Ang Lee's beautiful adoption of the extra dimension, but expect to be underwhelmed by the story.

* Lincoln. Day-Lewis. Spielberg. 'nuff said.

* Silver Linings Playbook, in which David O'Russell asks, "How is Bradley Cooper not himself?" You may need a tissue for this one. Either from crying or...er, um...Jennifer Lawrence. (Yeah, I went for that joke.)

* Skyfall, Sam Mendes joins the Bond franchise, makes it legitimately good.

* Smashed, an underdeveloped but well-meaning tale of addiction with Mary Elizabeth Winstead and Aaron Paul.

Also, if you live near Portland, you should stop by Cinema 21 for their three-film, weeklong Bogart celebration "You'll Take It and Like It." I wrote about it for the Mercury.

ON BD/DVD...

* D.W. Griffith's Abraham Lincoln, a 1930 biopic in which the grandfather of cinema and the father of John Huston make the 16th President seem like a real dud.

* Comic Book Confidential: 20th Anniversary Edition, an entertaining snapshot of the comics scene in the 1980s.

* The Day He Arrives, an existential quandary, and arthouse take on Groundhog Day, from Korean director Hong Sangsoo.

* Film Noir Collection, Volume One: Olive Films bundles together four of its noir and not-so-noir titles for a pretty solid collection of 1950s B-movies.

* Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 1 and 2: Ultimate Edition. Or how I spent my Thanksgiving.

* John Cage: Journeys in Sound, an informative documentary about the avant-garde composer.

* Long Day's Journey Into Night, Sidney Lumet's masterful staging of the Eugene O'Neill drama, with Katharine Hepburn in the lead.

* Die Nibelungen, Fritz Lang's epic silent film adaptation of the classic Nordic poem. From 1925.

* People Like Us, a mainstream drama with surprising depth. Starring Chris Pine and Elizabeth Banks.

* Ramrod, a dark western with Joel McCrea and Veronica Lake, the stars of Sullivan's Travels.

* We Can't Go Home Again & Don't Expect Too Much, the lost experimental film of Nicholas Ray paired with a documentary about its making.

PRIVATE LIVES OF ALEXANDER KORDA: THE RISE OF CATHERINE THE GREAT - ECLIPSE SERIES 16

The Private Life of Henry VIII [review] was a great success for Alexander Korda, and so it only made sense that he would continue in this vein as both a filmmaker and a producer. For his next historical feature, Korda handed the directorial reins to Paul Czinner, who had recently left Germany with his wife, the actress Elizabeth Bergner, to escape persecution from the rising Nazi powers. Czinner and Korda settled on Catherine the Great as a suitable starring vehicle for Bergner. Though Catherine had a long reign as Empress of Russia, one full of scandal and rumor, the pair decided to focus on her early life for The Rise of Catherine the Great, and her move from her home country of Germany to the court of St. Petersburg--a situation that Bergner could likely identify with.

At the start of the picture, the Empress Elisabeth (Flora Robson, the Basil Dearden-directed Saraband for Dead Lovers) is on the throne. Lacking both an Emperor and a direct heir, Elisabeth is trying to position her nephew, Grand Duke Peter (Douglas Fairbanks Jr., Little Caesar, The Prisoner of Zenda), to take over and carry on the bloodline. In classic fashion, the young monarch is not as interested in affairs of state as he is in affairs of the heart and also those of the body. Being a ladies man and a scoundrel, the idea of marrying a German princess he's never seen doesn't really appeal to the dandy. His mind changes, however, when he meets Catherine and she charms him with her naïveté and devotion.

Only, his mind is to change just as quickly on their wedding day when a valet (Gerald du Maurier) plants a doubt in his head: what if she is not as naïve as he originally believed? Feeling royally played, Peter approaches his new marriage as if it were a game. Can he carry on as he was and keep his wife in her place? He'll push her to see how clever she really is!

These early portions of The Rise of Catherine the Great are the best parts, with Peter acting the rake and Catherine trying to outmaneuver him, sometimes advised by Empress Elisabeth herself. Flora Robson pulls a coup on her castmates, completely dominating The Rise of Catherine the Great each and every time she appears on screen. (Hell, even Criterion chose to put her on the menu screen rather than the movie's titular star.) The actress reminds me of Helen Mirren, both in attitude and appearance. Hers is by far the most colorful role. She gets to shout and throw tantrums and even gives one of her ministers a black eye. Her showing "Little Catherine" the ropes has echoes of Choderlos de Laclos' Les liaisons dangereuses. The innocent is being trained to disarm the cad. Peter is fueled more by pride and jealousy than he is desire, and Fairbanks handles the wounded ego angle with aplomb.

Unfortunately, The Rise of Catherine the Great nearly skids to a halt when Elisabeth eventually passes on. Peter rules Russia with the same shortcomings that make him such a bad husband, and he quickly fears Catherine's popularity and her keen instincts for fair rule. Or should I say her alleged instincts. The script, which was cobbled together by three writers, gives pretty thin examples of Catherine's decision-making skills, and for most of this part of the film, she appears far from great. The political machinations are a pale replacement for the more swarthy bedroom negotiations, and Catherine is shown as weak willed and easily bested, a wilting flower beholden to a rotten man. She is only convinced to make the right choice and seize power when his insults become too much to bear. Czinner wishes to paint Catherine as the mother of the country who will fight for her children, but that portrait doesn't fit in the frame, not when, for the bulk of the picture, she is too busy pining for her sweetheart to make the bold moves to get rid of him.

While the script clearly goes wrong in sticking Catherine in the backseat for The Rise of Catherine the Great's final act, some blame must also be placed with Bergner. She's not much of an actress, and she also lacks any special screen presence. Just like Peter, the camera doesn't really love her, it's more okay with her. Even surrounded by Vincent Korda's impressive set designs and decked out in John Armstrong's costumes, Bergner can't quite marshal the charisma to make her character believable. A film about a woman coming into her own and taking control of an empire requires a much stronger personality to bring it to life.

But then that's the problem. As a whole, Paul Czinner's directorial style lacks the vitality of even Korda's, who himself wasn't exactly the most vivacious. The Rise of Catherine the Great also lacks the sheer force of a performer like Charles Laughton, or the more lusty aspects of the Henry VIII story. When the gossip and the whispers take over The Rise of Catherine the Great, one can't help but think all that cattiness is much ado about nothing at all. Maybe they were saving all the salacious details for a possible sequel? Too bad the Korda franchise was soon to go elsewhere.