“. . . and don’t forget to air your Master’s pants, ‘Minta.”
“Beer drinking don’t do ‘alf the ‘arm of love-making.”
“There’s a female or two be floating around my mind like the smell of a Sunday dinner.”
“A woman that’s a pillow at thirty be often a feather bed at forty!”
“Hang it, Thirza Tapper, I’m asking you to marry me!”
“What be women made of nowadays?”
“They do say the next best thing to no wife be a good one. He has come out on top at last.”

–The Farmer’s Wife

After The Ring Hitchcock inexplicably returned to the stage for his next story, a film based on Eden Phillpot’s romantic comedy The Farmer’s Wife (adapted once more by Eliot Stannard). It was not a genre Hitchcock visited often. However, this (his second film for British International Pictures) is one of the more purely entertaining films of Hitchcock’s silent period, a tale of farcical courtship with strong pastoral elements. During the shooting of this rather cheery adaptation Alma became pregnant with the couple’s only child, Patricia.

Feeling lonely after the death of his wife and the marriage of his daughter, farmer Samuel Sweetland enlists his pretty young housekeeper, ‘Minta (short for “Araminta”), to brainstorm a list of women he might convince to marry him. Stubborn, hot-tempered, proud and given to employing unfortunate barnyard analogies when he should be whispering sweet nothings, Samuel encounters unexpected (and, for us, hilarious) resistance as he works his way from name to name. Unfortunately for this film’s raison d’être, it should only take the audience five minutes (if that long) to realize that the perfect candidate has been right under the farmer’s nose the whole time.

The Farmer’s Wife truly is an odd mix of Hitchcock’s trademark economic storytelling and significant stretches that add little or nothing to the ongoing action. The result is unusually long for a Hitchcock film (and a comedy, for that matter). At 129 minutes, it is easily 20 minutes longer than any of his other British films, and one of the longest he ever made. Watching it, although it drags less than one might expect of such a lengthy silent film, it is easy to see where the story could have been told just as effectively with a good 40 minutes or more left out. Nevertheless, there are a variety of elements at work here that mesh together very well.

The film has probably the strongest ensemble cast that Hitchcock had yet assembled. Lillian Hall-Davis fills the role of the sweet, practical housekeeper, a far better fit than in the poorly-written female lead of The Ring. Gordon Harker (of the priceless facial expressions) returned to work with Hitchcock, as well. He plays essentially the same character here as in The Ring, a sour-faced farmhand named Churdles Ash, to equally great effect. Jameson Thomas is perfectly cast as Sweetland, bringing just the right balance of sympathetic vulnerability and easily-wounded pride to the role. He is never unlikable, even when he is behaving badly, and delivers one of the best performances I’ve seen in a silent film. In addition to Sweetland’s four prospective brides, each a little odder than the last, there is a rich supporting cast of eccentric country caricatures that lend a concrete sense of community to anchor the proceedings.

Community plays a major role in the film; all of the most important scenes take place within the context of a social gathering. The wedding celebration near the beginning introduces all of the major characters and sets the stage for the tea party, which is the central scene in the movie. There are the social calls, a foxhunt, a rowdy gathering in the local pub, and so on. The film immediately communicates a charming rural atmosphere where everyone knows everyone and everyone belongs. This tight-knit atmosphere emphasizes Sweetland’s loneliness without a partner, perhaps even indicating that he is not a complete person without a “better half.” Incidentally, even barriers between social classes are thin and extremely mobile here. At the tea party, for instance, the first guest to arrive enthusiastically shakes Churdles’ hand, greeting him as a friend and equal even though Churdles is “the help.” (Churdles response is to shake his head grimly and say, “I ain’t the party, George.”)

Speaking of rural, the camera shoots the gorgeous (even in black and white) English countryside with an almost Romantic reverence for the setting. The Farmer’s Wife was shot on location in Devonshire, and there are some truly fantastic landscapes in the film. There is obviously a great deal of respect and admiration for the simple lives of these country people. Naturally, animals feature prominently in this setting as well, at least on the periphery. Two adorable spaniels wander through the scene during the opening shots, tracking through the farmyard, into the house and up the stairs before settling together at the the top and staring dolefully at the door of the dying woman’s room. The foxhunt scene involves a truly impressive number of dogs and horses (quite the extravagance to shoot, considering the almost incidental nature of its appearance in the film).

The story opens with the farmer’s wife lying on her deathbed, immediately introducing the central problem of the plot and establishing the major characters, ‘Minta and Sweetland. However, instead of a funeral, as one might expect, the deathbed scene immediately precedes a wedding. There isn’t even so much as a shot of a coffin being lowered into the ground. The Farmer’s Wife has little time for sorrow. Applegarth Farm is in an uproar as ‘Minta flies around the house in a whirlwind of preparations. After everyone finally leaves for the church, she continues to prepare the wedding feast in the kitchen while Churdles regales her with his dour views on marriage and love in general. (“Holy Matrimony be a proper steam roller for flattening the hope out of a man and the joy out of a woman.”)

Soon, ‘Minta looks up from her preparations in the kitchen, we see a shot of the church bell swinging back and forth in the steeple, then back to ‘Minta. In a sound film, we would simply have heard the tolling of the bell signaling the end of the ceremony, as she does. Hitchcock often employed these 3-shot sequences to convey something to the audience: first a close-up of a character’s face reacting to something, then a shot of what they are reacting to, followed by another shot of the reaction. In a discussion on the techniques of film editing, Hitchcock noted that the key to these sequences is the image inserted in that middle shot. The example he uses is the nature of an old man’s smile framing a shot of a cute baby playing with its mother in the park or one of a cute girl sunbathing in a bikini. The former is benign; the latter, creepy. In The Farmer’s Wife, however (and in other silent films like The Lodger), Hitchcock employs this technique primarily as a substitute for sound.

The wedding party soon returns for the meal and we are introduced to most of the locals. In a fantastically-filmed sequence, a tracking shot follows one hapless guest as he backs away from an extremely-talkative elderly gentleman, seeking desperately to join one of the small knots of conversation around him while feigning interest in whatever the other man is saying. Finally, he manages to dive into a small group and the old man wanders off in search of fresh prey. Another conversation sets up the later scene at the tea party, when a guest reminds Sweetland that he has promised to be at her “little affair” and asks that he loan her Churdles Ash to announce the guests (she’ll provide the get-up). Churdles signals his objection frantically from behind her back, but Sweetland ignores him and agrees.

Finally, everyone leaves and Sweetland wanders contemplatively around the large, empty room. The wedding confetti on his lapel, his own wedding picture on the wall, and his wife’s empty chair by the hearth inspire him to call ‘Minta out to discuss his prospects for remarrying. Though it may seem odd to make special note of the dialogue in a silent film, the ensuing conversation is extremely funny as Sweetland and ‘Minta go back and forth on the pros and cons of the various “possibles and impossibles” (see above for some examples). As he considers each candidate, he pictures her sitting in the empty chair across from him, and we have the remainder of the movie laid out like sermon points in a church bulletin.

Sweetland manages to flub each proposal in epic fashion, thanks in part on his use of unfortunate barnyard analogies like “I come over . . . to pick up a big fat hen.” Despite his complete lack of tact, most of the women let him down pretty gently . . . not that it matters. The poor guy doesn’t handle rejection well, and generally rages around the room a bit, throwing out general verbal abuse before storming away. After being turned down by the Widow Windeatt, an independent woman who runs her own farm up the hill, he remembers Thirza Tapper’s tea party. Full of enthusiasm, he shows up at her house a full 40 minutes early with a basket of plums, hoping to pitch his woo before the other guests arrived.

Unfortunately, Thirza is still getting ready, and she is suddenly trapped in her bathroom with no way to get to the clothing in the bedroom except by crossing the head of the stairs while Sweetland waits impatiently below. She is thrown into complete disarray when she attempts to sneak across, wrapped tightly in a dressing gown, only to get it caught in the bathroom door. Sweetland doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss, but the good lady is mortified. After she has dressed and come down, Sweetland attempts to lay out his proposal, but is continually interrupted by the servants and his own clumsy fidgeting. When he finally does get it out, Thirza happens to be holding a plate of some sort of gelatin dessert, which begins to quiver violently as she has a sudden attack of nerves. Ultimately, she turns him down too, and he exits in a huff.

He is still hanging around outside, however, when guests start to arrive, and the arrival of his third option, Postmistress Mary Hearne, lures him back in. At the party, Churdles is none too pleased with his duties, not least because the uniform Thirza has him dressed in is far too big and he is forced to hold his pants up with one hand at all times. As each guest arrives, he pokes his head out of the parlor, shuts the door in their faces, jerks a thumb over one shoulder and calls out the names, then lets them in. Everyone who is anyone seems to be at this gathering. A woman with several children sits as close as possible to the food table and seems poised to drink the lion’s share of the available tea supplies while she pesters the long-suffering village doctor for free medical advice. The parson arrives with his mother, who is seated in a large bath chair, and Churdles struggles gainfully to muscle the unwieldy thing down the stairs and into the already crowded room without dumping the old lady on the floor.

Eventually a group of glee singers appears and everyone wanders out into the garden. Sweetland lures Mary back inside and goes about his now well-practiced routine of awkwardly proposing. She laughs at him outright and he lets loose an impressive stream of insults in her direction which sends her into hysterics and draws everyone back inside. Thirza, overwhelmed by the disastrous outcome of her party, faints right into Churdles, who for a moment can’t seem to decide whether he should let her drop to the ground, or his pants. Thirza’s emotional maid, not to be outdone, pitches a fit, and the whole room dissolves into chaos.

The tea party is the comedic climax of the film, and at this point things should move swiftly to a satisfactory resolution, but there is still a third of the movie left. Upon overhearing Churdles tell ‘Minta how ashamed he is of his master’s behavior, Sweetland resolves to move on to the final name on his list: Mercy Bassett, barmaid at the village pub. Sweetland added her to his list “for luck,” and she is a character we haven’t run into thus far. This whole sequence feels like an afterthought all the way around. When he arrives in town, a large foxhunt is about to begin and his courtship is inter-cut with shots of the ongoing chase (clever, that). Dejected after the final rejection (which happens off-screen), Sweetland returns home to ponder everything that has happened. Once again he imagines each of the women he has courted sitting across from him in his wife’s old chair, but this time, when they all disappear, he sees ‘Minta sitting right in front of him. It hits him like a thunderbolt that she was the one all along (finally). He hasn’t failed to learn a few lessons from the other women, and his proposal to ‘Minta is characterized by an uncharacteristic tone of humility.

He sends her upstairs to put on a nice dress and several people just happen to show up (on her way, ‘Minta runs into Churdles, who is shocked by the news). Mary Hearne, upon hearing from Thirza Tapper that she wasn’t the only one Sweetland proposed to, changes her mind and comes to accept with Thirza in tow. The garrulous old man from the beginning arrives with a perfect candidate in mind. Sweetland shushes them all and invites them to sit down for a drink with his new intended. When ‘Minta appears, the postmistress goes into hysterics again and everyone shares a toast in honor of the bride-to-be.

This synopsis is overlong, but so is the movie itself. It should be apparent that, while it possesses an undeniable charm, there is simply not enough substance to justify the runtime. Note that the events of the preceding two paragraphs take a full forty minutes to play out. With a tighter control on the length, this could be a recognizably great silent effort. As it stands, it is still a fine piece of work (if trivial) and worth seeing. This is Hitchcock finding ways to translate a dialogue-heavy stage play into a story that relies entirely on visuals without losing entertainment value, something he had largely failed to do with his previous adaptations for Gainsborough. Comedy is far more congenial than melodrama to a setting that is pruned of dialogue and to appreciation by audiences of both current and future generations.

The camerawork in The Farmer’s Wife is noticeably more mobile and free than in Hitchcock’s earlier films. Cameras during this period were still quite bulky, and many of the techniques and equipment that allowed certain types of shots had not yet been developed. However, Hitchcock was always pushing to be on the cutting edge of what could be accomplished technically with camera movement and positioning. One can see shots from interesting angles beginning even with his first films, but these still remain almost entirely static. In The Farmer’s Wife we begin to see some of the first hints of a more kinetic energy to the filming: some tracking, panning, zooming in and out. There isn’t a lot of it, but it’s there.

Next Week: Hitchcock breaks out the bubbly

Posted in Hitchcock, Scholarship

“A friend of yours?”
“. . . a tall, rich man!”
“I think the prize at the booth should have been this charming bride.”
“It seems as though I shall have to fight for my wife, after all.”
“I’d be training for a divorce if I left her here!”
“The fight – did you lose, then?”
“Jack . . . I’m with you . . . in your corner.”
“Look what I found at the ring-side, Guv’nor.”

–The Ring

By the time Hitchcock had completed Downhill and Easy Virtue in 1927, Gainsborough was becoming the “B” movie factory while sister studio Gaumont-British (which started as a subsidiary of the prestigious French Gaumont Film Company) produced more quality fare. Meanwhile, a man named John Maxwell had just started a brand-new film company, British Internation Pictures, and one of his first moves was to bag Britain’s most famous up-and-coming director. After being assigned to two notably inferior stage-to-screen adaptations with Gainsborough in a row, Hitchcock jumped at a promise of higher budgets and greater artistic control. His first film for BIP was The Ring, which he not only directed but wrote himself (his only silent without Eliot Stannard). It is the only film of which he is the sole and original screenwriter (Alma, of course, contributed, but is uncredited). His last two movies for Gainsborough were held for release until after The Ring came out (hence Easy Virtue is a 1928 film, even though Hitch completed it before he began work on 1927’s The Ring).

The Ring is a melodrama in which the jealousy and petty rivalry of a love triangle plays out amidst the world of heavyweight boxing. “One-Round” Jack Sander (Carl Brisson, a genuine boxing champion) is a carnival boxer who earns his living by sparring (and winning) against all comers while his girlfriend Mabel (Lillian Hall-Davis) sells tickets at the door. One day, Australian heavyweight champion Bob Corby (Ian Hunter) shows up looking for a sparring partner. Without revealing his identity, he goes into the ring with Jack and beats him, but is impressed enough by the other boxer’s skill (and by the beauty of his girl) to hire him. Jack, who now feels like he’s really going places, marries Mabel. What he doesn’t know is that Bob has already planted the seed of infidelity in Mabel’s heart, and the two become increasingly chummier under Jack’s broken-hearted gaze. To win back the love of his wife, Jack must enter the league himself and box his way to a climactic championship showdown with Bob.

Humor plays such a large role in the movie that, during the first half, it is much more comedy than drama. A large portion of the film’s broad humor is concentrated in a single character: Jack’s trainer (played by Gordon Harker). This dour fellow (whose face is vaguely reminiscent of Buster Keaton) is hilarious whenever he is on-screen, though he also takes good care of Jack and frequently shows more common sense than his boss. The guy just looks funny, much like the great silent comedy stars of the day. I could discuss the humor of his scenes and the way they are filmed at great length (although a great deal of it rests in his priceless facial expressions), but I’ll settle for describing only two.

In the opening fight sequence, Jack is shown beating everyone who steps into the ring with him quickly and easily. His first opponent, a tough-looking sailor, hands his coat to the Harker character and steps out of the frame. A few seconds later, he stumbles backward, almost too woozy to accept his coat and return to his seat. When Bob enters the ring, we watch from the same camera angle as Harker confidently places the coat on a hanger and Bob steps out of the frame. Without looking up, Harker immediately detaches the coat and holds it up with immense satisfaction to give back . . . only to see Bob giving Jack the business. His mouth drops comically open and he nearly drops the coat.

As the fight continues into the second round, Harker never bothers to rehang the coat, finally throwing it carelessly over a post and leaving the hanger dangling from the ropes nearby. When Bob returns, victorious, Harker removes his gloves sullenly, and hops the ropes to go see Jack. Bob, noticing the treatment his coat received, grabs up the hanger and slips the hook into the back of Harker’s pants, leaving it for him to discover a few moments later.

The wedding sequence, too, is played heavily for laughs (perhaps a subtle reference to the fact that the marriage is a joke, but probably not). The reverend is humorously shocked by the odd assortment of people filing into his church (including a giant, who plops down directly in front of a much shorter fellow, and a pair of Siamese twins). Once the ceremony is underway, Harker becomes bored by the proceedings, staring slack-jawed off into space and picking at his nose. Unfortunately, he’s the best man and needs to provide the ring. As his friends from the carnival crack up behind him, he searches for it for several seconds, only to drop it on the floor (comically, but also portentously). At the reception, he proceeds to gorge himself on chicken and then literally drinks himself under the table.

The most fascinating aspect of The Ring, however, is not its extensive use of humor, but its recurring visual and narrative references to various types of “rings.” In this respect it displays the most sophisticated degree of thematic unity that Hitchcock had yet achieved. The title most obviously refers to the boxing ring (which is, of course, square) where both Bob and Jack make their living and where they will finally face off over Mabel. However, it is also connected with two objects: the wedding ring which seals Mabel’s marriage to Jack and a fancy golden arm bracelet which Mabel wears as a sign of her commitment to Bob.

Furthermore, rings and circular shapes of all kinds are key in nearly every scene. The film opens with a shot of a large circular drum, followed by one of a ride where people dangling from harnesses are swung round in a circle. In fact, the carnival is full of circular rides and tents. Mabel sells a large roll of tickets to the first bout between Jack and Bob. An old gypsy lays out a ring of playing cards to tell Mabel her fortune (that she can expect the attentions of a tall, wealthy man . . . of course, the crafty woman has already spied Bob presenting the bracelet just outside the window of her wagon). A gong (the bell that signals the beginning and end of the rounds) and a stopwatch are featured prominently in the suspenseful final match.

Bob’s bracelet has the most ubiquitous screen presence of the various rings. Bob presents it to Mabel several hours after he beats her intended at the carnival, having bought it out of the money he won in the fight. The bracelet, shown in a close-up when Bob first pulls it out, is shaped like a coiled snake. As he slides this “bangle” nearly up to her shoulder (a nakedly sexual act), it is impossible not to think of original sin and the temptation of Eve by the serpent in the Garden of Eden. It is perhaps among the most subtle indicators of adultery to ever slip past the censors. There is a fantastic transitional shot in this scene as well; the camera films a close-up of Jack sealing the job agreement with Bob’s manager and the scene suddenly becomes a close-up of Bob slipping the bracelet onto Mabel’s wrist.

At first Mabel is ashamed of the present (but unwilling to take it off) and covers it with her hand when her fiance is around. When he eventually discovers it she tries to twist the truth, saying it is as though he gave it to her, since his loss provided the winnings from the carnival boss to pay for it. She never takes it off, and it is a constant visual reminder of her divided loyalties right up to the final scene.

The boxing match between Bob and Jack at the end is (as it should be) the most impressively-filmed and exciting scene in the movie. It lasts about eight minutes, not counting the introductory build-up to the beginning of round one as the boxers prepare in their respective rooms and then emerge to the roar of the crowd. Hitchcock wisely avoids spending much time on any other fights until this point so that, by the time it arrives, we haven’t wearied of boxing already and he can concentrate his significant reserve of technical skill on bringing this one to life. After the initial match at the carnival (most of which is spent focused on the reactions of the onlookers) and some practice sparring, Jack advances to the championship off-screen. His rise in the ranks is displayed via a brief montage as his name climbs steadily higher in the fight listings.

The closer Jack gets to the championship round, the closer his wife gets to Bob. Things come to a head between them on the night he wins the semi-final fight. Jack brings several old friends from the carnival home to celebrate, but finds that Mabel is not at home. Assuring the others she’ll be back soon, he pours the champagne but won’t let them drink until she arrives. Of course, he is mortified when she never shows and his friends finally leave. She finally comes home late from a night on the town with Bob, and she and Jack quarrel violently. He grabs at her and tears her dress, revealing once more the accursed arm bracelet, and she runs off to lock herself in the bedroom. Jack, infuriated and no longer content to vent by picturing Bob while he works out, goes out looking for his rival and decks him in a nightclub. When he returns home he finds that Mabel has moved out.

On the night of the big fight, Mabel shows up to watch (unbeknownst to Jack) and sits ring-side in Bob’s corner. As the fight gets underway, Hitch uses a quick-cutting mix of shots to lend the scene a frenzied kinetic energy, jumping to a variety of distances and angles as the men swing at each other. A few times he employs a midst-of-the-action POV shot, replacing one boxer with the camera as the other swings and jabs at the screen. There are also several shots of the crowd, from the enthusiastic groundlings to the wealthier, better-dressed spectators in private boxes. There are even a few shots of cameramen, filming the fight from the rafters.

The two opponents seem much more evenly matched than at their first meeting. Then, in the midst of a grapple, Jack locks eyes with Mabel over Bob’s shoulder (the camera zooming in dramatically on her face). Distracted and open, he takes a solid punch to the face and drops to the mat. We experience the fall from his perspective, with a slightly fuzzed shot of the bright overhead lights as he struggles to his feet. The second round goes much worse for Jack, who is obviously none too steady by this point. Before long he is down again, barely getting up in time. After narrowly staying in the fight, he collapses in the corner so his team can try to revive him. Mabel has been agitated since they first exchanged looks in the first round, and throughout round two she is involuntarily on her feet circling for a better view.

As Jack swoons in the corner, she rushes to his side, kissing him and declaring that now she’s in his corner. He’s too out of it to notice until, sagging to the side, he spots her reflection in a pail of water. Her support completely revives him, and he returns to the fight with renewed strength and vigor. Now it’s Bob’s turn to be distracted. Spotting Mabel cheering from Jack’s corner, he leaves himself open to a knock-out punch. Jack is the victor! Knowing when he’s beaten, Bob smiles benignly as Jack reclaims his wife. Mabel finally gets rid of her bracelet before embracing Jack whole-heartedly. Cut backstage where Bob is getting dressed after the fight. An assistant walks in carrying the bracelet and hands it to him. He wryly tosses it back and finishes buttoning up his collar . . . the end.

There is a great deal both to like and dislike about The Ring. The story is very uneven, and frequently allows itself to be distracted from the central narrative to take advantage of opportunities for irrelevant (if rather funny) comedy. Furthermore, the central premise (that anyone would feel the need to fight for a woman as shallow and unfaithful as Mabel) is crucially flawed. Her character, as the sole substantial representative of the gender, is portrayed so unfavorably and unrealistically as to border on misogynistic.

On the positive side, it is immediately obvious that Hitch is working with more resources than he had previously enjoyed. The images are crisp and clear, large crowds are employed in various scenes, and he is able to make use of a variety of locations, including the famed Albert Hall for the final boxing match. What this film lacks in its storytelling technique, it makes up in bravura technical skill.

The Ring was quite well-received, both by the public and the critical community, in contrast to Hitchcock’s previous two films. The British film business was just starting to boom, and he went on to make several more films for British International Pictures, continuing to hone his craft and trying out new ideas on a few more silent films before making the transition to sound.

Next Week: Hitchcock tries a new genre

Posted in Hitchcock, Scholarship

“I must ask you to repeat your statement with regard to this decanter.”
“Is that the notorious Mrs. Filton?”
“I love you – that’s all that matters.”
“It’s funny. I thought you’d be dark and foreign-looking!”
“Sarah’s here!”
“John – who is this woman you have pitchforked into the family?”
“In our world we do not understand this code of easy virtue.”
“Shoot! There’s nothing left to kill.”

–Easy Virtue

Upon its initial release, The Lodger was of course regarded as a Novello picture rather than a Hitchcock film. Ivor Novello, star of Hitchcock’s first big hit, was much more than a screen actor during his heyday in the 1920s. Quite the fascinating character in his own right, he had written a hit patriotic song in 1917 entitled “Keep the Home Fires Burning” (odd, considering he is supposed to have had a brief affair with caustic anti-war poet Siegfried Sassoon, but that is neither here nor there). Novello proceeded to take both stage and screen by storm, and, as it happens, he was also a prolific playwright.

Novello’s play Downhill (co-written with Constance Collier) would be the source of Hitchcock’s follow-up to The Lodger. It is the tragic story of an honorable young man who comes to ruin after he takes the fall for a school chum’s scandalous behavior. As for Novello himself, the title aptly describes the remainder of his career. He went to Hollywood briefly a few years later, but couldn’t get a leading man gig (“too English”). MGM stuck him on script-doctoring work instead, where (among other things) he penned the immortal line “Me Tarzan. You Jane.” By this time, Hitchcock’s star was on the rise, and Novello’s was in decline. He died of coronary thrombosis in 1951, and is not much remembered today.

Unfortunately, while not as lost as The Mountain Eagle, Downhill is currently devilish hard to come by in America. The only existing DVD releases to date have originated in Europe (which would require a special player). This is one of two “major” Hitchcock films which I will be forced to pass over for this reason. Fortunately, though I obviously have no intention of skipping “inferior” Hitchcock in favor of his better, more well-known films, Downhill is reportedly the one to miss if you had to pick. The movie was almost universally reviled upon its release, and it is among that select group that Hitch would have liked very much to disown when looking back in later years.

It’s probably not as bad as all that, but maybe believing that it is will help me get over the existence of a Hitchcock film that I have no opportunity to see. Should it someday become available on this side of the pond (likely) or should I stumble across a downloadable copy on the internet (not ideal, but quite likely), I will add an appendix (or perhaps an apocrypha . . . I like the sound of that) to this project. On a more positive note, skipping Downhill and its rare cousin allows me an opening for a discussion of Hitchcock’s television work later down the line. How’s that for a silver lining?

Downhill was not the last time Hitchcock would be talked into a flop by an actor. However, while he didn’t learn that lesson right away, one has to sympathize with what his feelings must have been when Gainsborough gave him his next assignment: an adaptation of Noel Coward’s Easy Virtue. From all indications, the film version of Easy Virtue played very much like the film version of Downhill, but with a tragic heroine rather than a hero. Now, I know nothing about Ivor Novello as a playwright, but I know Coward. The playwright is widely well-regarded for his razor-sharp dialogue, which makes his work a natural fit for silent film, right? Even Michael Balcon would later regret the decision to bring Coward’s plays to the screen before sound could accompany them.

Easy Virtue follows the trials and tribulations of Larita Filton (Isabel Jeans), an innocent woman who finds herself at the center of a scandal involving abuse, adultery, attempted murder and suicide. The whole sordid affair takes the British media by storm when it spills out in a messy divorce trial. Larita, disgraced and divorced but still fairly wealthy, flees to the south of France to hide from the fallout and try to forget everything. By the picturesque shores of the Mediterranean, she meets and falls in love with young John Whittaker (Robin Irvine), a fresh-faced young fellow whose family has a large country estate. They are married and return to the ancestral manse, where John’s mother develops an immediate distaste for Larita. Mrs. Whittaker (Violet Farebrother) makes her daughter-in-law’s life a living hell, but there is worse yet to come. The Whittakers have not yet connected Larita with her dark past.

The film begins in a courtroom, and most of the story it has to tell is packed in right here at the beginning. Hitch burns most of his fun camera tricks right up front, as well. As a very poor substitute for the presumably snappier dialogue of the stage version, Easy Virtue throws literal walls of text at the screen in its intertitles, not just here but throughout the production. In fact, the opening shot is of a densely-worded legal document. The judge presiding over the hearing looks up from the brief to stare grimly at the camera before we follow his gaze to the rest of the courtroom. Hitch employs the same gimmick here that he used at the beginning of The Pleasure Garden, although in this case it’s the nearsighted judge whose monocle brings images into focus. The subtext of this scene, in contrast to the creepy voyeurism of the earlier film, is an indication that justice is as blind as its presiding representative.

Larita is in the dock, getting grilled by her husband’s counsel (Ian Hunter) and her story runs something like this: When it all began, she was sitting for a portrait by a young, famous and talented artist named Claude Robson. Over the course of the artistic process, he began to grow rather fond of her. Her husband is a drunken lout, and physically abusive besides, and Claude pities his client’s plight. Allowing his pity to grow into love, he writes her a passionate letter and the next time she comes to sit for him he makes advances.

She is in the process of rejecting him gently when her husband appears at an inopportune moment. As Claude backs away, Mr. Filton advances threateningly with his cane. Here things get a bit crazy. Claude pulls a handgun out of a drawer and plugs Filton, who falls to the floor after whaling on the artist with his cane for a few seconds. Larita rushes to his side while the maid runs for help. As the police arrive, Claude (who seems to be pretty well out of his head by this point) shoots himself. Filton makes a full recovery, but is convinced his wife was two-timing him. Unfortunately for Larita’s credibility, Claude has left all of his money to her.

The story is told in several pieces, cutting between the lawyer’s questions (and the court’s reaction to the answers), and flashbacks to the actual events via a series of clever transitions. Most of the transitions hinge around various pieces of evidence, as though these objects maintain some sort of psychic link with the events of the past. However, the most skillfull visual device in the scene has the judge’s swinging monocle transform into a swinging pendulum and back again to indicate the passage of time in the story. Having heard all of the evidence, and all too willing to entertain the most scandalous of possibilities, the jury finds Larita guilty of misconduct. Her reputation in tatters, she exits the building and walks right into a pack of predatory paparazzi photographers.

Speaking of feral cameramen, there is an interesting leitmotif attached to Larita’s character throughout Easy Virtue. Lenses of various kinds: monocles, cameras (note the silhouette behind the opening titles above), and even one unique shot through a tennis racquet all point to a warping of Larita’s true image by everyone around her. People cannot see her for who she really is, they can only see her through the distorting lens of their own presuppositions. The artificiality of outward perceptions is further reinforced by images of Larita’s portrait and shots of her reflection in various mirrors.

Unwilling to face the attentions of the press, she leaves England and takes up residence in a hotel under an assumed name, praying that no one will recognize her and she will be left alone. However, as she suns herself by the tennis courts one morning (and, really, what a silly place to sit) John Whittaker beans her in the face with a ball. He is mortified and frightfully apologetic, and demands that she allow him to tend to her wound (an unsightly bruise). Hitchcock’s cameo zips by right before the meet-cute takes place. He strolls past Larita with a walking stick and slips out through a gap in the hedge next to her. Had he dawdled a few more seconds, the ball would have hit him instead and he might have been able to alter the course of the plot in a more interesting direction (but that’s hardly a productive observation, is it?).

Larita and John whizz through a whirlwind courtship, and before long, on a long carriage ride amidst the beautiful Mediterranean scenery, he pops the question. She declines to answer right away, promising to telephone him later on. This slight delay prompts my absolute favorite scene in the movie, and one of the most imaginative and unconventional touches Hitchcock’s early career had yet produced. Late that night, Larita calls John up to give him her answer.

Now, rather than show us the conversation by cutting back and forth between the two participants or resorting to a more complex overlay or split-screen shot and a crude “Yes” or “No” title card, Hitchcock relays the whole exchange through the reactions of the bored switchboard operator who connects the call. At first she barely looks up from her book, but after a few seconds she is staring off into space, wholly absorbed in eavesdropping on these two strangers. Her face changes from happy to surprised to anxious and back again so many times that one can hardly imagine what Larita can be saying , but the expressions are so priceless that one hardly cares. At any rate, an immensely satisfied look and a hand to the heart at the end of the scene tells us everything we need to know.

The newlyweds head back to John’s “people” and Larita has great hopes for a new and happier life. Mr. Whittaker turns out to be all right and John’s two sisters are welcoming enough at first, but Mother Whittaker is a frightening hag of a woman whose severe gaze could curdle fresh milk. She is as menacing a mother-figure as appears (almost) anywhere in Hitchcock’s films. And just to add an extra layer of awkward to the situation, Mrs. Whittaker has invited Sarah, the woman she always wanted John to marry, over for dinner.

The dining room, decorated with medieval paintings of saints (possibly even Christ and his disciples), is terrifying. It’s a wonder anyone can eat in such a room. Actually, all of the interiors in Easy Virtue are noticeably minimalist . . . either extremely cheap or daringly expressionistic, take your pick. Knowing Hitchcock, he probably killed two birds with one stone by accommodating both. The courtroom, the artist’s studio, the French hotel, and even the Whittaker estate are all clearly low-budget sets, but they are undeniably striking and functional in a stagy sort of way.

Life at the Whittaker home proves to be quite oppressive, and Larita is quietly miserable there, chain-smoking cigarettes as she buries herself in thick books whenever possible. Throughout these scenes at the Whittaker estate, Larita’s costumes feature trailing scarves, over-sized fans, and various other accessories that drag, dangle and trail in her wake. Despite her desperation to keep her emotional baggage under wraps, the truth about her past follows her everywhere she goes, both visually and psychologically. Mrs. Whittaker immediately suspects her of hiding something, and it is only a matter of time before these suspicions are confirmed.

Larita senses that her time is growing short when her ex-husband’s lawyer turns out to be an old family friend, but in the end he isn’t the one that rats her out. Mrs. Whittaker and one of her daughters make the connection themselves, digging up an old photo of her in the gossip rags they keep around the house. By this time, John has already been growing steadily indifferent towards Larita, his affections poisoned by his mother despite Sarah’s best attempts to talk him into standing by his wife. She turns out to be a rather decent sort, after all . . . either that or she’s just grateful to Larita for saving her from a mother-in-law worse than death.

The Whittakers make their fateful discovery on the afternoon before a big party, and Mrs. Whittaker all but orders Larita to keep to her room while the guests are around. The old crone peddles the excuse that her daughter-in-law has “one of her headaches” to any guest that inquires, but Larita has ideas of her own. She waits until everyone has arrived and then makes a grand entrance that stops the party dead in its tracks while everyone watches her slow, measured descent down the stairs. Mrs. Whittaker rushes forward quickly to cover her tail, “So your headache’s better, my dear?” But Larita is having none of it. “Headache? I haven’t had a headache,” she coolly replies before sweeping past.

Crashing the party proves to be a final, meaningless act of defiance. Larita tells Sarah later that evening that she intends to go away and accept a divorce without making a fuss. Heartbroken once more and dressed in funereal black, she sits in the nearly empty balcony of the courtroom as the same judge presides over the case. A lone reporter recognizes her and rushes out to inform his colleagues that the “notorious” Mrs. Filton is present. The paparazzi is waiting when she comes out, but this time she reacts differently. Striking a ridiculous pose, she covers her heart with her hand and declares “Shoot! There’s nothing left to kill.”

“The worst title I ever wrote,” Hitchcock would later observe in a famous and lengthy interview with French critic and New Wave filmmaker François Truffaut. I cannot but agree. It is an over-the-top ending to a rather purposelessly somber piece of filmmaking. But try this on for size: A romantic courtship with someone who wants to forget their past life. A scandalous secret that threatens the couple’s new-found happiness. A menacing old country mansion ruled with an iron fist by a severe older woman. Does any of this sound familiar? Well, it should. Easy Virtue bears a surprising resemblance to Hitchcock’s first American film, the wildly successful adaptation of Daphne du Maurier’s best-selling Rebecca (which wouldn’t even be written for another decade). Although, in addition to the sinister Mrs. Danvers, Mrs. Whittaker also anticipates Norman Bates’ domineering mother figure. The differences between the two works are more numerous than the similarities, of course, but one has to wonder what Easy Virtue might have looked like with the addition of sound and that extra decade or so of experience Hitchcock had when he made Rebecca.

As it is, the result is watchable, but by no means likable. Of the films Hitchcock had made by this point, this one is easily the most deserving of a mocking commentary track running constantly in the background to keep things entertaining (which I happily provided). Still, to his credit, Hitch didn’t select or particularly care for the material he was assigned. Happily (at least in some respects), his next film would give him the opportunity to really call the shots and put the technical knowledge he was continuing to amass to full use.

Next Week: Hitchcock puts up his dukes

Posted in Hitchcock, Scholarship