Gone with the Wind (1939)

When it’s on: Sunday, 24 December (9.00 am)
Channel: Channel 5
IMDb Link

Gone with the Wind is a film lover’s film. There’s much about it that’s flawed and certainly a very great deal of material that appears woefully out of date. It’s too long, overly melodramatic, glassy eyed about a semi-remembered past that was far from happy for everyone involved, and its main characters aren’t even especially likeable. And yet, for all its shortcomings it may very well be the last word in romantic Hollywood movie making. Production levels were about as lavish as it was possible to get. The performances are universally fantastic, particularly the leads. The use of Technicolor is nothing less than exquisite, notably in the film’s first half bathing the Old South in soft, fleshy tones that give way to the red and orange tinted violence of the approaching Civil War. Clearly, making the picture was the definition of a labour of love, a drive by all involved, from producer David O Selznick downwards, to honour Margaret Mitchell’s bestselling novel in suitable fashion, and the result is a feast for the senses.

A couple of years ago I got the opportunity to see it on the big screen. For once, it was the chance to catch a movie like Gone with the Wind in the way it was meant to be exhibited, with all those real life  problems left outside the cinema and escaping into the idealised world presented to us… Of course it should always be like that, but this is one of those films in which you can really lose yourself. It’s nearly four hours long, much of it scored by Max Steiner’s elaborate music, which weaves in a string of tunes recalling the patriotic surge from the American Confederacy prior to and during the Civil War.  The production is sumptuous from start to finish, whilst its narrative can find resonance with just about every viewer, in particular the main plotline depicting the fall and rise of its ‘heroine’, Scarlett O’Hara, all her imperfections laid bare on the screen as her innate indomitability prevents her from falling into despair and ruin, and makes her a character just about worth cheering on. Watching Scarlett in self-absorbed action, you know Melanie is the film’s real champion, that Rhett deserves better and that a future with Ashley would be no future at all, yet she’s performed with such gusto and the camera loves her to such an extent that you end up cheering on this really quite awful woman as she pushes, schemes and cheats her way towards some ever-elusive goal. She might, to borrow a quote from Oliver Stone’s Nixon, be the darkness reaching out for the darkness, but rarely has ‘the darkness’ been this much of a joy to watch.

Mitchell’s original novel was a saga about well heeled families in Georgia on the cusp of the Civil War, the conflict that ruins their wealth and way of life, and what happens next. It was a runaway hit, optioned by Selznick as soon as it was published (despite Val Lewton, then a staff member at the studio, saying it was a bad idea) and taking three years to bring to the screen. The book was so popular that speculation about the adaptation was an ever present companion. Fans followed the tales of endless casting sessions, the search for the perfect Scarlett that seemed to take in just about every young actress available at the time, the knowledge Selznick carried that Gone with the Wind was a potential millstone – get it wrong and feel the wrath of millions of readers. For such a notable perfectionist the production could have killed him, Selznick’s notoriety for constant revisions and meddling coming to the fore as he struggled over all aspects of its development. Writers came and went. Sidney Howard earns the main credit for the script and wisely refused to leave his farm in putting it together, putting him at a merciful distance from Selznick’s orbit, but this was a screenplay that kept being dabbled with, leading to the near chaos of Selznick making further amendments while filming took place. George Cukor was the original choice as director. He would be replaced with Victor Fleming, who ended up being one of a number of unit directors as the production had so much to shoot in its race to be completed.

And then there’s the casting. Clark Gable was the early favourite with book readers for the role of Rhett Butler, its morally ambiguous yet charismatic anti-hero, but he had major misgivings about accepting the part and only came fully on board with the recruitment of Fleming, a ‘man’s director’ who in sensibility was a close call for Butler himself and who put the actor instantly at ease. Vivien Leigh’s recruitment as Scarlett took the most convoluted of developments. Numerous A-List actors were considered – Bette Davies, Joan Crawford, Katharine Hepburn were the best known – and fascinating footage remains of the test screenings made with various people. In an alternative reality Scarlett could have been played by Lana Turner, whose test shows just how far she was from possessing the command required to fill the shoes of such a big character. Leigh was a relatively late consideration, due no doubt to the lack of knowledge about her in America. Her background, patrician English after a wealthy upbringing in colonial India, was about as far from Scarlett O’Hara as it was possible to be, and yet Leigh’s star was on the rise. A success on stage and making a fine transition to the screen in Fire Over England, she was just as famous for her real-life romance with Laurence Olivier, which would lead to the pair becoming for a time the world’s most famous couple. As difficult as it might be now to imagine anyone else playing Scarlett, for some time Leigh was an obscure outside bet, yet in hindsight most certainly the right choice and worth the Herculean effort they made in working towards her.

I’m not going to spend too much time here talking about what happens in the film. It’s one of cinema’s best known entries, something enjoyed by millions of people and while adjusted for inflation all-time box office lists throw up any number of variations, Gone with the Wind is invariably near the top.  Chances are you have already seen it, and if you haven’t then you’ll know Tara’s Theme, ‘Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn‘ and be likely to have a good impression of its arcs and themes – it is that famous. For many viewers it may be their favourite slice of cinema, an opinion I don’t share, indeed I wouldn’t even call it my choice of the year – in fairness, 1939 was famously a banner year for cinema, with the likes of Stagecoach, Goodbye Mr Chips and The Hound of the Baskervilles up there as personal selections.

It was certainly an enduring winner with audiences and the Academy however, until Ben-Hur remaining the record holder for the most Oscars won, a reflection of the sheer human and technical achievement it represents, and certainly on the latter score it’s a marvel. The fire in Atlanta, heralding the arrival of Sherman’s Union army, was achieved when the crew burned down sets and props from previous MGM productions; that enormous structure collapsing in flames was in a past life the massive gates from which Fay Wray was tied up in anticipation of King Kong‘s arrival. This was shot months in advance of the rest of the production, the scenes featuring the actors added in later. One of the film’s most enduring scenes shows Scarlett staring aghast into a street filled with injured and dead Confederate soldiers, thousands of them, a moment demanding more extras than the production could source, meaning some of the wounded were dummies with limbs that could be artificially moved. The complicated crane shot had to pick up the sea of human victims and come to rest with the tattered Confederacy flag in the foreground, ensuring that none of Culver City, which lay just beyond the set, was accidentally shown. Occasionally, the technical trickery doesn’t quite work. One shot has party-goers driving in their coaches along the long drive to the Twelve Oaks ranch, but they start to vanish and become translucent as the footage is spliced into the the separate image behind.

The film isn’t without its controversy, especially for current audiences. The Old South was notoriously a slave-owning culture, and its ‘darkies’ can be seen happily at work, almost certainly a depiction of the good treatment meted out at Scarlett’s home of Tara but giving little impression of the horrors suffered by slaves as a matter of routine. Scenes depicting the Klansmen were edited out, avoiding comparisons with the difficulties watching The Birth of a Nation and certainly a good thing. Selznick ordered a production that was for its time sensitive to black people, though it still leaves an uncomfortable taste, notably in its setting of Scarlett’s world as a lost paradise, an idyll that can never return in the aftermath of the Civil war, while clearly it wasn’t so for all its denizens. In the film’s favour, this is the South as seen from its heroine’s perspective, a young woman who in its early scenes is very much still a child with a lot of growing up to do, and her feelings about Rhett are also made clear here. While everyone grows excited about the prospects of war and the opportunities for gallantry it represents, only Butler, hardened and cynical, says openly that the Union will win. It’s a jaded, real world view that’s obviously right, backed up with cold facts rather than romance and honour, but it jars with the audience and with Scarlett, who’s both fascinated with Rhett and repulsed by him.

The work by Leigh and Gable aside, there’s some excellent support from Olivia de Havilland and Hattie McDaniel. The former eschews much of the glamour and beauty associated with her usual roles to play the delicate, ailing Melanie, Scarlett’s love rival for the favours of Ashley Wilkes (Leslie Howard). As Mammy, Tara’s house servant and peddler of pearls of earthy wisdom, McDaniel is absolutely memorable, with a tough veneer that cracks sparingly but those moments, when they come, are earned. Thomas Mitchell is reliable and idiosyncratic as Scarlett’s father, doomed to madness as his safe world collapses around him, and there’s a sensitive performance from Ona Munson as Belle, in the film’s early scenes a ‘fallen woman’ who secretly loves Rhett and would probably have made the better match with him, if he hadn’t in turn spent the film’s running time chasing Scarlett in this ever-spiralling game of ill-fated loves and obsessions. If there is a duff note then it’s Howard’s Ashley, not a fault of the actor but a role in which he’s tasked to play the stolid, spectacularly dull symbol of the South’s virtue. Unlike Leigh, Howard does little to cover his British accent and in terms of raw charisma and spark is effortlessly relegated into second billing by Gable. This makes something of a mockery of Scarlett’s enduring obsession with him – he just doesn’t stand up next to the mustachioed main man, but then Gone with the Wind is a film of tragedies and this is just one of them.

In the end it’s possible to see it as both a long-winded and a very long bore. It tells of a world that no longer exists, told at a time that similarly belongs in the past, and a number of the concerns expressed in the film have little relevance today. And yet it’s the sort of picture that demands that everyone watches it at least once. The first reason is for its rightful status as a cinematic landmark, something that utterly captivated contemporary audiences and is still exhibited on big screens, particularly in its ‘home town’ of Atlanta, which is no mean feat for a work that’s pushing eighty years old. There’s also a timeless quality to it, a strange statement to make of a story about the long lost Old South, yet the characters of Scarlett and Rhett, both selfish and far from heroic, have swathes of fascinating nuance, look great, and are perfectly played. Finally, for film lovers there’s simply too much to enjoy here. If for no other reason then for those iconic shots of characters in silhouette, filmed against the kind of painterly vanilla skies you never see in real life, it’s a beautiful looking movie, a testament to Fleming’s direction and the painstaking production values by Selznick. The latter, credited for a number of wildly successful film offerings and remembered as a neurotic meddler in his studio’s projects, was never better rewarded for his relentless work ethic and eye for detail than he was here, and when it comes to rendering personal visions onto the grandest stage possible that’s something worth celebrating.

Gone with the Wind: ****

Spellbound (1945)

When it’s on: Tuesday, 30 December (12.45 am, Wednesday)
Channel: BBC2
IMDb Link

Women make the best psychoanalysts until they fall in love. After that they make the best patients.

A confession. I had pencilled Spellbound in for today’s write-up whilst not looking forward to it very much and wondering whether to choose something else, something easier, instead. There’s a temptation to deride it, Alfred Hitchcock’s massive hit from 1945 that was mimicked and parodied to death in the following years, an exploration of psychoanalysis that comes with its fair share of moments that today come across as very nearly laughable, framed within a fine and entertaining drama.

At its heart, Spellbound is a noirish thriller, covering themes of psychological guilt that would become a staple of the genre, only here it’s dressed up with layers of prestige – Hitchcock behind the camera, David O Selznick producing, psychiatric advisers attached to give the impression of authenticity, a large budget and the presence of two consummate A-list actors at their most beautiful. It was inspired by a novel, The House of Dr Edwardes, though very little remains from it save some character names and the concept of power held by psychiatrists, which is presumably what drove Hitchcock to purchase the filming rights.

Made for Selznick International Pictures as part of the director’s outstanding contractual obligations, Hitchcock and Selznick clashed constantly – think two able and controlling men exercising their own agendas and demanding overall hold over the project. The latter’s positive experiences of psychiatry meant that he wanted it to be treated as a serious science, ordering a Shakespearean quote to be added to the credits in order to enhance its credibility, as well as the advisers being on set. It was Selznick who wanted the impressionistic ‘doors opening’ sequence as Ingrid Bergman realises she is in love with Gregory Peck, the doors of perception flying open, though it looks gimmicky now and Hitchcock preferred the actors to convey the emotions without having the extra – and rather obvious – meaning tacked on for viewers. As for Hitch, it would appear he treated the whole deal as props for a thrilling plot, adding his trademark visual flair (the glass of milk sequence, the disembodied hand turning the loaded gun back towards the camera) and championing the film’s famous dream scene that was designed as a surreal nightmare by Salvador Dali.

The plot follows psychiatrist, Dr Constance Peterson (Bergman), academic and aloof, who is preparing to see the back of the asylum’s head, Dr Murchison (Leo G Carroll) and welcome the arrival of his replacement, Dr Edwardes (Peck). Constance is a great admirer of Edwardes, in particular his published research, but is surprised to find that he’s much younger and better looking than she anticipated. Then things begin to unravel. Quickly, it’s established that Edwardes is himself psychologically disturbed; he can’t look at lines on a white background without suffering distress. Before too long it emerges that he isn’t the Doctor at all but an imposter, indeed he starts to believe he might have killed Edwardes and taken his place. What’s worse, if he is a murderer, then what’s to stop him from striking again, perhaps Constance or her mentor Dr Brulov (Michael Chekhov)? Edwardes, or ‘JB’ as he starts calling himself, flees to New York, followed by Constance who’s desperate to get to the root of his problems before anyone else gets hurt.

Taking any of this seriously is a stretch. Peck’s fits and starts at the sight of anything white that has lines running across it becomes hokey very quickly, particularly as Miklos Rosza’s score employs a theremin during these moments to emphasise the character’s deranged mood swings. Fortunately, the two leads have such instant chemistry and appeal together that the silliness takes second place to the sight of two very attractive and charismatic performers who look as though they want to rip each others’ clothes off whenever they’re together, the psychobabble buried beneath longing looks and touching. The pair had an affair during the production, the kind of fact that makes you want to exclaim ‘well, of course they did!’ as the spark between them is so obvious.

The film is probably best known now for its famous dream sequence, a creative collaboration between Hitchcock and Dali that essentially gave away the plot’s secrets, though it’s designed in such an oblique way that it only links with the revelations as these are exposed. Originally twenty minutes’ long, the scene was cut ruthlessly to a fraction of that running time by Selznick, removing much of its complexity and imaginative leaps, though what remains is powerful and visually arresting, the cutting of a painted eyeball with scissors, the appearance of a masked and malevolent club proprietor, the card game with its extra large playing cards and distorted camera angles to make the scene appear more dreamlike.

Almost as good is the evening meeting between JB and Brulov, at a moment in the film when the audience’s suspicions of the former are at their peak. Holding a switchblade razor, JB in a trancelike state, almost sleepwalking, goes to see Brulov in his study. Ignoring the razor, the middle-aged doctor fetches JB a glass of milk whilst the camera remains fixed on the blade, which remains in the forefront of the shot. We then see JB drink the milk, the camera’s perspective from his eyeline so that the glass moves into shot, then the liquid, Brulov emerging as the milk goes down. The viewers are left in doubt as to what happens next, until Constance wakes up the following morning and finds Brulov, prone, on his couch…

There’s no doubt that Spellbound has its moments, some great scenes that are well worth remembering and talking about; the film’s only moment of colour is a jarring flash of red that has real dramatic impact. But it’s flawed, deeply so, the product of a creatively profitable yet fundamentally clashing pair of personalities. Within Hitchcock’s canon it’s far from his best work, but it is interesting.

Spellbound: ***