The Wreck of the Mary Deare

The Wreck of the Mary Deare (Michael Anderson, 1959) It was intended to be an MGM production for Alfred Hitchcock—he'd liked the best-seller and he'd wanted to work with Gary Cooper since Foreign Correspondent in 1940—but screenwriter Ernest Lehman found it pretty dull with an extended, dry courtroom scene at the end, and the two decided to fulfill his real ambition—to make the "ultimate Hitchcock film"—which turned out to be North By Northwest.

We are all the better for it. 

As it is, The Wreck of the Mary Deare is an odd picture with a great mysterious opening and a dry-as-dust finale, try as scripter Eric Ambler and director Anderson might to make a suitable action closer to it.  In turbulent seas in the English Channel, a salvage tug, captained by John Sands (Charlton Heston), finds a ghost-freighter marooned and adrift, nearly colliding  and destroying his ship. Pulling alongside, Sands grabs a dangling line and laboriously clambers aboard. The rusting hulk, the Mary Deare, is without power, a large gash in its side that is slowly flooding the engine room, and with no sign of life on-board...at least initially.

One man has remained—First Officer Gerald Patch (Cooper), a merchant marine eking out an existence on the ship, which was recently abandoned, and desperately trying to scuttle it before it sinks of its own accord. The reason is not because he wants it to be salvaged; he needs it for evidence, but why is being kept a closely guarded secret. With the reluctant help of Sands, Patch gets the boiler-room going, the ship under power, and the Captain-by-default's mission accomplished.

All of which is great stuff—the conflicts, the questionable sanity of Patch, Sands' greediness in wanting to claim the salvage on the ship—which would have made a great film if it ended there. Unfortunately, that's only thirty minutes of it. It would have been a great short subject, though, but the movie trundles along over the investigation and trial over who owns the boat and the conflicting testimonies between Patch and the eventually-found crew (ring-leadered by Richard Harris, who can't seem to eke out an interesting performance from the material, try as he might).

Michael Anderson is no one's idea of an innovative director—and he started his career assisting David Lean and Carol Reed! His widescreen compositions look like they're meant to be cropped for a boxy television presentation, although he was known for taking elephantine projects—Around the World in 80 Days, Logan's Run—and making them as quickly and cheaply as possible, There is the sense watching his films that a creative presentation, rather than a practical one, was thought unnecessary—keep the focus, hit the marks, and, as far as lighting, make sure the audience can see the stars' faces.

Both Cooper and Heston are good, in what seems to be dueling portrayals of earnestness. But, ultimately, the secrets that Patch is keeping just aren't very interesting, and although some attempt is made to salvage it at the end, the movie is, like its namesake, something of a drifting hulk. 

Young Cassidy

Young Cassidy (Jack Cardiff, 1965) The titles say "Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer presents a John Ford Film." But John Ford only completed five minutes of it. Ford was 71 when he tackled what would be his last "Irish" film, based on "Mirror in My House", the autobiography of Irish playwright Sean O'Casey (Ford had directed a film of his The Plough and the Stars in 1938—the result of which, due to studio interference, neither the director or author liked—and Hitchcock directed Juno and the Paycock the same year). For the film's purposes, the author's name is changed to John Cassidy (O'Casey was born John Casey, but Gaelicized his pen name to Seán Ó Cathasaigh), but it's O'Casey's story, and first, Richard Harris, and then, Sean Connery were in line to play him in a cast that also included Julie Christie (ever so briefly, despite her prominence in the release poster), Edith Evans, Sian Phillips, Michael Redgrave (as W.B.Yeats), Maggie Smith and previous Ford players Flora Robson and Jack McGowran. Connery, however, was in the midst of his Bond commitment (between Goldfinger and Thunderball) and barely had time to squeeze in Hitchcock's Marnie. So Rod Taylor, an actor too under-appreciated for his consistently good work, took the role instead (and probably contributed a more accurate accent than Connery's Scottish burr), turning in what may be his best performance.

It's a good film with a great cast, and an unconventional script, and one wonders what it would have looked like if the septuagenarian Ford had not fallen ill and been replaced by The Archers' favorite cinematographer Jack Cardiff.* Ford prepared the film, after all, doing the location scouting all in advance of shooting, so there are touches here and there—shots of mourning women, lots of colorful townsfolk, a brutally rapacious pair of undertakers, and a subtle death scene all feel like Ford, even if the painterly framing is missing, replaced with something a little more fussy: for example, there's a worker's strike that Ford would have probably shot using a few master shots, whereas Cardiff's style is all inserts and quick shots ala Eisenstein. Still, the man got it completed at a moment's notice, something of a miracle. And as some of the film is centered around The Abbey Theater—whose company Ford used when casting his Irish films, the film is steeped in Ford's sense of Irishness.

The film follows Johnny Cassidy (Taylor)—laborer by day and pamphleteer by night, caring for his elderly mother (Robson) trying to improve their lot through hard work and political action, training with revolutionaries in the hills, but leaving when the concern is more about uniforms than tactics in fighting the British. Pubs are the center of activity for drinking and for the airing of grievances which can result in fisticuffs. At least it's in the neighborhood, as in the streets, the fighting gets serious and deadly. Cassidy takes solace in books, though his rough appearance is out of place in book-stores, which leads to a relationship with a clerk, Nora (Smith), who finds a living example of a book worth more than its cover indicates.

Through it all, Cassidy writes, both to celebrate and inspire the Irish working class, from pamphlets to newspaper articles and poems, getting published and then turning his attention to theater-plays, where he attracts the attention of The Abbey Theater and its artistic director, W.B. Yeats (Redgrave). But, Cassidy is conflicted: he wants to be a success as a writer, but as his world and his ambitions grow, they take him further and further from his roots. And that conflicts with his romance with Nora, who sees Cassidy's true spirit, but fears she may never be a part of it...not in a lasting way. 

The story, the cast, the locations are amazing. There is just a slight lack of lyricism to the enterprise that might have been readily apparent if things had been different on-set. There's just that element of magic that's missing that would have made this a must-see, instead of a pleasant movie-watching experience.

* Ford would complete one more film, the studio-bound 7 Women (featuring Anne Bancroft in a gender reversal of "the John Wayne role"), before Hollywood put him out to "Awards Pasture" where they say they honor you, but don't hire you ("We love ya, Pappy, and you made us a lotta money and Oscars, but we don't think you should make films anymore. Have a plaque.").

Ford said after this scene: "You son of a bitch Aussie," he said. "You made me cry. That's a wrap!"

Dead of Night (1945)

Dead of Night (Alberto Cavalcanti, Basil Dearden, Charles Crichton, Robert Hamer, 1945) British omnibus film from Ealing Studios where four stories of the bizarre are buttressed by a framing device of an architect (Mervyn Jones) invited to a country house that evokes an inescapable sense of déjà vu. 

At the house is a collection of strangers with odd stories: a race car driver who barely survives a crash and during a recovery has a strange dream involving a beckoning hearse and driver who says "just room for inside, sir"—a dream that has fateful repercussions later on; a girl (Sally Ann Howes) who recounts a strange encounter at a Christmas party; a woman who buys her fiancé an antiquated mirror with a mind—and a room—of its own; a whimsical tale of of two obsessed golf duffers (Basil Radford and Naunton Wayne) who wager for the affections of a woman over a match; and the last, featuring a ventriloquist (a bravura performance by Michael Redgrave) whose dummy wants to change the act's billing.

Anyone familiar with "The Twilight Zone" will have their own distinct sense of déjà vu watching Dead of Night—the race-driving story is remarkably similar to a Bennet Cerf story that was adapted by Serling as "Twenty Two;" the Christmas story echoes others; the ventriloquist story has been dummied about several times and not just on TZ. The stories have their own specific atmospheres that cling to their stories like shrouds, and Ealing proudly displays the collection of sets and artistry that made it one of the preeminent studios in Great Britain.

The stories are all decidedly set-bound with some quick outdoor scenes—it was wartime when the film was made and although the tone is fairly nightmarish (pluckily nightmarish), escapism from the rubble and the war news was the intent, and maybe a little tonic from "boogey-man-isms" by having a psychiatrist (Viennese, of course, played by Frederick Valk) popping the bubble of the story-tellers by trying to clinically explain things away. It provides a fine counter-balance (and a bit of straight-faced comic relief) to the tales of the supernatural, with their underpinnings of hysteria and mental imbalance. Fun, unsettling and meticulously done.

The Innocents (1961)

The Innocents (Jack Clayton, 1961) One of the truly great horror movies ever made, though without a drop of blood in sight. Director Jack Clayton's film of William Archibald's play (based on Henry James' "The Turn of the Screw"), with a polish by Truman Capote ("In Cold Blood"), and a final coat of lacquer by John Mortimer (the "Rumpole" series), is a creepily finessed horror story/psychological thriller depending on your point-of-view of the source of all the trouble at Bly estate. 

Miss Giddens is given her first governess job by "The Uncle" (Michael Redgrave), a cold bon-vivant, who wants her to "handle everything" and "leave me alone." Arriving at the country estate, she finds a world alive with life...and some dead stuff, too. Isolated and buttoned-up (she's minister's daughter) she starts to suspect that her young little charges are more than they seem to be, then is finally convinced that they are in the thrall of the dead care-takers previously employed. Deborah Kerr treads a fine line between gentility and hysteria (one wonders whether we're watching a ghost story or a manifestation of her own worst fears and desires), and Michael Redgrave, appearing briefly, is the coldest of rakes. The stars of the film, though, are little Martin Stephens (fresh from playing the lead child in Village of the Damned) and Pamela Franklin, she, vibrating like a thing possessed (well...) and he, all-stillness and eyes that are fathoms deep. There has rarely been two kids as quietly malevolent as these two. 

Then, too, are the presences of Peter Wyngarde (Britain's epitome of the degrading satyr) and Clytie Jessop, as the figments of Quint and Jessel, who have gone before as the caretakers of Flora and Miles, and, having died under mysterious circumstances, are merely ghostly presences. The image of Jessop, standing ethereally among the reeds of a lake still is one of the singularly creepy images in all of cinema for me. Freddie Francis did the outstanding deep-focus cinematography, and A.G. Ambler and John Cox, provided the ever-present sounds evocative of things both natural and not. 

Talk about the road to Hell being paved with good intentions...

The Innocents is a magnificent film—certainly one of the best among the usual low-hanging-fruit of the horror genre—beautiful to watch, even as it chills your heart and kills your hopes.

This was part of a series of reviews of the ASUW Film series back in the '70's. Except for some punctuation, I haven't changed anything from the way it was presented, giving the kid I was back in the '70's a break. Any stray thoughts and updates I've included with the inevitable asterisked post-scripts.

The Innocents (Jack Clayton, 1961) is based on Henry James' classic story "The Turn of the Screw" co-scripted for the screen by none other than Truman Capote. Both deal with the attempts of a nanny to break her two young charges of the possession imposed on them by their former nanny and the old gardener---both of whom died under mysterious circumstances. The beauty of the story is that it is never stated outright--the possession may just be a figment of the nanny's sexually repressed imagination. And Deborah Kerr's sometimes feverish performance adds support to this argument. Add to the other side of the argument the eerily mature performances by Martin Stephens and Pamela Franklin as the children. Ms. Franklin grew up to give equally mature and accomplished roles later in her career--her performance in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie rivalled the Oscar-winning one by Maggie Smith.

A great deal of the credit of The Innocents goes to director Jack Clayton who creates such a bloody eerie mood, in much the same way as Robert Wise did in The Haunting. Clayton also, I think, has a bird fetish. We were treated to a lot of cruddy birds in Clayton's over-produced, over-publicized, under-acted version of The Great Gatsby. But he does something neat here, there appear to birds all over the place--during the day, (and) at night, even. But you don't see them too often. They are merely a presence, like the two aberrations of the household. 

The horror is done so well, so subtly in The Innocents, as opposed to the atrociousness of The Exorcist. Who would have thought that the sight of a woman dressed in black, sitting among the reeds in the distant haze could throw such cold at your back and make the roots of your hair tingle? That's the beauty of The Innocents, it does so much with so little, but when it pulls the stops out, the effect is damn near devastating.

Broadcast on KCMU-FM on January 21, 1977