Category: 1939

Jean Renoir | 1hr 50min

The social conventions that govern the lives of Jean Renoir’s ensemble in The Rules of the Game may be binding laws within a certain stratosphere of French aristocracy, but they are to be taken with a grain of salt. These are arbitrary customs, designed to create the façade of honour and dignity, rather than truly encouraging the adoption of such lofty ideals. “I can’t run off with the wife of a host who calls me friend and shakes my hand without an explanation,” Andre explains to Christine, despite him spending much of the film prior to their conversation doing exactly this. “There are still rules.”

Perhaps then the most significant rule of all is one that is entirely unspoken – as long as the adultery and back-stabbing takes place away from the eyes of others, then this behaviour is perfectly acceptable. Renoir’s critique of such hypocrisy has a sharp edge to it, undercutting the egos that entangle themselves in a web of affairs over one weekend at the country estate La Colinière, owned by the Marquis de la Chesnaye, Robert. The irony that he himself is cheating with his mistress Geneviève is lost on him when he discovers hints of a romance between his wife, Christine, and his friend, Andre. Complicating matters further is the parallel drama unfolding among the servants of the estate, with Christine’s maid Lisette being sought after by both her jealous husband, Schumacher, and the newest worker to join the fray, Marceau.

Any pretensions that the upstairs folk of this estate are somehow more refined than those downstairs are thoroughly eroded in Renoir’s formal comparison. His deep focus serves an economic purpose here in shots that play out Christine’s drama in the foreground, while men squabble over Lisette’s heart in the background, drawing a hard line between the two social classes that should never romantically intermingle. Even when Robert eventually makes up with Andre, he confesses his relief that it was his friend who should almost steal his wife’s heart rather than anyone lower down, or else he may have suffered an even greater humiliation.

“I’m glad it’s with someone from our set.”

There is another more comedic purpose served by Renoir’s rich depth of field too though, underscoring the dramatic irony of his characters’ limited perspectives. As Schumacher furiously plots his victory over his wife’s new suitor, Lisette quietly beckons at a hidden Marceau to sneak out of the room. He tiptoes behind an oblivious Schumacher, nervously jumping at his indirect threats, though his stealthy efforts are for nothing when he inadvertently sends a bench of crockery crashing to the ground. Just as Renoir refuses to cut from his wide shot of the following chase weaving in and out of rooms, neither does he shift his frames of long hallways that diminish his characters into tiny figures, or the doorway which frames a frantic Robert pass by a trigger-happy Schumacher and amusingly fail to note the similarities in their circumstances.

“Corneille, put an end to this farce!”

“Which one, your lordship?”

Interactions such as these are played at a cool distance, letting us join fellow guests who observe the manic drama with bemusement, though it is also a rare occasion that the camera is so static. The most dominant stylistic feature of The Rules of the Game, Renoir’s artistic innovations, and poetic realism as an entire film movement is that fluid camerawork floating around sets in long takes, sensitively soaking in the intricacies of their environments. In Renoir’s case, it is through this device that we appreciate the absurd wealth on display, as we traverse lavish halls of chandeliers, statues, and mirrors, and push through frame obstructions of drapes and flowers.

Renoir’s floating camera does not simply immerse us in these characters’ opulent theatrics though, but there is also enormous economy in its navigation of their dynamics, connecting multiple narrative threads as it detaches from one conversation and joins another. As the servants sit down for dinner in one scene, he coordinates an incredible tracking shot that constantly shifts between Schumacher, Lisette, Marceau, and the grumbling chef, each of whom enter and exit at different points while cooks move through the background. When scenes expand to fit almost the entire cast within them, Renoir’s long takes emphasise how little distance there is between both ends of the social spectrum. Petty grievances drive men to violently lash out, and women form phoney alliances with their enemies, stifling any genuine affection among friends or lovers with narcissistic compulsions to protect their own egos. The camera’s pace may accelerate with their movements, especially during tracking Schumacher’s armed rampage throughout the manor, but Renoir’s perfect, controlled elegance never wavers.

At least, that is the case within the boundaries of these sumptuous interiors, encasing them in worlds of superficial affluence. As guests and servants venture outside one fine morning to hunt wild game, Renoir exposes a more insidious evil that quietly resides within the bourgeoisie, and formally disrupts the fluid camerawork that pervades the rest of the film. Within the dense forest of thin, white trees that sits on the edge of Robert’s estate, we find a paradise of woodland creatures, exuding a far greater peace than the forced niceties of La Colinière. The camera nervously floats close to the ground as Schumacher and his men advance through this territory, banging their sticks and blowing their horns to draw out their prey, while Robert and company disperse themselves around the edge of the forest, rifles at the ready.

Suddenly, a cacophony of gunshots erupts, and Renoir launches into a truly aggressive display of montage editing – pheasants fall from the sky, rabbits collapse mid-run, and hunters coldly shift their aim from one target to the next, taking perverse pride in their domination of the animal kingdom. Afterwards as they collect the carcasses, a pair of them even argue over the etiquette of the sport, imposing the arbitrary rules of high society on the natural world and consequently laying claim to that too. Renoir may shatter the illusion of bourgeoisie sophistication to the viewer, yet still these aristocrats continue living in denial of their own repressed, violent impulses. It is no great ordeal living with a bit of blood on one’s hands after all when such sacrifices to class pride are framed as necessary traditions.

Renoir’s foreshadowing is thus laid out for the crushing tragedy that punctuates the final minutes of his film. He orchestrates here a masterful tonal shift here, preceding it with a farcical series of misunderstandings and mistaken identities that throw us off far off the scent of the imminent murder. The first sees Schumacher spy on Christine wearing her maid’s cape, confusing her for Lisette as she walks with the newest man to catch her eye – Andre’s relatively poor friend, Octave. The second sees Schumacher pursue a man he believes is Octave, yet is actually Andre wearing his friend’s cape. Driven mad with jealousy, and fully investing in a self-fabricated lie, Schumacher takes aim at the man he believes is Octave and shoots.

In effect, Andre is punished for the wrong crime by the wrong man who picked the wrong target, yet there is a fatalistic irony in the fact that he, much like Octave, is absolutely guilty of fooling around with Christine. Not even Schumacher had considered that separate classes might have romantically intermingled, seeing an upstairs woman fall into the arms of a downstairs man, yet it is this transgression of the rules which inadvertently leads to such tragedy. No one is quite sure how to make sense of this disaster, nor do they want to, should their illusions of order and security reveal weak foundations.

“He dropped like an animal in the hunt,” Marceau later recounts, and when Andre’s death is covered up as a hunting accident, the young aviator indeed becomes just another sacrifice to the status quo. There is no great fuss cleaning up the incidental bloodshed. Everyone is simply relieved that it wasn’t them who had the misfortune of wearing Octave’s cape, but the irony here does not escape Renoir’s pointed social satire. Today it was Andre, and tomorrow the unpredictable whims of their own volatile egos could put them on the wrong end of another reckless fool’s rifle. As long as this tacit danger continues to preserve their status and wealth though, then these self-centred aristocrats are content living with a constant mistrust of their own friends and lovers, and continue giving credit to the arbitrary rules of their empty game.

The Rules of the Game is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Victor Fleming | 3hr 58min

Before the late 1930s, there was nothing in the world of cinema that even came close to matching the dominant cultural force that was Gone with the Wind, which fended off every other film of 1939 to singlehandedly rule supreme as the highest-grossing movie of the year, the decade, and once adjusted for inflation, all-time. Studio moviemaking would never look the same again, strengthening powerhouse producers like David O. Selznick and asserting them as the most important players in a film’s success over the creatives working for them. It is hard to argue otherwise in this specific case too – Victor Fleming only claims director’s credit on Gone with the Wind since he took over from Sam Wood, who had previously replaced George Cukor, making this cinematic landmark very much the result of fruitful artistic collaboration from a huge array of great talents.

The other side of this sweeping historical epic’s cultural impact looms large in more recent years as a controversial, romanticised vision of the Old South, downplaying the horror of its white supremacy and slavery. Gone with the Wind is laden with historical inaccuracies and racial stereotypes which plant it firmly on the side of the Confederates in the American Civil War, making some scenes particularly difficult to stomach and consequently tainting its legacy in the eyes of the broad populace. Still, the truth of the matter isn’t so simple as that either – if Southern belle Scarlett O’Hara is meant to represent the qualities of that long-lost culture, then her character flaws paint a pricklier portrait than one might expect.

Scarlett’s introduction at her beloved family plantation of Tara sets her up immediately as a magnetic figure, peeling back the two identical suitors on either side of her in a forward tracking shot to dramatically reveal the beautiful woman wedged between them. Fleming’s camera will often find itself drawn towards her in scenes like these where crowds of men lavish her with attention, and while she happily indulges in these innocent flirtations, there is only one man she has eyes for. It is almost comical how obsessed she is with Ashley Wilkes given how plain he is in comparison to Clark Gable’s moustachioed, debonair Rhett Butler, and yet it is just like her to keep pining after what she can’t have.

The nationwide search for find the right person to play Scarlett O’Hara is a significant piece of history in itself, and the choice of British actress Vivien Leigh too would go down as one of Hollywood’s most inspired pieces of casting. Here, she does not just fill in the archetype of the Southern belle – she is the exact image that is conjured when those words come to mind, possessing a charming, hospitable front that only barely obscures her vain entitlement. Her wardrobe of hoop skirts, corsets, and wide-brimmed straw hats mark that privilege with incredible sartorial elegance, designed with great authenticity by Walter Plunkett according to the trends of the era, while complementing her character arc with costumes moving through white, black, green, and red palettes. Not everything here feels entirely traditional though, as while Scarlett is a woman of the Old South, she also possesses the attitude of a 1930s heroine, toying with men in such a way that at times virtually belongs in a screwball comedy.

As an actress, Leigh falls in line with the theatrical traditions of the day, and yet there is also remarkable subtlety in her expressions that frequently announce her displeasure and judgement with nothing but a slightly raised eyebrow. Opposite her, Gable offers a dangerously handsome challenge, frequently playing the devil’s advocate who is unafraid to call out others on their arrogance. The chemistry between the two is palpable, setting Scarlett and Rhett up as headstrong equals and potentially even soulmates were it not for her blind jealousy and wandering eyes.

If the character of Scarlett and the culture of the Old South make up two points of a three-pronged metaphor, then the third is represented by a physical location, Tara. Many of Gone with the Wind’s greatest motifs are attached to the O’Hara plantation, with the most notable among them being the blazing sunsets that silhouette Scarlett against matte paintings of burnt orange clouds, and frame her beneath a gnarled, twisted oak tree. Also evoking Tara’s warm homeliness is its instantly recognisable musical theme of soaring strings and dignified horns, composed by Max Steiner in what may very well be the greatest work of his distinguished career. Gone with the Wind is an artistic landmark in many ways, though certainly chief among them is its gorgeously sentimental score, rising and falling with each dramatic beat and running alongside us as we escape a burning Atlanta.

From the vividly passionate Technicolor cinematography to the ravishing production design, every element of Gone with the Wind is designed as a fantasy conjured up by pure, 19^th century nostalgia, making the eventual fall of the South towards the end of Act 1 all the more devastating in its apocalyptic destruction. Even while Confederate armies buckle under the assault of the Union, many men continue to claim that Atlanta will never be conquered, but as Scarlett navigates its crowded field hospitals, her own faith in these affirmations begins to crumble. If Victor Fleming is to take credit for any of the film’s artistic innovations, then it should be for the immaculate crane shot which starts close on Scarlett’s search for Dr Meade and then slowly lifts up into the air, where we bear witness to the city’s main road packed with wounded and dead soldiers. Extras stretch into the distance, and finally the full scope of the South’s huge losses hits home, punctuated at the end of the shot by a Confederate flag coming into view, flapping in the breeze yet irreparably damaged.

Just like the apparently unsinkable Titanic, Atlanta falls faster than anyone expected. There is no faking the sort of ambitious, cataclysmic set piece which Selznick orchestrated through the burning of old studio lots, exploding gunpowder and collapsing structures around Scarlett and Rhett who continue riding past fires blazing several storeys high. As fierce orange hues leap up into the sky, a formal comparison is drawn to those vibrant sunsets that so often illuminate the landscapes of Tara, and it is indeed exactly there where Scarlett chooses to return when Rhett finally decides to join the fight in its last days. “Maybe I have a thing for lost causes when they’re really lost, or maybe I’m ashamed of myself,” he admits, with a sly nod to his own love for Scarlett. Even after witnessing such destruction, she too finds renewed strength, though for her it is the survival of Tara through hellish conditions which inspires an invigorating resilience, as she stands out in its fields where a few crops still miraculously grow and delivers a firm resolution.

“As God is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again!”

And indeed, how could someone as cunning, resourceful, and privileged as Scarlett ever break an oath like this? Act 2 of Gone with the Wind trades in a great deal of its epic scale for more intimate melodrama, though this is not to say it dispenses with its astonishing visual style. Rhett’s eventual proposal to Scarlett carries the hope that she will one day return the affection, while her acceptance is almost driven entirely by the prosperity and security that he offers, once again leading her away from Tara and into a new home of opulent wealth. William Cameron Menzies’ production design continues to shine here in the clutter of ornaments, sculptures, and chandeliers around the set, often catching the golden light shed by his candelabras and oil lamps to make for some exquisitely delicate compositions. This aesthetic takes a dark turn when Scarlett and Rhett’s relationship plunges to terrifying new lows as well, emphasising the deep reds of the fine carpet and splendid costumes as he threatens her and forcefully carries her upstairs, leading to what is implied as a drunken rape.

Indeed, much of Gone with the Wind’s second act continues to wallop us with one tragedy after another, revealing a deep depression in Scarlett’s life that persists even after securing the wealth she has promised herself. Eight years pass by over this period, and each one seems to poison their toxic marriage even more than the last, seeing Scarlett continue to flirt with Ashley and get caught up in scandals. In circumstances beyond her control, she suffers the death of her daughter, her unborn baby, and eventually her rival-turned-friend, Melanie. Where the film’s first act saw the decline of a civilisation, the second formally reflects that on a smaller scale, once again driving Scarlett to the pits of despair – and then, just as it seems as if the killing blow has landed, seeing her optimistically rise from the ashes with a reminder of where her true love lies.

In the film’s final minutes, Scarlett finally finds herself living out a nightmare from an earlier scene involving searching for something important in the mist, though it is only now, years later, that she finally realises what that is – Rhett. Dressing her in all black and consuming her in a grey fog as she runs to confess her love to him, the dour colour palette virtually warns us of his famous, dismissive response, immortalised as one of cinema’s great lines.

“Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

The scene may not be as broadly cataclysmic as the fall of Atlanta, but it stings all the same, turning Scarlett’s own obnoxious self-regard against her and leaving no one else to blame. Her obstinance may be her greatest fault, and yet as she recalls the hope and security that the “red earth of Tara” offers her in times of crisis, it also becomes the foundation of her survival.

“After all, tomorrow is another day.”

Such is the spirit of the Old South, according to Gone with the Wind, that no amount of defeat can keep it down. Crushed once in battle, and for a second time in a cold rejection, it lives on through this Southern belle, refusing to cave in. Few films have matched the majesty and grandeur of this colossal Hollywood epic, and an era-defining character as prideful, stubborn, and thorny as Scarlett O’Hara deserves nothing less.

Gone with the Wind is currently available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

John Ford | 1hr 40min

John Ford may be most recognised for his work on some of the great Westerns of Hollywood’s Golden Age, but there is a reverent American mythology which underlies his work even more broadly, and which is rarely so evident than it is in Young Mr Lincoln. Though it is based on a real murder case that saw a pre-presidential Abraham Lincoln successfully defend a Union soldier in court, historicity is not important to Ford, and the future president’s landmark abolition of slavery is barely even touched on besides a brief nod to his strong moral convictions. Instead, Lincoln’s origins as an Illinoisian lawyer becomes a fable sketching out the bedrock of American civilisation, building it upon those small acts of liberty and justice that are eventually overshadowed by the monumental waves they later generate.

The first of many collaborations between Henry Fonda and Ford arrives here in 1939, transforming the actor into a remarkable rendering of Lincoln, complete with gaunt cheeks and an instantly recognisable mole. As impressive as the makeup is, it is Fonda’s take on the historical figure that is even more convincing, filling in those unknown pieces of his character with a gentle yet imposing presence, delivering eloquent, off-the-cuff speeches seeping with persuasive sincerity. In those moments where he takes a stance against riled-up crowds, he holds his lonely ground with confidence, appealing to a strong idealistic belief that believes Americans can always do better.

 “We do things together that we’d be mighty ashamed to do by ourselves.”

Within Ford’s brilliant staging, Lincoln takes an elevated position among others, exerting a powerful influence upon his community. Around him, masses of smaller characters and extras are staggered across frame in arresting arrangements, emphasising their unity in collectively drawing our eyes to those figures who demand our attention – not just Lincoln, but barristers, politicians, and accused murderers. Ford doesn’t discriminate between large ensembles, smaller groups, and single, isolated characters when it comes to his blocking, evenly building emotional arcs across both intense courtroom scenes and quiet reflections in the countryside. The frames he draws out of delicate, low-hanging tree branches there aren’t unlike those from How Green Was My Valley, which he would go on to direct two years later, though instead of rural Wales, Ford uses the riverbanks and fields of the American Midwest to set environments of tranquillity around Lincoln’s pensive meditations.

Back in the town of Springfield, young Lincoln is highly respected for his law services, intelligently settling disputes as a voice of reason and compassion. When a brawl on the night of an Independence Day celebration becomes a murder, the lynch mob that quickly forms within the community can only be quelled by a man with as refined a sense of justice and compelling a tone as Lincoln, offering him his first platform to make real change beyond petty financial squabbles. Earlier, he hung his entire life trajectory upon the direction a dropped stick would fall in, and as Ford moves into the courtroom drama segment of Young Mr Lincoln, we again feel the ripples of history being born in a seemingly insignificant moment.

It is in these highly-strung legal proceedings that we see another side to Fonda’s Lincoln, at times acting as the comic relief to his own story by cracking jokes that lighten the mood of the jurors and gallery. Whether he is laying back in his chair with his feet up while selecting the jury or patiently listening to the prosecution’s case, Ford frequently frames him in the foreground, dominating the shot in positions of relaxed confidence. Though he is admonished for his charming frivolity, he never loses sight of the trial’s stakes, with the lives of two brothers hanging on the line and an uncertainty as to which one landed the killing blow.

As it comes to light that their mother is apparently the only person to have seen which one was holding the knife, much of the following proceedings are tensely wound over her dilemma as to which one she should effectively sentence to death, and Ford exerts fine control over every slight shift in tone here. Especially notable is the moment when the accused boys come into question during a witness examination, where he lets them sit silently in the foreground with their backs to the camera, offering us their view of their fates being decided.

As for the culmination of the trial, Ford’s blocking allows Fonda and his perfect timing to take the spotlight. In a single wide shot that lasts for almost three minutes, the scene turns from one of disheartening defeat to rousing victory, moving Lincoln away from the edge of the frame towards its centre where he stares down the true culprit, backed up by the judge, jurors, and defendants now standing right behind him. It is not hard to believe that this man casting a spell over the entire courtroom will one day become President of the United States, given both his sheer charisma and judicious discernment. For all the accusations of Ford being mawkish and sentimental about American history, there is little arguing against the expressive power with which he renders it on film, crafting and imparting legends that offer us some insight into the storytelling traditions that have shaped the cultural values of an entire nation.

Young Mr Lincoln is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel and Tubi TV.

Marcel Carne | 1hr 33min

A man and a woman, Francois and Francoise, strike up a conversation one day when she finds herself at his workplace delivering flowers. It is a romantic meet-cute that seems fated given the similarities between their names, but this is not the start of a perfect, unhindered romance. This is simply a flashback, conjured six months down the track by a panicked Francois who has shot a man and boarded himself up inside his apartment. How do these scenes with such disparate tones connect? How could this love-stricken man turn into such an anxious, bitter murderer? He himself ponders the same question, reminiscing on the sequence of events that has led to this moment.

Francois’ memories are driven by visual cues laid around his apartment, most significantly the wardrobe which now stands in front of the door. Carne uses this as an abundant source of match cuts, softly dissolving into flashbacks where Francois has the happy freedom to move in and out of that now-blocked entrance. The poetic realism movement that Carne was largely driving in this era underlies his choices to elegantly move the camera in these romantic recollections, made especially apparent in one scene by his choice to keep reframing the lovers among picturesque flowers and ferns as they stroll through a nursery in a single take.

The tender connection they share is in stark contrast to Francoise’s relationship with Valentin, who is introduced as a showman with a charismatic presence which dominates everyone’s attention. As he performs impressive tricks with his trained dogs up on stage, Francoise is relegated to the position of spectator, admiring from afar but never winning his full emotional engagement in return. It isn’t just Valentin’s narcissism and dishonesty that gnaws away at Francois, but his apparent success in keeping Francoise by his side. Francois is embittered, and Valentin’s fate is sealed after delivering a particularly cruel jab at his rival.

We dip in and out of these fatalistic flashbacks several times, returning to present-day Francois pacing around apartment, the fade to dusk outside gradually consuming him in darkness. Meanwhile, the police advance and the nosy neighbours poke their heads out their doors, peering up the stairway that leads to his apartment. In their eyes, he is a cold-blooded murderous freak to be gawked at. As they crowd the streets he leans out of his window, chastising them for the fetishising of his pain while mourning the destruction of his innocence by a man who may not have been a murderer, but was a far worse person than him.

“I’m a murderer, yes! But killers can be met in any street… everywhere! Everyone kills, everyone! Only they kill by degrees, so it’s not noticed.”

Carne’s elegant camerawork is gone here, replaced with a harsh montage quickly cutting between faces in the crowd, some sympathetic, others merely amused. When Francois finally shuts himself back inside, the space feels much smaller than before. The vice is tightening around him, the full impact of his corruption finally settling in his mind in the final few minutes, pushing him to take his own life. As we track out on that now-indistinguishable slump lying on the floor, the smoke of the police’s tear gas clouds a room of overturned furniture and shattered glass. Not only does Carne build on the masterful camerawork and mise-en-scène displayed in Port of Shadows, but his formal structuring of this bitterly nostalgic narrative makes Le Jour se Leve an indelibly moving portrait of France’s lost innocence as it headed into World War II.

Le Jour se Leve is not currently available to stream in Australia.

Ernst Lubitsch | 1hr 50min

While screwball heroines of the 1930s were charming men with their flighty mannerisms and wily turns of phrase, silent film veteran Greta Garbo was setting herself on an entirely different comedic path. Nina Ivanovna Yakushova – or Ninotchka for short – is sullen, stern, and dead serious, arriving in France to conduct legal business for Russian clients. This is a character we might not attach to so easily were it not for Garbo’s utter deadpan, a marvellous screenplay co-written by Billy Wilder, and Ernst Lubitsch’s own sophisticated directorial touch, bringing a delicate air of whimsy and wit to even the most forthright proceedings.

Though the character of Ninotchka is largely absent for the opening 20 minutes, she is also the foundation upon which this film largely rests, as her arrival is heralded in advance by her bumbling clients searching for the mysterious Russian diplomat at a train station. As they stumble around looking for a man, Lubitsch shifts his camera very gradually to reveal a figure standing in the background – a woman in a sharp coat and long skirt, eyeing them off with disdain. This is not someone who caters to the fanciful needs and expectations of the men around her. Ninotchka is like a statue, unyielding, waiting for us to come to her.

Then there is Count Leon d’Algout, her English adversary and new paramour, who, while not being quite as compelling a character, provides a more flamboyant counterpoint to her severity. Where she speaks of love as “a romantic designation for a most ordinary biological process,” he tenderly talks of Paris as a city split into two halves, but drawn amorously together. As the two look out at a view of the city lights, she disparages western culture as an indulgent, self-destructive culture, and from both their incongruent perspectives emerges one side of a conversation attempting flirtatious repartee, and another side maintaining a hilariously impassive rationality.

“You must admit that this doomed civilisation sparkles. Look at it. It glitters.”

“I do not deny its beauty, but it’s a waste of electricity.”

This is a woman who sees a trip to the powder room as an opportunity to spread Marxist propaganda, and yet for all of her detachment to the western world, there is indeed some truth in Leon’s poetic musings. While he grows sympathetic to her political ideologies, she begins to indulge a little in capitalistic luxuries, and all of a sudden, his talk of two halves becoming one moves just a little closer to reality. It takes a director as known for his classy “touch” as Lubitsch to smoothly integrate such clashing elements together under an elegantly blossoming romance, and then puncture that with brilliantly straight-faced bluntness. He may have directed films with a keener sense of subtextual wit, but none which feature as magnificent a character as Garbo’s comically deadpan Ninotchka.

Ninotchka is currently available to stream on The Criterion Channel, and available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.

William Wyler | 1hr 44min

The year 1939 was a tough one for any filmmaker who isn’t Victor Fleming to direct an adaptation of a classic novel, especially when they are competing with such resounding Technicolor successes as Gone With the Wind and The Wizard of Oz. But even in spite of being slightly overshadowed, William Wyler still manages to create the definitive cinematic interpretation of Wuthering Heights, delving deep into the relationship of Cathy and Heathcliff, two twisted lovers who cannot separate themselves from each other.

Though much credit must be given to Emily Brontë for crafting such a compelling narrative and rich characters to begin with, the masterful translation from page to screen that writers Charles Macarthur, Ben Hecht, and an uncredited John Huston undertake shouldn’t be undervalued. There are sacrifices that are made from Brontë’s original text, most notably the entire second half about the children of Cathy, Heathcliff, and Hindley, but in implementing these changes the focus of Wuthering Heights remains on its core group of characters. Given that there are moments where some of the heavier emotional beats are little rushed over, it is indeed rather fortunate that this film isn’t any denser than it is.

At its centre is the strong-minded Catherine Earnshaw, whose relationship with surrogate brother and lover Heathcliff becomes the tragic obsession upon which everything else hangs. Merle Oberon doesn’t have the magnetism necessary to pulling off a famous literary heroine in the same way as someone like Vivien Leigh, though it must be a doubly tough task when trying to stay afloat in any scene against a handsome, young Laurence Olivier. How fitting he is for Heathcliff, being a relatively fresh-faced newcomer to the film industry and yet exuding a magnificent, self-possessed screen presence. He especially plays well into the air of mysterious confidence about Heathcliff, even before discovering his fortune as an adult. It is as if the brooding lover possesses some precognisant awareness that he is destined for greatness, and as such holds tightly onto oaths of vengeance against those who wrong him.

Over time, Heathcliff becomes the personification of Cathy’s childhood home, Wuthering Heights – or perhaps it is the other way round, with the manor absorbing his foreboding austerity, gradually dimming from bright, natural light into gloomy shadows. Wyler’s collaboration with Gregg Toland is an important one, as the cinematographer who would go on to shoot Citizen Kane puts his deep focus to excellent use here in capturing Wyler’s layered staging of his ensemble within the minimalistic, Dreyer-like architecture of the manor. Rusticated furniture, stairs, and beams that act as dividers between characters, tall, waxy candles rising out of sparse walls and tables – the impression Wyler creates in his stark mise-en-scene is that of a tomb, literally and figuratively trapping the souls of its inhabitants. The outdoors are for the living, where young lovers go to frolic and flirt, but within Wuthering Heights, a stale deathliness hangs in its air. Cathy even feels so bound to this place that she can’t imagine her spirit ending up anywhere else, foreshadowing her own real fate.

“I dreamt I went to heaven, and that heaven didn’t seem to be my home. And I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth. And the angels were so angry, they flung me out in the middle of the heath, on top of Wuthering Heights.” 

Eventually, we arrive at Thrushcross Grange, and suddenly we find Wyler sweeping us into a whole new world. So often we are kept at a distance from it, peering through windows, doors, and over garden walls like an outsider, but when we move inside, the décor is everything that Wuthering Heights is not, opulently adorned with chandeliers and white columns. Wyler also lifts his camera off its tripod here to elegantly float it through the space, bringing a delicacy to this aristocratic world. In a ball scene the camera observes the dancing in the reflection of a wall mirror, before drifting through the splendidly-dressed crowd, rising up to a high angle, and then proceeding to move between rooms, letting this smooth shot play out for a full minute before cutting.

If the sullen Wuthering Heights is Heathcliff, then Thrushcross Grange is Edgar, the rival suitor with from a wealthier, more stable background. Both tug at Cathy’s heart and mind, and yet in the end it isn’t even a conscious decision which decides her fate. “I am Heathcliff,” she proclaims, as if the choice was baked into the very fabric of her own intrinsic identity, thereby yielding to the dark allure of her eerie, limbo-like childhood home. With such a rigorous dedication to turning the architecture of these settings into characters, Wyler cuts right to the heart of Emily Brontë’s novel, submerging his tragic paramours in a ghostly melancholy that haunts them through life and death.

Wuthering Heights is available to stream on Amazon Prime Video and Kanopy.