Category: 1944

Ivan the Terrible (1944-46)

Sergei Eisenstein | 2 Parts (1hr 40min, 1hr 26min)

So rapturous was the reception that Ivan the Terrible, Part I received from Joseph Stalin, it is hard to blame Sergei Eisenstein for recklessly pushing the boundaries of state censorship in its sequel. Both films are mirrors of each other – the first revealing an idealistic ambition in the young Ivan IV which Part II withers into paranoid cruelty, and together painting a vivid portrait of Eisenstein’s own shifting relationship with the Soviet Union. This was no longer the filmmaker who sought to reflect revolutionary principles in his experimental montage theory, but rather a disillusioned artist simultaneously defying and reluctantly cooperating with Stalin’s regime. It is a little ironic that the Communist dictator should see so much of him himself in the first Tsar of Russia, yet Eisenstein nevertheless took the metaphor as a creative challenge, risking his life and liberty to compose a vision of oppressive tyranny that stands true across centuries.

The casting of Nikolay Cherkasov as the imposing central figure here is particularly fascinating given his previous role in Alexander Nevsky, where he portrayed the titular 13th-century Prince of Novgorod. As a young, newly-coronated Ivan proudly declares Moscow a “Third Rome,” his eyes glisten with tears and hope, sentimentalising a vision of Russia’s future which doesn’t sound so different from Nevsky’s own utopian promise after vanquishing the Teutonic Knights.

Meticulous attention to detail in Eisenstein’s staging – this could very well be one of those images painted on the walls surrounding the young Tsar at his coronation, immortalised in history.

This is the ruler that Stalin admires, yet who is never viewed in such a pure light again after this moment, soon developing a distinctively hunched posture and angular facial features that become living extensions of Eisenstein’s majestic production design. Ivan’s bushy eyebrows, pointed beard, and crooked nose are virtually made for close-ups, and when his distinctive profile is cast in giant shadows upon the walls, he becomes a dark, physical embodiment of 16th century Russia’s formidable spirit.

An extraordinary performance from Nikolay Cherkasov, physically transforming into a hunched, crooked tyrant.
Meticulous framing in Eisenstein’s deep focus, imposing Ivan’s visage upon the Russian people.
An incredibly recognisable profile, cast against walls in darkened shadows.

Only the Kremlin’s lavish interiors can match his awe-inspiring majesty with religious iconography painted across arches and columns, reliefs carved from its stonework, and collectively resting the Tsar’s legacy upon centuries of culture and history. Eisenstein’s rich depth of field especially flourishes here, sinking the masses to the bottom of frames that revel in the overhead architecture, and symmetrically positioning Ivan at their centre. These vast, intricate halls of power may very well mark Eisenstein’s greatest achievement in mise-en-scene, borrowing heavily from F.W. Murnau’s expressionistic imagery to cloak characters in chiaroscuro lighting, and underscoring their constant psychological tension between good and evil.

Remarkable achievements in production design, sinking his actors to the bottom of the frame to bask in the murals painted all across these halls and arches.
Wonderful symmetry through framing, blocking, and production design, projecting power and control.
In the absence of formally innovative editing, Eisenstein turns his focus to composing magnificent shots like these through lighting and staging, marking Ivan the Terrible as his most beautiful work to date.

It is evident here that Eisenstein is far more than just an editor, though he nevertheless showcases those talents as well in the explosive siege of Kazan, where Ivan and his sprawling armies claim a stunning victory against the Khanate. As soldiers wait patiently upon hillsides with their cannons and banners, sappers furiously dig tunnels beneath the walled city to plant gunpowder, and Eisenstein clearly relishes the practical effects granted by his enormous budget when the time comes to blast brick, mortar, and smoke into the air. Rather than wielding his editing for intellectual purposes, here he dedicates it purely to the vast scale of his action, building Ivan’s grand authority upon the conquest of those who dare oppose his rule.

Eisenstein uses the natural terrain to block huge crowds of extras across hills, stretching their formations deep into the background.
Eisenstein proves he still has his knack for action editing, lingering on the burning fuse before unleashing a series of spectacular explosions around the city walls.

For the most part though, the greatest political threats to the Tsar are located within his own ranks, as conspirators plot to install his simple-minded cousin Vladimir as Russia’s true sovereign. The political intrigue carries a Shakespearean gravity to it, modelling Ivan after the likes of Macbeth or Richard III, and watching his games of manipulation unfold with treacherous delight. When he falls deathly ill and names his son Dmitri as heir to the throne, his aunt Yefrosinya is quick to whisper into the embittered Prince Kurbsky’s ear, perniciously encouraging him to announce her son Vladimir as the rightful successor instead. Kurbsky is smart to sniff out Ivan’s test of his loyalty here, as almost immediately after carrying out his wishes, the recovered Tsar emerges from his chambers and rewards his allegiance.

Shakespearean power struggles, treachery, and intrigue – perhaps Eisenstein’s strongest pure narrative to date.

Yefrosinya, on the other hand, is not so restrained. Though she prefers to pull strings from the shadows, she isn’t above getting her hands dirty, going so far as to weaken Ivan’s rule by poisoning his wife Anastasia. Later when he makes an enemy of Metropolitan Philip by overruling his religious authority, Yefrosinya again leaps on the opportunity to stir dissent among his followers, only this time rallying them behind an assassination plot that targets Ivan himself.

The murder is to take place after a banquet and theatrical performance, where Ivan the Terrible suddenly departs from the black-and-white photography which has dominated Eisenstein’s career thus far and catches aflame with hellish red hues. This vibrant burst of colour is a shock to the senses, accompanying Ivan’s final and perhaps most despicable act. Having plied Vladimir with alcohol and extracted the conspiracy from his lips, he mockingly dresses him in his own royal regalia, and lets him lead his entourage to the cathedral in prayer. Black, hooded figures trail behind Vladimir like spectres of death, and from the shadows the killer pounces, sinking his dagger into the flesh of the disguised prince.

An avant-garde eruption of blazing red hues as Ivan prepares to commit his most despicable act yet – a shock to our senses.
Shadows, candles, and hooded figures as Ivan’s plan is seen through to fruition, making for an outstanding visual and dramatic climax.

Yefrosinya’s celebration is critically premature. “The Tsar is dead!” she joyfully proclaims, before recognising the tragic turn of events which has befallen her son. Ivan cares so little for these traitors, he does not even bother to have them executed. After all, they are the ones who killed his worst enemy, and who have effectively destroyed themselves in the process.

With Ivan’s greatest threats in Moscow eradicated, the time has thus come for him to turn his attention to those on the outside – yet it is at this tantalising climax that we are left wondering what a third part to Eisenstein’s Ivan the Terrible trilogy might have looked like. Stalin’s fury at Part II’s tyrannical depiction of the Tsar not only kept the sequel from being released until 1958, but immediately ended production on Part III, destroying all but a single fragment of its footage. Even without completion though, the legacy of this truncated series is nevertheless secured in Eisenstein’s daring ambition. Through bold, inflammatory strokes, waves of Russian despotism are painted out in striking detail, reaching across centuries to impose familiar cruelties on this nation’s long-afflicted people.

Ivan the Terrible is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

The Woman in the Window (1944)

Fritz Lang | 1hr 40min

Between Professor Richard Wanley and the portrait that he fixates on, a shop window draws a thin, transparent barrier. He is as close to this artwork as he is distant from the fantasy woman it is depicting, though it is upon that glass pane where they are united in the ethereal reflection of Alice Reed – the model whose likeness has been so attractively rendered in paint. She arrives in Richard’s life like a ghost, and he too subsequently crosses into hers, intersecting worlds through psychological dreams of seduction, murder, and subterfuge.

Many noirs inspired by The Woman in the Window took note of its grim, shadowy detachment from reality and built out similarly imaginative underworlds, though Fritz Lang’s approach is quite unique in literalising his protagonist’s expressionistic nightmares. Here, the twist of the story taking place inside his mind is saved for the end in a Wizard of Oz-style reveal, bringing to light the inspiration for many of Richard’s dream characters. It doesn’t quite land with the same impact as Victor Fleming’s Technicolor fantasy, but it isn’t the shoddy, tacked-on resolution so many criticise it of being either. Instead, it is the pay-off to one long series of imagined, improbable situations, subconsciously warning our impressionable professor of the dangers that come with falling into foreign temptations.

Edward G. Robinson is having a very good 1944 with his supporting role in the masterpiece Double Indemnity, and his leading role here – two of the best noirs of this Hollywood era.

All through the large, airy apartment that Alice invites Richard back to after their chance encounter, Lang lays out walls of mirrors that might visually suggest a deceptiveness at play, or at least a detachment from the world we are familiar with. His compositions are vividly blocked, building out the motif of reflections which first brought this femme fatale into his life and largely defines her expansive living space. Perhaps there is also a feeling of guilt and claustrophobia wrapped up in this imagery though, forcing Richard to reconsider this route he is travelling down towards infidelity. Fortunately, he is interrupted before he gets a chance to cheat. Unfortunately, it is by Alice’s own wealthy, jealous lover, Claude Mazard, who promptly attacks Richard and is killed by a pair of scissors to the back.

Deception and dreamy unreality implicated in the heavy use of reflections throughout The Woman in the Window.

After hiding the dead body in a nature reserve and mutually deciding to cut off all contact, problems start to stack up. Richard’s friend Frank is the lead investigator on the case, and the naïve professor evidently isn’t used to lying given his tendency to let on more about the murder than he should know. Meanwhile, Mazard’s bodyguard is on his and Alice’s tail, intent on blackmailing them. Nunnally Johnson’s script is tightly plotted in its foreshadowing, sowing the seeds of Richard’s potent sleeping pills and initialled pen early on before later turning them into key narrative devices via attempted murders and loose pieces of evidence.

If The Woman in the Window is going to suffer in comparison to any other film noir, then it is the delightfully macabre film noir Double Indemnity also released in 1944, which bears a good number of similarities. Edward G. Robinson stars in both as good-natured men, but where he plays the lawful investigator in Billy Wilder’s film, here he puts a lighter spin on the Fred MacMurray role of a man caught up in the murder of his lover’s partner. We don’t have any qualms about getting behind this nervous, jumpy figure, though at a certain point even he takes a dark turn when he decides to dig himself even deeper into this mess.

Some very solid noir photography with the deep focus lens, obstructions, and framing.

Save for a few scenes, it is his perspective we are stuck with through most of The Woman in the Window, and Lang is careful with his camerawork to ground us in his uneasy experience. After dumping Mazard’s body, Richard is moodily framed behind his car’s rain-glazed window, doused in the scene’s gloomy ambience. The camera’s deep focus lens is used effectively too, keeping us at a tense distance from the investigation when Richard desperately peers out of a car at the police bringing in Alice for questioning.

Windows are obviously an important motif in this film, as implied by the title, opening portals up to unfamiliar worlds.

Whether as windows or mirrors, Lang keeps weaving in these glass barriers as motifs of duplicity and disconnection, quietly feeding our doubt over Richard’s self-awareness. This nervous mistrust is the dark, beating heart of film noir, distilled here by one of its leading figures into a literal dream that glides by on hazy long dissolves and a score of tense, whiny strings. Like Richard, we may slip out of its hypnotic spell as smoothly as we fell under it, but its disquieting psychological impact is one that continues to linger long after it is over.

The Woman in the Window is not currently available to stream in Australia.

Double Indemnity (1944)

Billy Wilder | 1hr 47min

There are few film noirs one could point to that typifies the genre more than Double Indemnity, where Billy Wilder’s gloriously expressionistic set pieces and passionately cynical writing evolves one man’s macabre curiosity into a hideous corruption of his soul. Fred MacMurray leads as insurance salesman Walter Neff, the smooth-talking protagonist whose licentious entanglement with Phyllis Dietrichson, the wife of one of his customers, proves to be the unravelling he always unconsciously harboured some desire for. Next to him, Barbara Stanwyck embodies the prototypical femme fatale in one of the great performances of the 1940s, delivering lines that are somehow both lustfully heated and ice cold at the same time. Together, both rattle off sizzling dialogue that only barely conceals the carnal attraction between the two paramours, playing on verbal repetitions and metaphors that practically beg for some sort of physical consummation.

“I wonder if I know what you mean.”

“I wonder if you wonder.”

John F. Seitz masterfully shapes his low-key lighting to create these ravishing shots, shedding thin strips of light across his actors and sets.

But at its core, no matter how many times they profess their love or call each other “baby”, this shady relationship is not about sexual desire. Even thicker than the tension that bubbles through their romantic interactions is that which emerges in their partnership as co-conspirators, plotting the murder of Mr. Dietrichson to claim his life insurance money. Such immense wealth would allow them to run away and live happily together, though it does not take a great mind to see that this is not the ultimate dream for either of them.

For Phyllis, men are but disposable tools in her pursuit of luxury, and Neff is just one in a line of them, wedged between her late husband and Nino, her stepdaughter’s hot-headed boyfriend. Stanwyck is like an angelic poison here, framed in doorways of soft light while faking a conscience that wins the sympathy of others, or otherwise standing high up on balconies like a puppeteer slyly asserting her dominance over lovesick men.

Barbara Stanwyck swathed in soft, angelic lighting, ensnaring Fred MacMurray with her poisonous line deliveries and ice cold demeanour.

For our humble insurance salesman, the temptation is simply to prove a capability and intelligence that he cannot otherwise exercise in his ordinary life. “It was all tied up with something I’d been thinking about for years,” he wistfully ponders, recalling all those times he had seen customers caught out for lies on their insurance claims because of careless holes in their stories. To commit the perfect crime and escape the suspicion of his work friend, Keyes, and his inbuilt lie detector he calls his “little man” – that would be the ultimate validation of his supremacy. Within this scheme, Phyllis is nothing but an embodiment of his ego affirming everything he would like to believe about himself, deliberately letting him confuse his arrogance with love.

Though Wilder’s direction may be only secondary to his accomplishment in writing here, this ultimately means very little. Double Indemnity’s screenplay belongs among the best of film history, formally hinging its tightly wound narrative on Neff’s voiceover that dreamily slips us into a flashback and drives it along in rhythmic, pulpy bliss. Further cementing Double Indemnity as one of the greatest classic noirs is Wilder’s ability to match such visceral, imaginative writing with an expressionistic flair so perfectly in tune with his characters.

Chiaroscuro lighting is ridden all through Double Indemnity, but it is significantly announced right from the opening credits as this concealed figure hobbles towards the camera.
Light fixtures deftly worked into the mise-en-scène, partially obscuring the frame from this high angle.

Before we even know any of them by name, the opening credits introduces us to one in crutches, silhouetted against a white background and hobbling towards the camera. His face may be obscured, but we will later identify him as an injured Mr. Dietrichson heading towards his death – or is it actually Neff putting on the disguise of Phyllis’ late husband, gradually growing larger in the frame like an oil spill spreading outwards, until we are entirely consumed in his darkness? Such stunningly stark imagery can be found all through John Seitz’ shadow-heavy cinematography, incorporating lamps and ceiling lights into his mise-en-scène and shaping their dim glow with Venetian blinds that throw narrow strips of light across walls and faces, as Neff and Phyllis progressively sink deeper into the dark, bleak pit of their own corruption.

The association of Venetian blinds with film noir is typified here, letting light peek through in thin, sharp ribbons that tantalise our curiosity.

Additionally building out Double Indemnity’s tension is Wilder’s taut blocking, always considering the dramatic irony that connects the deceptions his characters create and the secrets they keep from others. A busy grocery store is the location where the two accomplices meet to plot their nefarious crime, standing side-by-side, hiding in plain sight behind packed shelves, and cutting themselves off from any possibility of physical flirtation. Later, Wilder crafts an indelible composition using the familiar geography of Neff’s apartment building, staging Phyllis behind an open door in the foreground while her lover stands on the other side, hiding her from Keyes who is off in the background. For all of this screenplay’s efficient storytelling, the sharp layering of the mise-en-scène is also working to subtly develop its characters and narrative, letting their treachery take full form.

Tense staging in this complex character interaction, underscoring the heavy dramatic irony.
Hiding in plain sight within this packed grocery store, taking both out of their comfort zones.

Of course, this lifestyle of deceit and depravity is not one that comes naturally to Neff though, who is acting more on his own insatiable curiosity than anything else. Much like Phyllis herself, the smell of honeysuckle that lingers outside her house turns from a sweet, alluring scent into something he associates with danger, and even their repeated promise of carrying out this murder “straight down the line” comes back to bite him when he starts wanting to pull out. By this point, all romantic chemistry has dissipated between the two. As Neff divulges in his voiceover, he knew right at the moment he committed the murder that he was going to be caught out, if not because of any slip-ups, then because of his own guilt.

Most of all, it is the shame he feels in fooling Keyes that gets to him the most, as while his colleague’s instincts tell him early on that there is something fishy with Phyllis’ insurance claim, the unquestionable trust he places in Neff clouds his better judgement. Still, all through the murder and cover-up, his “little man” remains the single largest threat to Neff’s insidious lie, proving itself to be a clever character conceit from Wilder. In a way, it is Keyes’ perceptive mind which motivates his workmate to commit this crime in the first place, as his assertion that there is no such thing as a perfect murder is taken as a challenge.

Venetian blinds in the workplace…
…and Venetian blinds on the train. Absolute commitment to an aesthetic from Wilder.

If there is a love story here in Double Indemnity, it is ultimately not about Neff and his femme fatale, but rather Neff and his best friend who he sets out to get one up over. Throughout the film, Wilder develops a loving motif between the two that sees Neff produce a match for his friend and light his cigarette for him, packing their relationship with affectionate intimacy in this simple action. It is this gesture which he also returns to in the film’s closing seconds, as the extended flashback comes to an end and Keyes sorrowfully discovers his friend’s wrongdoing. True to their relationship, their final exchange is part banter, and part profession of their sentimental feelings, transcending whatever wrongs have come between then.

“The guy you were looking for was too close. He was right across the desk from you.”

“Closer than that, Walter.”

“Love you too.”

As Neff lies on the ground bleeding out, it is now he who searches for a match in his coat, and Keyes who sweetly reciprocates the gesture. For all the fatalistic pessimism that roils through Double Indemnity, Wilder delicately polishes it with a light warmth in these quiet interactions, wistfully recalling a moral innocence worth savouring before it inevitably fades away into a dark, bitter void.

Formally paying off on this character motif to end the film, sweetly reciprocating the affectionate gesture.

Double Indemnity is currently streaming on Binge, and is available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

Laura (1944)

Otto Preminger | 1hr 28min

Hanging above the fireplace in the apartment of a recent murder victim is a portrait of a woman with a sultry gaze. This is Laura, the young lady whose body was apparently found lying in the doorway with a shotgun blast to the head, and whose visage continues to haunt the place with an ethereal presence. She lingers in the back of shots like an extra character in an ensemble of suspects, as much a part of Otto Preminger’s splendidly staged compositions as anyone else, though it is also through flashbacks that Gene Tierney’s performance builds on that charisma with, as her mentor Waldo Lydecker would call it, “authentic magnetism.”

There are no two better words to describe Preminger’s dynamic camerawork in Laura either. Certainly his ability as a director has always been married to his long takes, moving through sets in majestic manoeuvres as effortlessly as his small but powerful camera motions that shift the tones of entire scenes. But here the repeated choice to continuously track in on Laura’s face from low angles draws us in with it, endowing her with a visual magnetism that is perfectly fitted to Tiernan’s innate charm and the compelling narrative intrigue.

The camera always pushing in on Tierney’s face, a singular active movement that draws us into her aura.
The portrait of Laura becoming its own entity in Preminger’s blocking of actors.

Beyond its fascination with specific people is the camera’s applied scrutiny to objects, moving through apartments and the odd artefacts which crowd them out like an obsessive sleuth. Right after the opening credits play over the portrait of Laura, we fade into the first scene where a sculpture of an Asian goddess stands on a small pedestal, framed on either side by a candelabra and a display case standing in the foreground. Slowly, we drift to the right, observing the precious items sitting on the glass shelves, discovering an ornate grandfather clock, and then finally opening up to the larger apartment where we meet Detective Mark McPherson inspecting ornaments with a similar intensity.

In such a manner, Preminger often draws on a Sternbergian style of cluttered mise-en-scène to obstruct his frames with various pieces of décor, creating a dynamic environment through which his ever-moving camera continues to find new details to absorb itself in. And as we later discover, a few of these turn out to be far more relevant to the narrative than we ever expected. Mirrors also remain significant throughout in Preminger’s meticulous arrangements of actors and mise-en-scène, always keeping in mind those hidden, complex truths which underlie these characters’ motivations.

The Josef von Sternberg influence is massive – Tierney takes on the Marlene Dietrich role in becoming an endless source of the camera’s fascination in Laura, but Preminger’s dedication to creating these intricate frames obstructed by crowded decor in the foreground is impressive.

Lined with a series of shocking twists, this narrative is one that continues to test our understanding of subjective minds and reality, whereby long-gone ghosts are resurrected seemingly through the sheer power of wishful longing. Even McPherson, this apparently neutral force of justice, cannot resist getting caught up in the aura that surrounds Laura. In one scene as he falls asleep beneath her portrait, Preminger slowly tracks in on his face before pulling out again, appearing to bring us into a new world through the detective’s mind that teeters on the edge of dream and reality. The lack of clear motivation in this camera movement immediately puts us on edge, leaving the astounding developments that follow under a cloud of disbelief and apprehension.

A push in on McPherson’s face as he falls asleep, while the portrait of Laura hangs over him – is what happens next a dream sequence or reality?

This is the film noir atmosphere that Preminger so thoroughly understands and infuses in Laura, gradually destabilising McPherson’s perception of truth and security, though there is also a clearly Hitchcockian leaning to his precision. Much like the master of suspense himself, Preminger’s slow, deliberate camerawork can draw out the painstaking tension of a shot as simple as a door creaking open, inching forward ever so slowly while a clock ticks in the background. As the killer emerges from it and prepares to strike again, their target is listening his disembodied voice read out a poem over a radio broadcast, indirectly describing his own reprehensible motives.

The layers of character work here are impeccable, organically weaving in with the film’s camerawork and blocking so that they may all eventually wind back to that one figure at its centre, whose allure often proves to be more of a curse than a blessing. Whether those forces be good, evil, or purely neutral, even death is no obstacle in their paths to get to Laura.

Remarkable use of mirrors all through Laura, absorbing the images of these actors into the ornate set.
Unmistakably a Preminger film, though the expressionist use of lighting and angles to create this unstable noir atmosphere is also superb.

Laura is currently available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.