Tag Archives: Andrew Sarris

The Square Peg

“Why make it sad to be gay? Doing your thing is O.K. Our bodies are our own so leave us alone. Go play with yourself-today.” – John Lennon, The Gay Liberation Book, 1972

German film poster

The subject of homosexuality had arrived at a watershed moment by 1967. The mainstream of Hollywood could no longer repress depictions of homosexuality into the niche of lesbianism in accordance with heterosexual male fantasy. Successes like Andy Warhol’s My Hustler (1965), Jack Smith’s Flaming Creatures (1963), and Kenneth Anger’s Scorpio Rising (1963) in the underground cinemas of New York and other urban centers had paved the way for new characterizations of queerness in the American cinema at large. Until 1967, depictions of male homosexuality had been limited to Tony Randall and Rock Hudson’s relationship in a slew of films with Doris Day or to foreign film markets. Anyone familiar with the works of such critics and film essayists as Rob Epstein, Jeffrey Friedman, Richard Dyer, Andrea Weiss, and Mark Rappaport knows at this point how brutally closeted Hollywood was (and still is). That is to say that there exists a large body of film criticism dedicated solely to deciphering the coded messages of queerness in the cinema.

Homosexuality in the novel is an entirely different matter. Gay characters were not as restricted as their Hollywood counterparts by the mid twentieth century. Though still a controversial “subject” from the perspective of the American mainstream, homosexuality in the novel enjoyed a rare degree of liberty. It is important to note that depictions of homosexual love that were the least bit explicit were bound to get an author’s work branded as the worst kind of debauched pornography (such was the case with Jean Genet for instance). It was into this milieu that Carson McCullers unleashed her novel of longing and repressed desires Reflections In A Golden Eye in 1941.

When, in 1967, Warner Brothers released their film version of McCullers’ novel, the film bombed terribly. In part this was due to the general conservatism of America as a whole, and partly because Reflections In A Golden Eye wasn’t released in the same manner of distribution as the films of Warhol, Smith, and Anger. The presumed target audience for such a film was not going to be interested in a John Huston film, nor were they going to rush to some “square” theater if a hip and happening alternative theater is showing something more in line with the times (Warhol, Smith and Anger). Or even worse, they wouldn’t want to be seen attending a screening of such a film for fear of being outed.

It does make sense for a Hollywood major to select material like McCullers’ novel to adapt into a film. This is primarily because the novel is so adept at articulating its character’s sense of repression and guilt that it would be easy, while adapting the work, to imbue it with enough heterosexual paranoia as to negate any realistic depiction of queerness, thus continuing to vilify and deride homosexual characters. So where the novel’s focus is clearly the existential crises of identities distorted through social repression, the film recasts the circumstances of the novel to focus instead upon the theme of queerness as subterfuge of traditional heteronormative marriage.

The Penderton stables

Of all of John Huston’s films, Reflections In A Golden Eye is by far the most unusual. He certainly doesn’t appear at first to have been the director most suitable for the material either. Huston’s name, and indeed his legend, centers on the kind of machismo one associates with Ernest Hemingway or Norman Mailer. Huston’s reputation as an auteur had only recently been established by Andrew Sarris in the early sixties. When he made Reflections In A Golden Eye most audiences knew Huston better as a larger than life adventurer who directed such beloved films as The Maltese Falcon (1941) and The Treasure Of The Sierra Madre (1948). What was perhaps Huston’s greatest gift, however, were his abilities as a screenwriter. A talent that Warner Brothers neglected to enlist when adapting McCullers’ novel. The screenplay was penned by Huston’s close friend Gladys Hill (who would work again with Huston on The Man Who Would Be King) and Chapman Mortimer (an alias of Scottish author W.C. Mortimer).

The film Reflections In A Golden Eye centers upon two couples which provide the center of its narrative complex. There is on the one hand Major Weldon Penderton (Marlon Brando) and his wife Leonora Penderton (Elizabeth Taylor) and on the other hand there is Lt. Colonel Morris Langdon (Brian Keith) and his wife Alison Langdon (Julie Harris). Within this primary complex the couples are intimately linked, not by friendship, but sexually; Leonora and Lt. Colonel Langdon are having an affair. Which leads to the next outer ring of the complex. Both Major Penderton and Alison Langdon have found new outlets for their affections that are impossible to physically, and therefore sexually, obtain. Major Penderton longs for Private Williams (Robert Forster) just as Alison longs for Anacleto (Zorro David), her servant.

Alison’s relationship with Anacleto is the most unusual in the film. Her servant is depicted as extremely feminine yet retains a gender ambiguity. However, with blocking Huston conveys another level in the relationship. The compositions of Alison and Anacleto together recall classic depictions of Sapphic love. This suggests that Anacleto, due to his inherent degree of intimacy and his constant proximity as well as his androgyny, is merely a substitute or surrogate for Alison’s lesbian impulses. This relationship goes undetected in the narrative, for Lt. Colonel Langdon is so hostile and homophobic toward Anacleto that he never truly observes his wife’s companion. These are all details concerning Anacleto that are never actually articulated by the character himself. As both Langdons project their unique concepts of Anacleto’s identity on to him, he is destined to remain relatively neglected in the film.

This can also be said with regards to the character of Private Williams. When we are first introduced to Williams in the film he is observed nude, voyeuristically watching the Penderton’s house. As he becomes more daring, eventually breaking in to watch Leonora sleep and steal a kiss, he provokes the attentions of Major Penderton. Williams, like Anacleto, remains relatively abstract and unknown to the audience. Instead we are left only with the reactionary sense of fear provided by both Pendertons and the sexual longing provided only by Major Penderton.

Brando & Keith

This complex, akin to a planet and it’s satellites in orbit, clearly places the idea that it is the queerness of Alison and Major Penderton that has undermined their marriages to the point where their spouses have no recourse other than to have an affair. The result of this chain of cause and effect is brutal and sadistic towards the films queer characters. Alison, with the aid of Anacleto, commits suicide in a sanitarium to which her husband has had her committed as they await their divorce. Likewise, Major Penderton, once exposed, is unable to reaffirm the necessary masculinity to retain either his wife’s respect nor the regard of his fellow officers. Major Penderton, at the end of the film, has been emasculated by his wife, scorned by his fellow officers, and rejected by the object that he desires. In both characters’ cases it is essential to, as with most people practicing a queer or alternative lifestyle during that time, to remain in the closet. This unjust circumstance has the effect of Stockholm Syndrome, where the emotional ties in marriages like the ones depicted in Reflections In A Golden Eye are very real, as is the sense of self-identity that is born out of such emotional intimacy. The film Reflections In A Golden Eye, unlike the novel, casts queerness as a tragedy.

Yet, there is more to Reflections In A Golden Eye than just the dramatic complex of its relationships. Like so many of Huston’s films during his late and most provocative period (commencing in 1964 with Night Of The Iguana and concluding with The Dead in 1987), there exist moments of such truthful visual poetry that entire sequences appear to transcend or entirely re-contextualize the rest of the film. From the start Huston has employed a wide variety of powerful signifiers. First, there are the Penderton’s horses which come to represent fertility, then the Privates’ uniform which represents the facelessness of the unknown, and finally, a thicket that comes to represent crucifixion. Still, the most moving sequence in the film occurs the second time Major Penderton goes riding on his wife’s favorite steed, hoping to catch a glimpse of Private Williams sunbathing in the nude atop a boulder.

The sequence unfolds in a series of long takes, panning with Major Penderton through the woods. Soon, shots of Williams are interspersed, but the framing stays wide. Then, the close up on Penderton’s face. Brando, seemingly doing nothing at all, conveys in a few briefly sustained shots a wellspring of emotions. In Brando’s eyes one can feel the carnal desire, the fear of these desires, and even more the fear of one’s self realized, confronted. What follows is the most disturbing but effective sequence in John Huston’s career: the rebuff, and the thicket in which Penderton becomes terribly scratched, then the beating Penderton administers to his wife’s horse. All these elements provide a climactic and nightmarish catharsis. All of Penderton’s repressed emotions, beautifully communicated by Brando using just his face, come pouring forth powerfully in a violent stream of frustration.

It is tempting to credit the powerful sequence addressed above and its sense of atmosphere that permeates the rest of Reflections In A Golden Eye solely to John Huston, given his adeptness for psychologically intense character investigations as evidenced by Fat City (1972), Wise Blood (1979), and Under The Volcano (1984). But the uniqueness of this moment in the careers of both Marlon Brando and John Huston indicates otherwise. Not to mention the contributions made by cinematographer Aldo Tonti, whose previous credits include films by Roberto Rossellini and Federico Fellini.

Keith, Taylor & Brando

All of Brando’s subsequent scenes in Reflections In A Golden Eye are replete with the same emotional intensity. This enables the film to transcend the script’s queer shaming agenda to become what is probably the most impactful portrait of closeted homosexuality in the mainstream of American cinema until the 1990s. But this makes Reflections In A Golden Eye all the more problematic. The audience has the opportunity to emote with Major Penderton in a way that is denied to Alison and Anacleto. Similarly, Leonora and Lt. Colonel Langdon come of progressively more and more elitist, sleazy, and bigoted. Such characterizations are hardly out of place in a drama set on a military base, but it does signify an obvious preference on Huston’s part for the character of Major Penderton. Essentially, it is a matter of Huston and his collaborators working against the script to do two things. First, to humanize an outsider character that typically would not be allowed to appear so sympathetic and realistic. Secondly, to showcase a major star and celebrity as a means to get away with a sympathetic portrayal of a homosexual.

Brando himself is a major part of the visual complex employed by Huston in Reflections In A Golden Eye. It is uncertain if John Huston was aware of Kenneth Anger’s Scorpio Rising or if he ever saw it. Regardless, the film Jonas Mekas described as “brilliant” upon its premiere provides an association or reference point for the visual schema of Reflections In A Golden Eye. Anger’s sordid tales of biker boy debauchery and satanic euphoria that compose Scorpio Rising employs an image of Marlon Brando, taken from László Benedek’s The Wild One (1953), of the star decked out in tight black leather. The mirror images of Anger’s own biker beauties with that of their idol/ideal metamorphoses the Brando image from The Wild One beyond its original context and into a signifier and fetish item. This fetishized image of Brando is recalled, intentionally or not, in a brief scene in Reflections In A Golden Eye where Brando, wearing an under shirt similar to that which he wore in The Wild One, ogles his biceps in a mirror. So in one instant, Huston is able to re-orient Brando/Penderton as a fellow spectator, idolizing and fetishizing his own image while also re-enforcing, beyond a doubt, the queer potential of the Penderton character.

It should be noted that not only were most homosexuals being oppressed or living closeted lives in 1967, but that even in the wake of Reflections In A Golden Eye filmic depictions of queerness within the mainstream still struggled to escape vilification (or heterosexual male fetishization in the case of lesbian depictions). One of the few depictions of homosexuality in the sixties that was not designed to shame or vilify came two years later; Stanley Donen’s Staircase (1969). Staircase could get away with a more “truthful” or sympathetic depiction of homosexuality than Reflections In A Golden Eye because the two stars (Rex Harrison and Richard Burton) were notorious womanizers that no one could take seriously in the parts of homosexuals (something that couldn’t be said for Brando), the source material had been a hit show for playwright Charles Dyer, and its ad campaign trivialized the subject matter to the point of farce (needless to say, Staircase met with the same fate as Reflections In A Golden Eye at the box office). Filmic depictions of queerness from the sixties that have become popular now like Paul Morrissey’s Flesh (1968) and Shirley Clarke’s Portrait Of Jason (1967) had a severely limited run in American art-houses, thus negating any national exposure and remaining completely inaccessible to most of the gay community. In this way the explicit depictions of homosexuality remained exactly where most of America wanted them in the sixties; in the margins of our society.

-Robert Curry


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Alfred Hitchcock is one of the most highly regarded and popular filmmakers who ever lived.  His aesthetic and narrative tropes are as immediately recognizable signifiers as the music of Bernard Hermann and the face of Cary Grant.  His films Rear Window (1954), North By Northwest (1959), Vertigo (1958), Psycho (1960) and Notorious (1946) are regular staples on critics’ “must see” lists.  Yet somehow the most Hitchcockian film the director ever made, the one that best represents the filmmakers encapsulated film aesthetic is one of his most often over looked films, Marnie (1964).

Adapted from Winston Graham’s novel of the same name by Jay Presson Allen, Marnie concerns itself with the title character (played by Tippi Hedren), a compulsive thief and liar who is morbidly afraid of the male touch.  As she flees one crime scene to find work in Philadelphia at Mark Rutland’s (Sean Connery) publishing firm, she does not expect the rich playboy to blackmail her into marriage.    Despite the fact that the source material is inherently chauvinistic, Hitchcock’s brand of visual storytelling (infamous for its objectification of women) pushes the film into the arena of self-psychoanalysis.

Marnie set piece

Throughout the film the frame isolates parts of Tippi Hedren’s body in long tracking shots, focusing the audience’s gaze.  This technique gives the film an inescapable masculine perspective.  The audience must therefore navigate the narrative from a man’s perspective, regardless of the fact that the film’s narrative arc is a classic example of the thriller sub-genre of “women in trouble” films.  The design of the script calls for our sympathies to lie with Marnie, yet the language of the film insists that a distance is maintained in so far as empathy for Marnie is concerned.  Likewise, Rutland is hardly likeable, manipulating Marnie, objectifying her, and even raping her.  So the entire cast of characters is quickly laid bare as corrupt people with pathological obsessions.  Hitchcock takes these unruly characters and instead of imbuing them with sympathetic traits he presides over the entire affair as a sort of objective spectator, willing his observations onto the audience, and by proxy revealing himself to be equitable at times with both Marnie and Rutland.

Hitchcock in his choosing of how information and what information is presented to the audience transform each character, at different times in Marnie, into a mouthpiece for his own views.  For instance, there is a paradox at work throughout the film, given voice by each sex and in opposition of the other.  Consider Marnie’s exchange with her mother (Louise Latham) early in the film.  Both women agree that men are “worthless”, and that a “real lady” has no need of men.  This is the philosophy of Marnie, which dictates every interaction she has with a male character in the film.  In opposition to the feminine perspective is Mark Rutland, amateur zoologist, who equates women with predators, a class of animal he terms as “nature’s criminal element”.  Rutland’s ideas of femininity explain his masculine desire to contain and control Marnie, directing her every action in much the same way as Hitchcock himself directed actresses.  This paradox is not a subtext in Marnie; both sides of the argument are equally celebrated so that the paradox itself becomes the point of the film and the viewing of the film as kind of meditation on this paradox.

This paradox is also central to the male and female relationships in Rear Window and North By Northwest, but to a considerably lesser degree.  The superficial tone of its treatment in Marnie, coupled with the film’s visual style constructs an insular world of highly stylized action and behavior more akin to a dream state than anything Hitchcock had done since his film Spellbound (1945).  All of these components that work to make Marnie exist within a separate insular world are indicative of a cinematic trend Hitchcock observed during his time working for Fritz Lang in the 1920s, German Expressionism.

The implementation of rear projection and matte paintings, and their deliberate obvious artifice coupled with a heavy use of shadow recall the Expressionist development of a cinematic world that exists exclusively within a character’s mind, most notably in Robert Wiene’s The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920).  In the case of Marnie, the mind in which the film’s world and narrative exists is Hitchcock’s.  In this way Marnie is the acclaimed director’s most reflexive film in which the artifice of narrative filmmaking is perverted to directly correlate to a heighten extreme with the psychosis of the film’s author, becoming a self-portrait in themes.  Of course this sounds like Andrew Sarris’ take on the French Auteur Theory, but that theory was not designed to accommodate an extreme case such as Marnie.  One could even go so far as to compare Marnie and its position to Hitchcock with that of Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s Epilogue to Berlin Alexanderplatz (1980).

The heightened stylization I speak of is most evident in two sequences in Marnie.  The first is the rape scene.  During their honeymoon, Rutland forces himself on Marnie.  The space between the two characters is exaggerated; neither appears with the other in a single shot.  Hitchcock cuts from a close-up of Rutland to one of Marnie.  Rutland’s close-up is ominous and bathed in shadows as his face moves toward the camera and into soft focus.  In contrast, the images of Tippi Hedren are idealized, flatly lit to flatter her beauty, and framed to suggest as much nudity as the censors would allow.  Marnie’s expression is frozen in horror or disgust, and she makes no variation to this expression just as the shot itself never varies.  In this way the masculine image is dominating, aggressive, and mysterious.  The female image is one of idolized unchanging beauty.  In the vernacular of Hitchcock’s cinema, both represent their subjects’ ideal, and therefore are representative of Hitchcock’s view of the sex as a whole.

Tippi Hedren as Marnie

The second notable sequence is the flashback at the end of the film.  The camera move at the beginning of this sequence is a deliberate reference to Michael Powell’s Peeping Tom (1960) to which Hitchcock’s own Psycho has often been compared.  This shot establishes a psychological subjectivity to memory recall, and sets this sequence apart from the world of the rest of the film.  This sequence cuts back and forth between film present and flashbacks, with overlapping sound.  The characters in the flashback are framed much like the figures in Eisenstein’s Bezhin Meadow (1937), with portions cropped by the frame.  The quick cuts isolate body parts and actions, creating an obscure and disjointed visual narrative that is held together only by the sound design.  Once the child Marnie has murdered the sailor, the camera cuts to a trickle of blood on the floor, panning to reveal more blood, until the entire screen turns red and glows with the color, finally cutting back to Tippi Hedren as Marnie.  The red flashes in the film, of which this is the last, are signifiers meant to represent when Marnie has been motivated to fulfill the conditions of her pathology.  This flashback sequence also establishes that it is Marnie’s mother who is responsible fore her daughter’s pathological condition, and is thus a continuation of Hitchcock’s treatment of mothers as villains begetting villains.

The most disturbing part of Marnie is the film’s resolution.  After Marnie has come to terms with her half remembered past, she is prepared to surrender herself to Rutland.  Rutland’s terms are those of total ownership, and represent a rejection on Marnie’s part of female independence in preference of being the captive trophy wife of Sean Connery.  There can be no doubt that this resolution represents Hitchcock’s idea of how women should behave and what it is they should strive for.  But for all of these disturbing sociological elements at work in Marnie, one can also not deny that it is Hitchcock to an extreme, representative of his most honest and personal expression.

-Robert Curry

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