Tag: Fay Wray

Viva Villa! (1934)

Despite some impressive moments, this largely fictional epic veers wildly in tone from scene to scene

Director: Jack L Conway

Cast: Wallace Beery (Pancho Villa), Leo Carrillo (Sierre), Fay Wray (Teresa), Donald Woods (Don Felipe), Stuart Erwin (Johnny Sykes), Henry B Walthall (Francesco Madero), Joseph Schildkraut (General Pascal), Katherine de Mille (Rosita), George E Stone (Emilio Chavita)

It’s not often a historical epic opens with text explaining pretty much everything you about to see in it is made up. But that’s what you get with Viva Villa!, nominally about the life of Pancho Villa, but so unconnected to real events that the Mexican government (who hosted a fair bit of the filming) called for it to be boycotted. This didn’t stop Viva Villa! becoming the biggest box-office hit of the year. This feels like bit of a mystery today with its strange mix of broad comedy, historical sweep and surrealist darkness. In other hands, it might have been a masterpiece (perhaps Howard Hawks’ hands, if David O Selznick hadn’t fired him and hired placemen Conway), but here it’s merely a competently executed semi-epic that works best if you accept its fictional.

As a boy, Pancho Villa (Wallace Beery) watched his father whipped to death by the Spanish Dons that rule the roost in Mexico. Now it’s the 1910s, and Pancho is a brutal bandit dishing out vigilante justice to the peasant’s oppressors. It takes a gentle man of vision, Francesco Madero (Henry B Walthall), to convince him there are better things to fight for than just grabbing a wife in every town. Pancho joins the revolution, helps place Madero on the (Presidential) throne – only to have his rival General Pascal (Joseph Schildkraut) orchestrate his banishment. But, when Pascal murders Madero, nothing is going to stop Pancho returning to wreak vengeance and bring justice.

Viva Villa may be, tonely, a very confused film (of which more later), but it undeniably has several moments of grand filming, James Wong Howe’s photography is a gorgeous parade of shadows, with scenes such as Villa’s unilateral execution of a parade of officials playing out with stream of light pouring from a window to cast gigantic shadows of hands and weapons on the walls behind them. Later war sequences, featuring further firing squads and executions, have a Goya feel to them with their thunderous dark lighting and towering shadows. The on-location shooting is impressively grand – so much so, it shows up the painfully unconvincing back projection that places Beery and others in front of troops of real armies.

However, the film never quite decides what to do with its hero (anti-hero?). Wallace Beery basically plays the same character he did in The Big House (but with a painful Mexeecan accent): a not-too-bright lug, with a capacity for violence and a childish sense of loyalty. The film never quite knows what to do with him. He’s introduced like a sort of Mussolini-strong man, cracking smiles when he has a group of “just following orders” officials gunned down in front of a ‘jury’ of recently executed peasants they have (not surprisingly) failed to convince. Like some sort of randy Speedy Gonzalez, there is a lot of fun had at his taking a wife in every town. He excuses his campaign of brutal violence during the revolution with a cheeky smile, like he’s been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. He leers over Fay Wray’s Teresa like a second King Kong and frequently kills with a smile and no second thoughts. He’s a ferocious force of destruction.

But then he’s given moments of genuine heroism. He accepts his banishment with a wry shrug. His loyalty is as highly praised as his “don’t take your hats off to me” egalitarianism. He’s presented as the sort of incorruptible, plain-speaker the country seems to need to solve its problems. Ahistorically becoming President, he remains uncorrupted, talks down his suitability for the job and humbly plays down his achievements – all while doing everything he can to protect those peasants rights. At moments like this, he’s less a chillingly ruthless men capable of great violence but a lovable rogue, bashfully pinching a minor treasure from the Presidential palace. But then he’s also a guy who a few moments earlier made an enemy for life by whipping Fay Wray half-to-death in a fit of frustrated lust (another scene making marvellous use of shadows).

There is no coherence to this: it feels like Villa is whatever the scene requires him to be in the moment. Moments of comedy land a bit awkwardly, when we’ve watched Pancho gun down a relatively inoffensive bank manager. And, vampish as Wray is, she hardly deserves her fate or the general indifference Pancho meets it with. The tone shifts feel awkward and jarring, just as the shifting of Pancho’s character feels random and calculated moment-by-moment. You can say the same for Madero, played with a wispy gentleness by Henry B Walthall: he’s partly a sort of secular-saint (with his own gently inspiring music), partly a naïve, weedy weakling who literally needs someone else to open his heavy office door whose enemies run rings run round him. At least Joseph Schildkraut, a preeningly camp villain caked in brown make-up, has a consistent character (even if its two dimensional) as an unashamedly selfish general, jealous of how much Pancho’s men love him. Similarly, socialist journalist John Reed is reimagined here in a tediously crude performance by Stuart Erwin as a barely competent drunkard.

It’s all part of what is a big, brash, crude epic that frequently aims for the crude, comic angles it can find whenever it can. Which is odd, as I say, for a film with such a ruthlessly high body-count (everyone from countless prisoners of war, weeping officials and even an inoffensive bank manager gets it) and has its vampish female lead fend off possible rape by our hero only to be beaten in silhouette and accidentally shot. What becomes clear in fact as it goes on, is that it seems to see Mexico as a country of wild, destructive children – like a sort of Lord of the Flies among the revolutionary set. Every Mexican character in it, except Manduro, is basically dirty, none-to-bright and impetuous (needless to say none of them are played by actual Mexicans).

Which, when you think about it, is a little uncomfortable (not helped by the fact the Spanish Dons – the likes of Donald Woods – all speak with comfortably refined mid-Atlantic accents). In that context, it’s less of a surprise to remember that the Mexican government basically banned it. There are several handsome moments of filming, and its scale is impressive, but with its tone varying wildly and a Beery lead performance that feels oddly out of place it only rarely works as well as it should.

The Most Dangerous Game (1932)

Manhunting takes on a new meaning, in this punchy, influential horror-thriller that launched a whole genre

Director: Ernest B. Schoedsack, Irving Pichel

Cast: Joel McCrea (Bob Rainsford), Fay Wray (Eve Trowbridge), Robert Armstrong (Martin Trowbridge), Leslie Banks (Count Zahoff), Noble Johnson (Ivan), Steve Clemente (Tartar), William Davidson (Captain)

It’s man of course. Adapted from Richard Connell’s iconic short story, The Most Dangerous Game sees famous big-game hunter Bob Rainsford (Joel McCrea) washed up on jungle island in the middle of the ocean. He finds a Gothic castle, home to White Russian aristocrat Count Zahoff (Leslie Banks). Zahoff is an overblown egotist with a hunting obsession. He seems an urbane, generous – if sinister – host. But what’s behind that locked iron door? If he’s such a passionate hunter where are all his trophies? And why do people keep getting ship-wrecked and disappearing on his island?

The Most Dangerous Game is staged in a trim 63 minutes, with much of the first half being build-up towards the extended chase sequence that fills it’s second half. The film kickstarted a genre of “manhunt” films, which would take its ideas (and violence) much further. On its release, many of the shots of Zahoff’s human trophy room (with its mounted and pickled heads and his grim, wry commentary of the fates each met on his hunt) were cut, and the first victim, drunken buffoon Martin Trowbridge (Robert Armstrong) is killed off camera. That’s not to say the violence is avoided as the film’s final battle features snapped spines, stabbings and death by bloody-thirsty hounds.

It all makes for an exciting film, told with whipper-sharp pace. This is especially surprising considering how relatively slowly it starts, with Rainsford and his friends chatting about the ethics of hunting (oh the irony!) on their luxury yacht before it sails into Zahoff’s booby trap. Any idea we are in for a staid journey is quickly dispelled as Rainsford’s two fellow survivors are swiftly gutted by sharks, forcing him to swim for shore and the striking, immersive jungle set.

The Most Dangerous Game was shot on the same sets as King Kong – either concurrently or as a test for design work for that classic, depending on who you ask. Schoedsack would go on to direct that – and bring along Wray, Armstrong and several other members of the cast – and TMDG is a wonderful initial try-out for Kong. You can even recognise shots and settings from that film, while the film’s wonderful use of tracking shots, careful editing and superb whip-pans as hunter and hunted charge through the bushes makes for brilliant dramatic tension in its own right.

That’s after we’ve had the odd gothic, horror-tinged oddness of Zahoff’s castle. Zahoff’s trophy room is somewhere between medieval torture chamber (a sort of iron maiden device seems to be the main persuader Zahoff users to get guests to join in ‘the game’) and haunted house, with pickled heads bubbling in jars. The house itself is intimidating, huge in scale with rooms decorated with blood-thirsty hunting tableaus inspired by myths and legends.

It all matches Zahoff’s own OTT grandness. Played, in a remarkable film debut, by Leslie Banks, Zahoff is a truly iconic villain. Banks, a war veteran with striking scars and half of whose face had been paralysed, is a mesmeric, captivating presence whose eyes shine with obsessive indifference and sadistic glee. Spending his nights pontificating to his guests – who he treats with snobby disdain – he’s also a braggart and a cheat. He talks a good game of giving his guests a “fair chance” – but arms them only with a knife, while he has a bow and arrow and rifle (not to mention a team of dogs and three burly, violent, Tartar servants). Banks plays the role to the absolute hilt, dressed in stormtrooper black, a riotous operatic grandness just the right side of camp, relishing every second.

He soaks up most of the interest in the film. Joel McCrea is left with little to do but to look wary – although the revenge-soaked fury he returns with in the film’s violent denouement is effective. Fay Wray adds a lot of charm to the film in this early trial as scream queen. Robert Armstrong tries the nerves a little too much as her drunken brother, overplaying the comic stumbling. But the relative grounded normality of McCrea and Wray is needed for us to stick with them when they are reduced to fleeing through the jungle to escape the maniacal eyes of Banks.

Zahoff of course wants to get the respect of noted hunter Rainsford, but that doesn’t stop him frequently cheating in their battle of wills. He’s smart enough to dodge Rainsford’s traps, but doesn’t hesitate to unleash his hounds or leave (what he believes to be) the killing blow to someone else. It’s a nice beat to remind us that, for all his big speeches, Zahoff is an inadequate bully desperate to be the legend he claims to be.

It’s something we grow aware of throughout the film’s momentum packed second half, essentially a wild chase through the jungle with Rainsford and Eve desperately trying everything to stay one step ahead (the original story didn’t include a female character, but it’s a wonderful insertion which helps humanise Rainsford considerably compared to Zahoff). The unrelenting action, expertly shot, is undeniably exciting (even if we expect, based on its successors, a higher number of innocents being chased to meet fatal deaths) helping to make TMDG one of the most influential B-movies around.

King Kong (1933)

The end of an unsuccessful New York vacation in King Kong

Director: Melville C Cooper, Ernest B. Schoedsack

Cast: Fay Wray (Ann Darrow), Robert Armstrong (Carl Denham), Bruce Cabot (Jack Driscoll), Frank Reicher (Captain Englehorn), Sam Hardy (Charles Weston), Noble Johnson (Native Chief), Steve Clemente (Witch king), Victor Wong (Charlie)

Of course, Citizen Kane is possibly the greatest and most influential film ever made. But, let’s be honest the paw prints of Kong is what we see most often in the latest Hollywood blockbuster. Kong may have met his end atop the Statue of Liberty (a death the poster spoiled), but his children are everywhere, from Alien to Jurassic Park to Avengers: Endgame. King Kong basically sets the template for special effects movies and Hollywood has almost been remaking it, in some way shape or form, for almost ninety years. But few films can match its momentum, action – or above all the heart it gives to its beast.

Carl Denham (Robert Armstrong) is a Hollywood director who has a plan to make his next film a huge success. He’s got a map to Skull Island (no need to worry with that name) where he’s heard rumour that a mighty creature is just waiting to star in his next film. Denham needs a female lead – so plucks Ann Darrow (Fay Wray) off the streets promising her the adventure of a lifetime. During the voyage to the island, she falls in love with first mate Jack Driscoll (Bruce Cabot). On arrival at the island they find a tribe of ferocious narratives, who kidnap Ann intending to sacrifice her to their god Kong – a massive gorilla. Instead Kong falls for Ann and carries her into the jungle. When Driscoll and Denham go to save her they find Skull Island is a dangerous place (who knew!), stuffed with brutal dinosaurs and scary beasts – and that Kong himself has no plans to give Ann back.

King Kong’s final hour is essentially little more than a stream of action scenes. However, few action films since have paced its action as well as this film does. With special effects by Willis O’Brien, one of the earliest masters of stop-motion, Kong in turn takes on a T-Rex, a pterodactyl, a village of natives and then most of New York in a series of escalating and dramatic sequences which use all the tricks Hollywood had, from animation to models and back projection. Each of these sequences are perfectly done and carry the sort of awe that stop-motion animation can project – all those hours of work! – helped by the successful (and brilliantly clever) use of back-projection to have these battling beasts seeming to tower over the human cast. You can imagine how thrilling it must have been – I’m not sure anything like this had been seen before.

But the film has really lasted because Willis O’Brien’s skill is to add humanity and sensitivity to Kong himself. There is a reason why Peter Jackson (director of the sensitive but overextended remake) talked of weeping when he saw Kong meet his end. From almost the very first shot, Cooper and O’Brien cut to Kong’s eyes, which have a surprising soulfulness to them. And after all what does Kong really do wrong in this film? He is perfectly happy on Skull Island – he even only attacks other creatures when they make the move on him – he has no desire to go to New York and spends half the film trying to protect Ann from danger (not that she thanks him for it). The animation takes several moments to create the soul in Kong – from the ripples of his fur to his curious inclines of the head. After defeating creatures, he curiously picks up their crushed bodies, as if surprised to find them unresponsive. He gently moves Ann. There is a sort of innocence to him. After all what is he but a small-town guy who heads to the big city and falls for the wrong gal?

As such it’s rather hard not to root for him – or feel his pain (and shock) when attacked by planes at the top of the Empire State Building. You can see in Kong’s eyes the lack of understanding about what these metal objects are that are punching through his skin. The shooting gallery is tinged with tragedy – and it’s hard not to cheer when Kong manages to take one of these planes down. For all his fierceness, Kong seems like a real person, a vulnerable guy taken out of his depth against his will. The cruelty of exploiting Kong for Broadway ticket sales, as Denham plans to do, seems particularly un-just. It brilliantly allows us to get the best of both worlds: we can enjoy the spectacle of the wild animal Kong snapping the jaws of T-Rexs but we also feel for him as a confused and frightened animal put to death in a world he doesn’t understand.

Perhaps its easier to sympathise with Kong because so many of the human characters in it barely register. The first forty minutes is low-key – and often frankly rather flat – competently filmed but fairly-stiff build-up, carefully (and at times rather pointedly) establishing the situation and themes. None of the actors make much an impression (not helped that the second half of the film is so Kong focused that they hardly have a line to share). Robert Armstrong is effectively arrogant and ambitious as Denham. Bruce Cabot is pretty wooden as Driscoll (his first film after being recruited from the studio doorman staff, he has said he essentially stood where he was told and that was it). Fay Wray has a certain sweetness and charm as Ann, but barely opens her mouth other than to scream after the first forty minutes (in a neat bit of wit, her rehearsal on ship is standing still and practising screaming silently at an object she can’t see). With its blundering Hollywood director at the heart of all the chaos, King Kong could also be one of the first Hollywood satires.

Intentionally or not the film has an imperialism to it. Denham is an arrogant man out of his depth – although I am not sure how far the film is aware of this – and the crew come across as arrogant and clueless, blundering into a wild environment with an armed over-confidence (that quickly gets them all killed – most of them tumbling to their doom with an almost sickening rag doll snap after a meeting with Kong). You can sense that as well in the awkward lack of PC in framing the (black) residents of Skull Island as blood-thirsty savages with a lust for human sacrifice. However, with its eventual sympathy for Kong, there is enough here to allow the viewer to read into it a certain amount of post-colonial criticism of this sort of H Rider Haggard meets Arthur Conan Doyle world.

The film is very proud of its “Twas beauty that killed the beast” concept (it’s repeated numerous times in the film – not least most famously at the end) – but it’s an idea that is already framing Kong as the victim. So, for all the triumph of the design – the production design is stunning, rarely have Hollywood back lots looked as good – and the awe of Kong, the idea of him as a victim is there from the start.

A lot of that awe though comes from possibly the film’s MVP: Max Steiner. King Kong is one of the first films to use a full orchestral score and the music is vital to adding heft, drama and danger to this stop-motion beast. Steiner’s score superbly uses motifs to build Kong’s presence and operatic crescendos that brilliantly heighten the drama. It’s certainly one of the most influential scores ever written – and it’s impact on film history is so lasting, that watching the film today you take it’s revolutionary nature for granted, so often has the way of using music become part of our accepted cinematic language.

King Kong lasts because of the awe it builds for the monster, but also the way we start to feel for him. Complimented by the professional skill of Cooper and Schoedsack’s direction, King Kong still grips today, for all that you need to read into it more depth than is (perhaps) there. But depth isn’t what made Kong great. It was the excitement and drama of the spectacle – and its so exciting you barely notice that Kong dramatically increases in scale as the film continues. And while special effects have moved on, the power of what’s presented here hasn’t. Deserves to be listed as one of the most influential films ever made.