A Hollywood man with unusual dedication to intellectualism
and the arts, Albert Lewin wrote more than directed, but his 6 completed films
as director betray a pleasingly antagonistic thorn that pushed through
philosophical, painterly, literary, spiritual and archaeological themes right under
the noses of strict studio types to achieve some highly original and
fascinating work.
The Moon and Sixpence (1942)
An astounding debut and as perfect a piece of filmmaking as
Lewin achieved alongside The Private Affairs of Bel Ami, both of which star
silky voiced George Sanders, although his performance here is particularly
brilliant. In both he is cast as ‘the unmitigated cad’, a character type that
he would become indelibly linked with throughout his career and life and, as
Strickland the stockbroker who leaves his wife and child to become a painter (based
on Somerset Maugham’s loose depiction of Paul Gaugin), he certainly earns the
reputation with his utterly callous disregard for all humanity – especially women.
The film is bookended by text that tentatively defends the unleashing of such
an unabashedly amoral character as a hero but, as would continue to be the case
with Lewin protagonists, there is far more complexity at hand than the controversial
behaviours and statements would simplistically bind them to. Sanders performs
this complexity beautifully, with the depths of his talent revealed in the
moments when Strickland finds his very Lewin form of redemption – true love is
his unexpected salvation and is seen in his expression, a softening, along with
regret and fear at the prospect of losing something that finally means
something to him.
The Picture of Dorian Gray (1945)
A wonderful adaptation and Lewin’s darkest film, the director
continued to push through scandalous events and characters in to mainstream
cinema in a manner that may well have delighted Oscar Wilde. Hurd Hatfield is
chilling as the icily beautiful Dorian and George Sanders appears again as the
cad (Lord Wotton), but this time as one whose self-satisfaction is tolerated in
a high society populated by other individuals who are not much better. Regrettably
for Dorian and his victims, the young man adopts Wotton’s philosophy of pursuing
self pleasure at all costs and obsession with the armour of youth against
consequences for one’s actions, to the point that a painting absorbs his
corruption while he engages in wicked deeds and remains visibly youthful – and therefore
superficially innocent to those around him. The titular painting is revealed in
all its horror in colour, and an excellent representation of Wilde’s dastardly
vision of human corruption it is. This would be one of many recurring motifs,
seen before in The Moon and Sixpence and after in The Private Affairs of Bel
Ami. Significant also is the destruction of painted artworks, linking indelibly
the power of art with life and death.
The Private Affairs of Bel Ami (1947)
Perhaps Lewin’s most flawless filmic construction, The Private Affairs of Bel Ami is a delight, even as it once again features a ‘hero’ whose actions are relentlessly condemnable. Sanders is our dreadful man again, but continues to be compelling enough to capture our attention and even dare us to pity him in the end. This is owed as much however, to the clever and captivating women around him as anything, who fall in love with him, tolerate him and hate him in his journey to assert himself with power, influence and wealth in late 19th century Paris. Angela Lansbury reappears from The Picture of Dorian Gray and is phenomenal as Clodette, a witty, beautiful and whole-hearted woman who would be Bel Ami’s salvation if he wasn’t so greedy and ambitious as to not allow himself to accept it – before it’s too late.
Pandora and the Flying Dutchman (1951)
Beautiful, mystical, sensuous madness sumptuously
photographed by Jack Cardiff, Pandora and the Flying Dutchman is a beguiling
artefact of movie history and what could be done with a 1950s screen goddess
and a darkly romantic surreal fantasy. Although seemingly a leap from the
elaborate parlour games, wicked male objects of desire, and black and white
photography of Lewin’s first three films, the lavish Technicolor and mystical
women that would mark the difference between them and his latter three are minor diversions from
what would still clearly be an autueristic continuance. Entering 1950s Hollywood
with a colourful and passionate bang there are nevertheless recognisable themes
of love, fate and death uniting to guide our flawed characters to their inevitable
destiny. Again a painted portrait and it’s ‘destruction’ features, and although
Lewin was accused of overly wordy dialogue, his love of silent film is in
effect. This we understand better when we consider his use of voiceover
narration, an element employed to allow visuals to play out uninterrupted and
to provide significant depth to the actors’ performances.
Saadia (1953)
Superficially, Saadia could be mistaken for standard
Hollywood fare, revolving as it does around a love triangle and episodes of
adventure in an exotic land, but this is perhaps more to do with the
foregrounding of certain elements against the original wishes of Lewin. More
interesting are the finer details, recurring themes from Lewin’s previous
films, and the regrettably diminished part of a sorceress who has a disturbing
obsession with the lead character. This part was cut down by the studio to
foreground the love triangle, leaving the film unbalanced in terms of plot and
character. As a result, the views of the two male characters hold sway when they
otherwise would have provided an interestingly repressed counterpoint to the
feverish and startling performance by Wanda Rotha as Fatima the sorceress, and also
Rita Gam’s charismatic turn as Saadia, whose bravery and skill that is directly
related to her Berber heritage is as crucial to events as the French doctor’s
medicine and the Caid’s power as a respected local authority. Patience is
required for some of the stilted performances and dialogue, but it is well
worth seeing for another spirited and inspiring female performance, some
beguilingly beautiful cinematography, and authentic celebration of traditional
Moroccan culture. It also features a resolution to romantic complications that,
without compromising Lewin’s sensitivity to complex human relations, is more
happily worked through.
The Living Idol (1957)
Lewin’s latter films have been regrettably dismissed, even
by his fans and the man himself. However, Saadia and The Living Idol are
not nearly so bad – at the least, they continue to be intriguingly unusual
diversions from the norm, and they are in fact quite entertaining and feature
Lewin’s characteristic attention to female characters that are vulnerable to outside
forces but that demonstrate great fortitude and resilience in the face of it. As
in his previous films, there are two characters that debate and tussle over one
realm that would appear to deal solely with the emotional and fantastical, the
selfish and the willful, against the pragmatic, the scientific and the political,
while meanwhile in their midst is one who brings it all together through their very
being, unintentionally or deliberately. All are pawns (chess and marionettes are
other consistent recurring motifs), but Juanita shares with Strickland, Dorian,
Bel Ami, Pandora and Saadia the proof of natural – or supernatural? – beings that
are propelled upon a journey of destiny, linked to art, symbolism and culture
that is universal, if realised in seemingly unique ways. Juanita is guided to repeat
the rituals of her ancestors in order to face her demons, much as she and
others repeat the actions of former Lewin characters, uniting a fascinating
little group of films that deserve more attention than they have been assigned.
Conclusion - Lewin’s sometimes seemingly flippant address to
what is deemed most serious in life – predominantly death – was occasionally dismissed
as an irony that let down the profound points he was trying to integrate in to
his Hollywood films. I would argue that in misunderstanding the style, the point
is inevitably misunderstood. Lewin addressed the inevitability of death, as
well as the complacent value placed in life, and linked it to the power of the
visual and to objects loaded with symbolism. He also depicted some of the most passionate tributes
to love ever seen on screen, which in itself would appear to counter any argument
that he was only dispassionately ironic. Instead, one of the many things that
Lewin seemed to understand, was that appreciation of love and life in its
deepest sense could perhaps only be truly understood by its momentous place
next to the triviality of death.
