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Strange, as in MGM-megastars-foregoing-makeup-for-wacky-religious-parable strange. A Guiana penal colony provides the setting, and "a good time for blasphemy." Clark Gable emerges out of the darkness of solitary confinement, stubbly and shivering but determined to break out. Joan Crawford materializes still in her Sadie Thompson getup, the two engage in a bit of ankle-grabbing raciness ("You hate hard, baby, so you love hard") before the Messiah-in-disguise tale kicks in. The brute (Albert Dekker), the "kid" (John Arledge), the serial wife-poisoner (Paul Lukas) and the desperate religionist (Eduardo Ciannelli) are among the fugitives, the porcine informant (Peter Lorre) peeps from the sidelines. Along for the ride is the Enigmatic One (Ian Hunter), beatific gaze and all: "I've been around. Maybe we just haven't made connections yet." A moment of peaceful clarity right before death is his gift, in his presence even the tough saloon-gal familiar with the salvation routine ("It ends with the Bible in one hand and me in the other") grows hungry for transcendence. True epiphanies amid "tin-horn prophecies," Frank Borzage navigates the troupe of visionaries and devils through the jungle (one marvelous panning shot of Gable and Crawford crossing a swamp casually spots an alligator heading their way as the heroine adjusts her hat) and onto a claustrophobic sailboat. At its most delirious, his blend of sensuality and spirituality is attuned to equatorial heat and madness. Despite the pious traps it sets for itself, it's a remarkably open film: Dekker and Arledge are viewed as a couple that parallels (rather than contrasts with) the protagonists, while Lukas' sardonic Bluebeard is allowed to slip into the night, unpunished and unredeemed (though not without a chill right out of Bernanos). Buñuel's La Mort en ce Jardin is a keen, mocking study. With J. Edward Bromberg, Frederick Worlock, and Bernard Nedell. In black and white.
--- Fernando F. Croce |