Featuring early roles for David Niven and George Sanders, the brisk drama Four Men and a Prayer (1938) proves most notable as a stepping stone for director John Ford. Released in 1938, the film came one year before his trifecta of Oscar-nominated successes in 1939 (Stagecoach, Young Mr. Lincoln, and Drums Along the Mohawk), two of which saw the real start of his dabbling in westerns, the genre that seems to dominate discussion of his career now.

Four Men and a Prayer, an adaptation of a David Garth novel, opens with Colonel Loring Leigh (C. Aubrey Smith) being dishonourably discharged from the British Army for having issued an order that allowed munitions to be brought to a tribe that were then responsible for massacring Leigh’s own troops. He intends to show his four sons evidence that these orders were issued by someone else, a person working with a munitions syndicate that forged the go ahead. His sons include Geoffrey (Richard Greene), who works at the British Embassy in Washington, aviator playboy Christopher (Niven), London barrister Wyatt (Sanders), and Oxford student Rodney (William Henry).

Before being able to show the evidence, Leigh dies from a gunshot in a chair at home. The press declare it a suicide, but his sons suspect murder and seek to clear their father’s name and bring justice to his killer. A sprawling saga ensues across Britain, the USA, India, South America and Egypt, with a rich American society matron (the top-billed Loretta Young) being one of several key figures who become entangled in the boys’ quest.

The film is served well by a game, charming cast, and Ford’s snappy direction aids the brisk narrative; some hard-hitting moments of graphic violence also stand out, including a bridge of people being cut down by machine gunfire. That being said, the story itself never proves all that interesting despite the impact of certain individual scenes.

An irksome attribute of the film is how it makes light of British imperialism, and only makes the occasional comment against the arms businesses causing misery for those the narrative largely whitewashes. As appealing as some of the characters can be, it’s difficult to fully get behind a tale, framed against backdrops of noticeable turmoil, in which restoring the honour of a wealthy, respectable British family is depicted as the most important thing above all.

No Extras

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Josh has awarded Four Men and a Prayer (1938) on DVD three Torches of Truth

As Oz the Great and Powerful is released to DVD and Blu-ray this week our Editor in Chief has a few issues to iron out with Glinda – the Bitch of the North. 

I’ve always been deeply suspicious of Glinda from the Wizard of Oz (1939). In fact, that’s an understatement. She has always seemed, to me, the equivalent of a catty girl friend who smiles and says: “you look pretty” when in reality you have unwittingly smudged lipstick on your teeth. She wouldn’t tell you about a ladder in your tights either. She’s a manipulator; a schemer – she’s the kind of person Louise Redknapp was singing about in her hit song: 2 Faced. And I can prove it.

In his BFI Film Classics volume on The Wizard of Oz, Salman Rushdie asks a pertinent question: “Of the two witches, good and bad, can there be anyone who’d choose to spend 5 minutes with Glinda?” He references her overly-powdered face, her “smile that seems to have jammed” and asserts that she is a “trilling pain in the neck.” Furthermore, Rushdie claims that she belittles women who are less conventionally beautiful than she: “only bad witches are ugly” whilst the Wicked Witch is off avenging the death of her sister, showing a close kinship with her family and fellow womenfolk. Although I agree with everything Rushdie has to say in his work, being grating and a little bit shallow are the least of Glinda’s problems. For a start, she doesn’t fight her own battles.

When Dorothy crash lands on the Wicked Witch of the East, undeniably committing manslaughter but apparently that’s okay because it was a witch, Glinda makes Dorothy an instant enemy of the Wicked Witch by magicking the ruby slippers on to her feet. Now, as well as accidentally killing the sister of the sole surviving bad witch she’s also forced to clomp about in the dead woman’s shoes – that wouldn’t go down well with anyone, let alone a wicked witch. Those shoes are Westie’s rightful inheritance and Dorothy is getting yellow brick dust all over them. Glinda could have teleported the shoes onto her own feet but instead she decided to let Dorothy take the fall, a move which ultimately leads to Dorothy’s life being endangered and to her murdering in cold blood. Or cold tap water if you’re of a literal mindset. Thanks a lot Glinda.

Perhaps Glinda’s cowardice would be forgivable, Margaret Hamilton is pretty scary, if she didn’t then send Dorothy off on a completely unnecessary wild goose chase to the wizard when, apparently, she had the power to go back home to Kansas all along. Don’t forget that Dorothy is, at this time, deeply concerned about the impact of her absence on Auntie Em and Uncle Henry after Professor Marvel’s well-meaning but deeply deceptive vision (the main moral of The Wizard of Oz is that grown ups are useless liars by the way – especially men). She wants to get home as quickly as possible to reassure her guardians of her safety but Glinda has other ideas and decides a scenic trip to the Emerald City is a much better idea. She conveniently forgets to mention the poisonous poppy fields, the fire-ball throwing witches, the winged monkeys and, perhaps most importantly given that Dorothy wants to see the wizard, that the wizard doesn’t accept visitors.

Again, all this could have been explained away if Glinda  at the end of the story had, for once in her life, been up front about her motives. “I could see you were the only one who could defeat the Witch of the East” she could have said “and so I used the promise of going home to motivate you.” Or even: “You clearly come from a small town and I thought that the journey on the yellow brick road would teach you some valuable life lessons and help you grow as a person.” When the Scarecrow, quite rightly, probes her over why she didn’t tell Dorothy she had the power to go home all along however, Glinda simply replies: “Because she wouldn’t have believed me.” Er. Hang about there Powderella. When crash-landing in an unfamiliar environment is it not logical to take directions from knowledgeable locals? I’m pretty sure if you’d said to Dorothy: “Just click those magic slippers 3 times and think of home” she’d have been naive and desperate enough to do it. You had other designs on her naivity though, didn’t you Glinda? You basically wanted her to carry out an assassination that seemingly leaves you as the only important political figure in the land of Oz (save the Wizard who you knew was useless anyway and thus easy to overthrow for yourself). You used Dorothy to become a tyrannical dictator. Admit it!

Given the existence of the musical Wicked, and what Rushdie and other writers have contributed to this line of thought, it’s evident that I’m not the first person to feel this way towards the Powdered One. The release of the prequel film has, however, made hating Glinda even easier. Michelle Williams is beautiful in this film; that’s not up for debate – she’s wears an awesome tiara and there’s not a powder compact in sight – but Glinda’s early character arch makes the actions of Billie Burke’s Glinda in the 1939 film all the more sinister.

Before the release of Oz the Great and Powerful, we could have at least tried to convince ourselves that Glinda, just like all the other residents in Oz, didn’t know what an utter fraud the wizard really was. We wouldn’t have really bought it, but it was an option for us. Now we know that in her youth she not only discovered that Oz was bluffing all along, but that she actively encouraged him to deceive the whole kingdom in order to gain control over its riches and military power. Clearly, this was all part of her  master plan to eventually seize control for herself, she even uses her sexual power over him to seal the deal. Well, alright they only kiss.  But I’m pretty sure it’s a kiss symbolising something a bit more risque that you can’t really put into a 12A film. Step 1 of plan to take over the world: get boyfriend to manipulate his way onto the throne of Oz. Check!

To conclude, before this becomes a thesis-length rant rather than a ruthlessly-delivered piece of editorial, perhaps the most unnerving thing about Glinda, and in a way the wizard, is that her deception is covert. She hides behind a sacharine smile and a glittery headdress that any impressionable mind would associate with the powers of good. The Wicked Witches may be corrupt and hell-bent on obtaining power and riches, but at least they’re up front about it; you know exactly where you stand with them. Glinda on the other hand is the Judas of Oz; the Cypher; the Elsa Schneider and nothing good lies ahead in the future of such snakes. Lando Calrissian may have redeemed himself in Jedi but rather than see Glinda’s sly streak explained in some Hallmark happy ending it’d be much more satisfying to see a sequel in which she gets her comeuppance. Do they have Sarlacc pits in Oz?

You can read more columns from the Empress in our print editions.

Issue 10 is now available to order.  As our magazines sell out within weeks of going on sale we recommend ordering to avoid disappointment. Our theme this issue is Time in Film and consequently you’ll be able to read up on how plausible film time travel techniques actually are, the role of stopped clocks in the movies, what Virginia Woolf thought of cinema in the 1920s and enjoy a special section that looks decade by decade at 20th Century Cinema – from its silent origins to its blockbusting finale.

Alongside our time-related features you’ll also find a smattering of topical articles including a 2-page preview outlining the must-watch films this summer, some musings on potential story lines for Jurassic Park IV, interviews with independent filmmakers, reports from special film events and our very own tribute to the seemingly untouchable Benedict Cumberbatch. All this and words from all our regular columnists that you know and love.

Issue 10 will be shipped to subscribers and buyers on 20th June 2013.

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What would happen if King Kong went on a dating show? Now you know thanks to our talented cover artist Dan Havardi.

This issue is our Romance Edition. Inside you’ll find all sorts of quirky features on the theme of love and attraction as we explain why men hate romantic films, what you could expect from a real-life Jessica Rabbit and how to reenact your own real-life Tom Hanks rom-com. We’ve even got a special section devoted to classic couples where you’ll find our thoughts and analysis on the likes of King Kong and Ann Darrow, Greta Garbo and John Gilbert and Robot and Frank.

In addition to our themed entries we’ve also got interviews and articles on all the most important cinematic topics including the impact of hype, the digital revolution and the identity crisis in French horror.

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What was the ‘Lubitsch touch’ exactly? It has been pondered ever since director and émigré, Ernst Lubitsch, ventured to the sunny climes and riches of Hollywood from acclaim at Ufa. His first American assignment was a Mary Pickford vehicle, Rosita (1923). The trail was blazed for other European filmmakers to follow.

Unlike many of those, Lubitsch replicated the wild success of the old country in the new. Eminent critic Andrew Sarris, however, warned caution with the ‘Lubitsch touch’ tag for it “is to reduce feelings to flourishes. A complex directorial style is reduced to its most transparent techniques”.

Lubitsch’s 1932 comedy, Trouble in Paradise, features Miriam Hopkins, Herbert Marshall and Kay Francis. Who would claim to know these once glowing stars, today? Icons and memories may fade but a ‘shot’ at immortality is provided by the big screen. From the light of the projector or digitised memory file they return to life for a couple of hours before back into the darkness they go.

Lubitsch had a reputation as a master stylist of “enjoyable bijou fluff”, as Gilbert Adair commented in Flickers (1995). He never won an Oscar (in competition) and many critics and historians still debate – along with the ‘Lubitsch touch’ – what the director actually ‘gave’ to cinema. One need only look at Trouble in Paradise to answer with a resounding: “Well, actually quite a lot”. What is and isn’t ‘perfection’ is in the eye of the beholder but Trouble in Paradise – dare I say it –is that rarest of cinematic beasts ‘the perfect film’.

Lubitsch’s bijou fluff ‘feels’ like a motion picture record of the Jazz Age hangover. The 1920s were the time to frolic and screw around and here we are in the early 1930s with economic reality having chomped down hard. The champagne tastes different, the party well and truly over and replaced with a devil-may-care attitude to life. Yet the glitz and glamour pertained to hide the rotten reality of Hoovervilles and bread lines. Hollywood is the Dream Factory, after all, and luxury productions – such as the cinema – will give us our dreams, even if there’s a hint of vulgarity.

Suave Herbert Marshall and delicious Miriam Hopkins play professional thieves who fall in love over supper in an opulent Venice hotel neither could afford without their sneaky play-acting and skills. The pair set off across Europe living the good life courtesy of their rich marks.

The depiction of Europe recreated on a Hollywood sound stage – all Art Deco set designs (by Hans Dreier, uncredited) – is artificial and at the same time possessive of an anarchic spirit that makes villains sympathetic and a terrible scheme to dupe an heiress and love-struck millionaire (played by Francis), into a fun game.

The script was written by regular Lubitsch collaborator Samuel Raphelson (they made nine pictures together) and based on a play nobody had heard of in the USA (as was Lubitsch’s typical method). Trouble in Paradise takes place in a playground vision of Europe that allows us to swank around in high-class locales whilst scoffing that these rich folk have far too much money. The finer things in life are enjoyed by everybody, irrespective of their social standing. What’s incredible about Trouble in Paradise’s duplicitous duo is how utterly unconcerned they are about ever getting caught. It’s almost nihilistic. The good times never last – so by hook or by ‘crook’ – enjoy yourselves, the movie seems to impart.

Gaston Monescu (Marshall) and soul-mate Lily (Hopkins) share some of the most delicious dialogue cooked up for the movies. “Do you remember the man who walked into the Bank of Constantinople, and walked out with the Bank of Constantinople?” Or how’s this for a romantic declaration: “I love you. I loved you the minute I saw you. I’m mad about you, my little shoplifter … my sweet little pickpocket … my darling.”

There’s an unbridled joy very much evident in Trouble in Paradise that crosses over from screen to viewer. These characters are wicked, yes, but aren’t they also fun? David Thomson has noted in his review of the film, in the weighty tome ‘Have You Seen?’, that Trouble in Paradise celebrates ‘theft over loyalty’.

As Gilbert Adair noted, and I’m prone to agree, “Trouble in Paradise is a masterpiece of delivery, the most mellifluous, the most perfectly spoken, film in the history of American cinema.”

What do Linnea Quigley, Bette Davis and killer telephones have in common? All three appear in our spooky horror special which is out at the very end of October. Other treats for readers include an exclusive interview with Richard Bates Jnr on his new psychological horror: Excision, an exposé on the role of distributors in the UK exhibition market and a flashback to cheeky horror Strip Nude for your Killer.

As if that’s not enough we also go on the hunt for a lost Oscar, mix up several vats of fake blood to find the ultimate recipe and lovingly remember the man of a thousand faces, Lon Chaney. Find out what it’s really like to be an extra, how the multiplex came into being and learn about the origins of the occult horror sub-genre.*

Subscribers receive their issues first before shops, before cinemas. The last few issues have sold out very quickly so we recommend subscribing to guarantee you never miss an issue. To subscribe click here.

Many thanks once again to our talented cover artist, Dan Havardi.

To order an individual copy of issue 7 for delivery next week, click here.

Limited back issues of editions 1-4 are also available here.

*Due to our pledge to CAC (The Committee Against Cliché) our horror issue is strictly Christopher Lee free.

]]> http://newempressmagazine.com/2012/10/issue-7-our-horror-special-order-yours-today/feed/ 0 http://newempressmagazine.com/2012/10/issue-6-1-is-here/ http://newempressmagazine.com/2012/10/issue-6-1-is-here/#comments Mon, 22 Oct 2012 10:16:40 +0000 http://newempressmagazine.com/?p=13912

The second digital edition of the year is here! Our front cover is illustrated by Rory Mitchell and inspired by the unforgettable body horror: Videodrome. New Empress Magazine’s Minema  titles are a mini-digi-dose of film commentary, interviews and flashbacks. Inside this issue our writers have examined the way brands, TV, music and other elements of popular culture cross over into the world of moving pictures. In addition to articles on Videodrome, Mac and Me and Joe Pesci’s singing career we’ve also got an exclusive interview with director Mark Andrews and producer Katherine Sarafian who have most recently worked on Brave. Our new columnist Girl Gatsby offers her exclusive guide to silent film and regular columnist Adam Glasspool explains yet again why he hates film, this time it’s all about spoilers. The digital issue comes to subscribers free of charge or can be bought as an individual taster for £2.50.

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From the outside the Granada picture palace in Tooting looks like just another bingo haunt. Inside however, perfectly preserved since 1931, is one of the most lavish cinema interiors ever designed featuring gothic trimmings and murals inspired by medieval paintings. Gala Bingo kindly allowed our photographer Phil Keevill to take a tour of the premises. More photographs of the Granada in Tooting can be found in our 6th print edition.

Click here to access a free PDF sample of issue 6.

Walter Summers’ Traitor Spy [sometimes referred to as The Torso Murder Mystery] is based on a T.C.H. Jacobs novel of the same name. The story follows Detective Inspector William Bernard [Edward Lexy playing one of Jacobs’ most popular characters] and Beverley Blake [Romily Lunge] – a secret agent masquerading as an intrepid newspaper journalist – as the pair reluctantly work together to solve a murder case. Bruce Cabot [The Quiet American 1958] plays Carl Beyersdorf alias Ted Healy: the  spy in question trying to extort money out of the British and the Nazis – whoever offers the highest price – whilst simultaneously faking his own death in order to escape a prison sentence. It’s down to Bernard and Blake to uncover the true identity of the body and bring the American ne’er do well to justice.

Given this film’s relative obscurity you’d be forgiven for assuming, especially if you’ve never heard of Walter Summers, that this is just another paint by numbers war flick. Admittedly, this is the last film Summers directed [the last film he worked on was 1941’s Queer Cargo for which he co-wrote the screenplay] and Summers’ later work is not considered his best. This said, it is my opinion that Summers is a somewhat overlooked figure by cinema aficionados, even the BFI bod who programmed this film in at the Southbank couldn’t bring himself to describe Summers as an ‘unappreciated auteur’, and there is still a lot to take away from his final directorial piece.

The relationship between Lunge and Lexy is smart and good-humoured, Marta Labarr is deliciously sultry as Cabot’s downtrodden but loyal wife and the film itself comes to an unexpectedly dramatic climax [I won’t ruin the small details but involves house on fire and some fairly shocking farewells]  that stays with the viewer long after the credits roll. The script is also sharp, witty and knowing with lines such as “I learnt to distrust a pretty face 25 years ago and I’ve never had cause to regret it.” Throw in an absurdly over the top and yet undeniably amusing turn from Davina Craig as the Healy’s moon-eyed maid: Mabel and you’re left with a high quality feature with little slack.

My first experience of Walter Summers’ directing was earlier this year at the British Silent Film Festival. There I watched A Couple of Down and Outs, a post-World War One film about a man and his war horse. How has a man like Walter Summers, who has successfully transistioned from silent film to sound and created topical, and yet beautiful, pictures relating to two World Wars been so neglected? His work is polished for the era in which it was created. His scripts and direction are emotionally articulate, sensitively handled and, in many ways, ahead of their time.

With this particular film it is arguably a matter of timing and tone. Traitor Spy is often considered Britain’s answer to Confessions of a Nazi Spy which was a big hit for Warner Brothers in the same year. Confessions was released just before the outbreak of war in May of 1939, however, and  Traitor Spy wasn’t released until a year later – by this time  Summers’ take on treachery would probably have felt somewhat old hat and, unfortunately, it did not share the same success. Furthermore, this film is much more about the solving of the mystery than any Nazi-beating, propagandist message perhaps making it an odd fit for war-time programming. Whatever the reasons Summers’ films do deserve your attention if the opportunity arises; his attention to detail and knack for delivering heartbreaking yarns make him an important name in early cinema that picturegoers and scholars alike should revisit.

Helen has awarded Traitor Spy four torches of truth

By Helen Cox

A document held at the National Archives in Kew (pictured left) has been used to virtually recreate the 1930s L.N.E.R. Pathe Saloon Car programme online.

In the age of Art Deco, just before war was declared, North Eastern Railway trains offered passengers the opportunity to watch films on their journey. A kind of in-flight entertainment for the 1930s, if you will. Given the historical context of the time there were, amongst other articles, some extremely telling newsreel reports from pre-war Britain included in the programme. Watching it, it’s easy to see why many of the biggest names in filmmaking have used the 1930s era as inspiration for their pictures.

The National Archives has used the document to reconstruct the entire programme using a workspace on Pathe’s website. This means you can watch all of the films in order as they would have been viewed by the people of Britain in 1938.

Click here to ride the 1930s L.N.E.R. Pathe Saloon Car. All Aboard!

In issue 3 of New Empress Magazine, released in September, we are including a detailed, commemorative article celebrating the L.N.E.R. Pathe Saloon Car.