“The next step…is in the hands of
tomorrow.”
The Raven wasn’t the only Hollywood film that
would trouble the censors in 1935. Another, far more infamous one was the
undeniably controversial Life Returns, the first horror film to fairly be
labelled a documentary of sorts as well – shoe-horning in an actual operation
on-screen carried out by a real surgeon who restores life to a dead dog. The
surgery itself is ultimately as life-affirming in tone as in actuality
(mercifully so since as a dog-lover I approached this with great trepidation)
but there was no way this would be an easy sell to a typical audience, and this
real footage at the end earned the film an outright ban in Britain in all media
for decades.
I first read
about Life Returns as a boy in Denis
Gifford’s marvellous A Pictorial History
of Horror Movies, in which he inadvertently teased the pre-internet 1970’s
reader: “Of all horror films, Life
Returns is the most ‘lost’. Never seen In England, even in today’s relaxed
climate; never reprinted for television; unpreserved by archives, unmentioned
by historians, unregistered even for copyright; yet it was the only documentary
horror film”.
Obviously,
to an impressionable mind, this total erasure of a film conjures up all kinds
of imagined horrific forbidden possibilities, a curiosity that demands to be
eventually satisfied. Thankfully, due to social media, the film is available in
a good enough copy to finally see what all the fuss was about.
For the most
part, as it needed to make money back from a cinema release, the
ground-breaking medical footage that Life Returns ends with had to be padded
out with dramatic scenes concocted to appear as a legitimate movie. Directed by
Eugene Frenke from a script by five writers including Mary McCarthy and James P
Hogan, these are competent enough but worthy of little interest as simply
connective tissue between fiction and the real footage.
A prologue
is at pains to point out the veracity of the stunning operation we will finally
see (once the less stellar dramatics have been dispensed with) – a signed
affidavit by the surgeon himself Dr Robert Cornish: “…This part of the picture was originally taken to retain a permanent
scientific record of our experiment. Everything shown is absolutely real. The
animal was unquestionably and actually dead, and was brought back to life…”
The
fictional soap-opera begins by detailing the light-hearted pre-graduation
college times of three doctors, one of whom goes on to work at the fictional
Arnold Research Laboratories where he hopes to gain funding for his experiments
into the resurrection of life. He is Dr John Kendrick (Onslow Stevens), who
does the heavy (and heavy-hearted) lifting of the film for the most part. He
finds his employer Mr Arnold, like many in the latter-day pharmaceutical
industry, is in the business of seeking commercial reward not humanitarian
breakthroughs, and when shunted over from his noble pursuit to Arnold’s “better facial creams, better nail polish,
better dandruff cures”, the bristling is more from him than the product: “Best brushes on the market! Is that what
you want?” he cries in self-loathing to his society beauty wife Valerie
Hobson. She would make another tempestuous match as a scientist’s wife that
same year playing Henry’s wife Elizabeth in Bride
of Frankenstein.
Tragically,
after Kendrick loses his job, he goes downhill - his wife dies and their son
Danny (George P. Breakston) is made a ward of the state since his wrecked
father can no longer support either of them. To make matters worse, Danny’s
beloved dog Scooter is taken by the dog pound and gassed – unseen, I hasten to
add. The focus of the narrative shifts somewhat as we see the young boy rally a
little in being befriended by a Dead End Kids-style street gang.
Fortunately,
this manipulative Chaplinesque melodrama eventually makes way for the real
substance of the film. The actors become witnesses to the spliced-in genuine
surgical wonderment contrived so as to appear carried out upon Scooter by Dr
Cornish, and what a ghoulishly compelling scene it is. One of his crack team
sucks oxygen from a tube then breathes it mouth-to-mouth into the unconscious
pooch, whilst the rest labour over various paraphernalia including an injected
‘resuscitation fluid’, verbally assuring the viewer along the way of the dog’s
gradual safe revival . Finally, Scooter’s racing pulse and nervous system is
calmed with Nembutal and the slightly harrowing sight of him strapped on his
back paws in the air and yelping softly is softened when he raises his head to
lick Danny’s face - albeit possibly after-the-fact footage.
The
extraordinary real achievement of Cornish and his team is then crowned with
mournfully-toned and unnecessary closing remarks by the eclipsed fictional
bystander Dr Kendrick: “This is the
culmination of a dream. Dr Stone and I are merely contributions to his
fulfilment”. (This puts me in mind of Robert Prosky’s hilariously indignant
line in Broadcast News: “Who cares what
you think?”)
Life Returns
is a bold attempt to give 1930s cinemagoers something provocative and edifying
to go with their easier entertainments. In a sense, it’s Frankenstein for real
– or a reverse snuff movie if you will. However it’s impossible to imagine an
audience chowing down on popcorn and soft drinks whilst spectating on a
distressed reviving dog strapped to an operating table. ‘What were they
thinking?’ might be a fair question to posit when this project was being
greenlit.
I admire Scienart Pictures for bringing the remarkable science to Joe
Public. By watering down the science with fake back-story contrivance though,
they risked obscuring and trivialising the work as well as showing poor taste
in judgement. Life Returns was simply an unworthy, wrong-headed platform.
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