“They have a life of their own. They
feel for knives. They want to throw them – and they know how to!”
While trying
to stoke the flagging flames of the horror boom, Hollywood studios inevitably
turned to recycling existing films. Mad
Love in 1935 was a remake of The
Hands of Orlac, the 1924 German Expressionist classic directed by Robert
Wiene and memorably starring Conrad Veidt as the concert pianist whose newly
grafted-on hands after a horrific accident formerly belonged to a murderer and
now develop a homicidal life of their own (reviewed here on 12/1).
For M-G-M’s
American version, horror writer Guy Endore adapted a translated adaptation of Maurice
Renard's source story Les Mains D'Orlac
set in Montmartre, Paris and collaborating on it with Karl Freund who had by
now converted his highly-regarded cinematography career into being a Hollywood
horror director of note with The Mummy (1932).
Freund’s own choice of cameraman Greg Toland (supplementing the studio’s choice
of Chester Lyons for eight days of additional shooting after-the-fact) would also
make his mark, achieving fame for his ground-breaking lensing on 1941’s Citizen Kane. This association with
Orson Welles’ classic invited uncomfortable comparisons as we will see.
Mad Love hews fairly close to the basic plot of The Hands of Orlac but focuses more on the
surgeon Dr Gogol who carries out the operation rather than his victim Orlac –
here named Stephen instead of Paul. Even though the esteemed Colin Clive
writhes in torment superbly as the possessed pianist, he is under-used and overshadowed
by the maniacal motivation of Peter Lorre whose film this is. Both actors are
perfectly cast in roles that channel their most defining qualities. Clive
inhabits the same furious frustration that made Conrad Veidt so believable in
the original, his genius thwarted not by society as he conveyed scorchingly in
the Frankenstein films, but by his
own body revolting against him. It’s unfortunate that we see so little of him. Lorre,
meanwhile, as Gogol makes use of that beguilingly forlorn manner he somehow pulls
off with barely any facial expression, the impassivity belied by his sinister,
silkily unctuous voice which renders an extra dimension of sympathy even to the
Grand Guignol villainy that he triumphantly succumbs to at the end.
There’s a
rich seam of supporting performances to enjoy, including a typically spirited
cameo from the instantly recognisable comedy star Billy Gilbert, Laurel and
Hardy’s explosive nemesis in The Music
Box and Chaplin’s The Great Dictator,
who plays an overgrown schoolboy autograph hunter of criminals on the early fateful
train journey shared with Orlac. It is he who leads us to Rollo, the
surprisingly affable murderer catalyst (Edward Brophy, who had the same surname
as the circus owner in 1932’s Freaks).
There is an interesting later resumé connection between the two actors who
would both go on to voice animated roles in Disney favourites – Brophy as
Timothy the mouse in Dumbo and
Gilbert lending his vocal skills as Sneezy in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. The wise-guy reporter who pursues
the emerging story is Ted Healy who’d already had a hugely-lucrative vaudeville
career and put together the Three Stooges. More obvious comic relief is
provided by Mae Beatty as Gogol’s permanently sozzled housekeeper Francoise
with pet cockatoo always on her shoulder.
Rollo
demonstrates his unnerving knife-throwing talents to Orlac with a pen which
will prove mightier than a sword as the plot unfolds. In the aftermath of the train
crash, Orlac’s wife Yvonne, a hard to resist Frances Drake, appeals to Gogol to
save his precious hands which are scheduled for amputation. We already know that
Gogol is obsessed with her as he’s seen her perform on stage for 47 straight
nights and keeps a waxwork double of him that he names Galatea. He concurs with
the proposed amputation, yet such is his all-consuming desire for Yvonne that
he is seized with a daring notion inspired by seeing Rollo guillotined: “Impossible? Napoleon said that word is not
French!” Neither is the rest of the film as such, but no matter.
Before you
can say medical montage, Clive is enjoying an idyllic post-op picnic with Drake
on the river-bank, his hands bandaged into ungainly paddles. Upon unwrapping
his digits, Gogol assures him that after painstaking massage and ultra-violet
treatment, he will again play like a concert star. Clive gives us an
all-too-brief glimpse of Orlac’s inward struggle in these scenes which
tragically were mirroring his own real-life inner demons, By now in reality the
actor was gradually succumbing to the fatal alcoholism fuelled partly by
homosexual angst that would kill him within two years. In close-ups Clive gets
away with the prematurely aging bags under his eyes which play into the
character, yet he’s painfully thin when in shirt-sleeves, his arms and torso
wizened. He was already starting to look much older than 35.
When the
piano-dealer comes calling for his outstanding payments, it sparks off the
first sign that Orlac’s hands have a murderous mind of their own, kept secret
from him by Gogol. The hapless dealer isn’t the only one to almost be impaled
on a nib. The couples’ finances are so grim that a visit to his estranged father
nearly causes the same fate for Orlac senior. Orlac pours out his anguish to
Gogol, who whips up a little off-the-cuff psychoanalysis to throw him off the
scent of the real origin of his extreme extremities.
Yvonne is at
least shrewd enough to see through Gogol’s self-interested diagnosis and here Mad Love really earns its title and
echoes of Citizen Kane. Gogol is
hounded by his split personality goading him to a more deliberate torture of
his patient. The mirror image is at first reminiscent of Smeagol/Gollum’s
schizoid duality in Peter Jackson’s Lord
of the Rings, yet in Toland’s filming and Lorre’s bald-headed fury, we can almost
see Orson Welles’ older Charles Foster Kane. In her essay ‘Raising Kane’ critic
Pauline Kael went so far as to accuse Welles of purposely imitating Mad Love in both its protagonist’s
appearance and the set designs for Citizen
Kane, causing champion defender and friend of Welles, fellow director Peter
Bogdanovich, to dismiss these charges.
For my
money, the most impressive design feat is the disguise Gogol adopts to push
Orlac to the brink of insanity. He impersonates Rollo in a bravura costume and
prosthetics that combine Guignol horror with Marvel Comics’ Doctor Doom. He
sports a plastic neck-brace with metal brackets, a medieval knight’s gauntlets
and round-framed shades that draw attention to his toothy rictus grin, topped
with a fedora. This elaborate super-villain outfit releases the pent-up
megalomania within Gogol (and Lorre, splendidly so), brimming over into
cackling expository triumph when he returns home – all the better for the
writers to bluntly contrive Yvonne hearing his guilt. Another clue to his frothing
madness, if we needed one, is his playing of the organ – does anyone sane or
virtuous ever play one in a horror film? The man’s so unbalanced that when she
pretends to be Galatea to avoid being caught snooping, he believes it is the
statue of his beloved come to life.
The ending
is clearly rushed and betrays the gap in the narrative where The Hands of Orlac had deepened our relationship
with Orlac by having him collaborate with the police to prove his innocence.
Here, the cops and the almost-framed hero simply rush in to save Yvonne and end
Gogol’s dubious practises.
Mad Love wasn’t a success on its release despite
Charlie Chaplin hailing Lorre as "the
greatest living actor" yet has gained a strong and deserved following
since.
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