Whilst
Universal was busy reactivating their roster of horror monsters in 1941, across
town another icon that they didn’t own was getting a make-over. Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde had last been
remade by Paramount in 1931 and deservedly earned Frederick March an Academy
Award (see my review of 18/2/2016) – even now a rare accolade for acting in
this genre.
The 1941
version also had promising ingredients. It was made by M-G-M who, although
usually the home of lavishly-budgeted glossy musicals, had already produced
some interesting early horror films. Lon Chaney was contracted to them for his
last five years which contained memorable fare like The Unknown (1927). In the next decade they dabbled further,
continuing their association with Tod Browning’s circus obsession in the
unforgettable Freaks (1932), and
backing other horror-tinged dramas such as Mad
Love (1935).
The studio’s
second master-stroke was in having Spencer Tracey play the dual role of Henry
Jekyll and his Mr Hyde alter-ego. By now, his beguilingly naturalistic acting
style had bagged him two successive Oscars for Captains Courageous (1937) and 1938’s Boys Town (a feat only matched once since by Tom Hanks in the 1990s).
His oft-quoted acting advice for fellow performers was “Never let them catch
you at it”, a neat summation of his minimalistic approach. For the schizoid
demands of this film, he combines the subtlety of the civilised doctor with an increasingly
flambouyant style as Hyde’s primitive creature takes greater control of him.
Another
crucial component for the film was the choice of Victor Fleming as director. With
this remake he certainly gave the lie to an industry misconception about
him. He was regarded as a man’s man in
terms of his directing sensibilities - Clark Gable was reputedly happier when
he replaced the more femininely-sensitive George Cukor on 1939’s Gone with the Wind) - and yet both Lana
Turner and Ingrid Bergman deliver finely-shaded work under Fleming’s influence
as the two vital female protagonists in Dr
Jekyll and Mr Hyde.
Lana Turner
is Henry’s English rose fiancĂ© Bea Emery, perfectly embodying a winsome femininity
but hinting at what more is in store for Henry with a delightful
flirtatiousness between them. “If you don’t stop looking at me like that, I won’t
be responsible for my actions”, he tells her with charming restraint. She represents
a publicly-concealed not repressed sexuality, very much there yet waiting for the
societally-approved time of their wedding to be fully expressed. “Can this be
evil then?” she asks Henry of their relationship’s tender love. She challenges his
obsession with man’s latent murkiness and refuses to accept that such
tendencies could ever dominate. If they attend the races, she will soon realise
she has backed the wrong horse.
Bergman as the
barmaid and prostitute Ivy has a role with more scope and colour than the delicate
innocence required of Turner. Hers is a bold and provocative sexuality that is
palpable in the private scene at her flat after Jekyll and his friend Dr John
Lanyon (Ian Hunter) rescue her from a violent street customer. Hot innuendo radiates
from Tracey and Bergman, enough to draw in the prudish moral guardians of
Joseph Breen’s Production Code office who still held power over Hollywood depictions
of celluloid sin. The script artfully skirts the shoals of sex though without
ever frothing overboard. “Do you want to look at my side?” purrs Ivy
coquettishly when Jekyll offers to examine any possible bruising to her. She
even invites him to look at her ankle, peeling down her stocking in the full
realisation of the temptation she gives him and bestowing on him a suggestive
garter keepsake. No wonder Jekyll’s gentlemanly demeanour breaks and he goes in
for a steamy, lingering kiss – awkwardly interrupted by Dr John.
The glowing
sexuality of Bergman in these scenes is even more powerful when we learn that
originally Turner and Bergman’s roles were to be reversed. She became frustrated
by her limited, virtuous typecasting and campaigned successfully with Fleming
to be allowed to exhibit more range. Yes, she has an odd Swedish-Cockney accent,
yet to be fair this wouldn’t be an inconceivable ethnic assimilation for
working immigrants in a busy port city (Consider the varying nationalities of hopeful
humanity sailing into New York for example) . Her bad-good girl is a
scintillating performance, morphing from a haunting siren of sex into an
abused, fatally vulnerable victim. Even when she encounters the newly-released Hyde
in her seedy Palace of Frivolitites music-hall workplace, the top-hatted rake
bores into her immediately with a fierce intensity that is almost a physical
violation. She tells him to release his grip on her arm, and even after he does
she murmurs “Let go” as if Hyde still has bruising possession of her.
A great
supporting cast is on hand as well, most notably Peter Godfrey as the ideal
warm and efficient butler Poole and Donald Crisp as Sir Charles Emery, the firm
but decent father to Bea. (In a film featuring many Oscar-winners, Crisp would
go on to richly merit his own statuette the following year in his moving
portrayal of another family patriarch in How
Green was my Valley).
John Lee
Mahin’s screenplay, adapted from the 1931 version by Percy Heath and Samuel
Hoffenstein, is a literate gem that never lets us forget that this is the
classic internal war between the commendably civilised and the uninhibited primitive
within all of us. It is no coincidence that when we first meet Jekyll, it is
inside a church, symbol of incorruptible good, where the congregation are
distracted by the ugly heckling of a poor chap whose mind has lost its
censoring capacity after an industrial explosion. Jekyll is solicitous with him
and professionally fascinated by the erosion of public decency he is suffering.
Has he been polluted with unnatural thoughts or did the damage reveal his true self?
“Suppose we could break the chain – separate these
two selves?” urges Henry. “Man is weak, has evil possibilities until the
creator has solved it”. Choose your friend wisely folks, for this is a man of
goodness virtually crying out for the crack-pipe of transgression and will not
stop until he has wilfully crossed over in the name of scientific curiosity. The
truly monstrous power of addiction is in its seductiveness and the heady
possibilities of experiencing a new frontier. Ivy’s charms are not the cause of
his downfall; she is a convenient catalyst for a voyager who is heading for mortal
danger anyway.
Moving from
the inward battle to the outward expression, fans and practitioners of horror
film facial prosthetic effects will enjoy Tracey’s metamorphoses into Hyde and
back. First, the early transformations are actually done off-camera; special
mention is worthy here for Peter Ballbusch’s brilliantly suggestive montages, a
cascade of potent images featuring Ivy and Bea, betraying Jekyll’s innermost
torments. The resulting physical appearance of Mr Hyde is then mainly shown in
medium and longer shot, keeping us at a slight distance while the monster self
is rendered in a more understated way in his early outings. This is
appropriate, not only to spare us the easy sabotage of over-the-top fright-wigs
and goofy teeth, but because surely Hyde is the drawing out of Jekyll’s inner beast
not a pasting-on of externals.
Jekyll’s
later changes, which do become suitably more extreme, are undergone in lovingly
detailed, static close-ups using dissolve photography where each applied layer by
Warren Newcombe can be seen. Beneath his tousled hair, much emphasis is made
around Tracey’s all-important eyes, amplifying his darkened soul within. Unruly
bushy eyebrows sprout forth, his crow’s feet are accentuated and increasing bagginess
is added under the sockets each time the bestial self emerges. The softness of
the actor’s lips are neutralised, the top lip curled back to reveal gradually
corrupted teeth that match Jekyll’s decaying humanity. Vocally as Hyde Tracey
reduces his voice to a harsh, lower-toned, abrasive rasp to complement the roughness
of his exterior.
As in the
Frederick March version, it is rightfully uncomfortable to watch the later
scenes where the enabler is crushed by the monster she helped to birth. This is
not fifty shades of fey - each is progressively darker than the last. The
relationship between Ivy and Hyde echoes that of many an understood domestic
abuse case. His sick dominance of her, once complicit, is now full of dangerous
sexual overtones: “You like a man who sees a girl and makes up his mind, don’t
you?” he seethes at her with aggressive sexual power, daring her to be appalled
and attracted, a ghastly reminder to us meanwhile of the sinful intentions she
saw beneath his surface on first meeting (though she never realises he and Jekyll
are the same man). His evil is more than just the warped brutality of superior
strength, it is also stoked by the illogical fire of jealousy toward his
outwardly purer alter-ego whom he detests “...from his lofty brim to the souls
of his virtuous feet”. Hyde taunts Ivy with an unmistakable lewd caricature of
submission: “He’s the kind of man you could get down on your knees to.”
Although Hyde’s murder of Ivy is mercifully
carried out off-screen, it is preceded by an awful earlier presentiment: “The world
is yours, my darling. The moment is mine…” Hyde throttles her, at least sparing
her any more of his hideous mockery of her dreamed future with Henry.
The set
design by four-time Academy Award winning cinematographer Joseph Ruttenberg is
also deserving of mention. Whilst he cannot resist the Hollywood cliché version
of Victorian London as fog-bound, there is atmospheric depth of perspective and
detail in the streets.
Listen to Franz
Waxman’s score for a lesson in sumptuous musicality that doesn’t swamp or neuter
the darkness of the material whilst reminding us of the intended romance as
well. From his beautiful opening theme to the soft tolling of funereal bells
and a tastefully-cued heavenly choir as Jekyll dies into eternal peace, he
becomes as valuable a partner for Fleming’s direction as he was to James Whale
in scoring Bride of Frankenstein (1935).
His career earned him seven Oscar nominations, winning a brace of them in successive
years for Sunset Boulevard (1950) and A Place in the Sun (1951).
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde is a superb remake of Stevenson’s
story which proves once again that if given serious studio support a horror
film can transcend its unfair association with low-budget gutter connotations and
rise to a level of artistry that places it well into the mainstream
appreciation.
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