Or, Inside the Musical Personality. Clifford Odets' dense screenplay can't really be grasped before one views this 1946 movie several times, maybe dozens. Of course the best thing about this film is its atmosphere of sado-masochistic fun and the free play of imagination, albeit a playfulness exercised within limits that many would today deem old-fashioned. We have our embodied exemplars of the Great Abstract Themes such as the Tradesman, the Artist, the Wise Mother, the Girl Next Door, and most notably, the Sophisticated Fallen Woman, played to the hilt of the hilt by Joan Crawford at the very height of her phallic grandeur. In these days of the muddying of the High and the Low in the culture wars, this screenplay behaves as if this erasure never existed, which is its strength and its weakness. And indeed, in 1946 it was not nearly as apparent as it is now that one needed to pay attention to this attempt at the erasure of the high-low cultural boundary, begun as it was in the early days of the century but still confined to a rather rarified cultural subset. A nod to Dada would have muddied the waters here; the story has to hinge on the unbridgable gap between Art and Commerce, between Virtue and Profligacy, between refinement and crudeness, between spiritual poverty and the nobility of desert. But Paul Boray, the violinist who is the film's protagonist, played with verve and believability by John Garfield, is obviously no Percy Dovetonsils. Rather, he stands halfway between the persona of the Prizefighter and the Virtuoso, and pulls it off.
On of the most fascinating things about this movie is the use of the music to reflect the emotional states, not only of the protagonists, but of the movement of the story as a whole. Dvorak's "Humoresque" no. 7 is of course the theme which opens the movie and appears several more times, but the narrative is in a very real sense "launched" by Sidney Jeffers/Oscar Levant playing Gershwin's third of the Three Preludes: Allegro ben ritmato e deciso which begins in Jeffers' garret and segues into Helen Wright's Park Avenue digs oh-so-smoothly. From here the prizefighter/violinist stuns his jaded audience of sophisticates with Sarasate's Zigeunerweisen, perhaps the ultimate tour de force of the virtuoso violinist's repetoire. "Bad manners, the unmistakable sign of talent", says Helen Wright after her attempt to put him off balance with a few light verbal jabs which he doesn't accept graciously. "Why did she ride him like that?" asks one of the hangers-on of her feckless husband. "Oh, she's merely getting interested" is his nonchalant reply. Verily, this exchange has the ring of truth to it. This is life among the leisure class with a lot of money and a little education, inklings of la vie boheme, as Jeffers himself observes as he characterizes the Wrights' parties beforehand. Later in the film we go into high gear with a reworking of the famous themes of Bizet's Carmen, Franz Waxman's Carmen Fantasie, which sounds all too flashy to my ears which cringe at such musical egotism. One wishes for the Bizet's original scoring to appear in its stead, sans lead violin. And then we are treated to a remarkable sequence in which all the principal players, Boray, Helen, Boray's old girlfriend, his mother and father and brother and sister, all witness Wright's orgasmic transformation in concert, brought about by the strains of Lalo's Symphonie Espagnole, enough to drive Paul's old girlfriend into the rain-soaked streets.
But this is as nothing compared to the finale which defines the heights of Hollywood melodrama. Of course, it's Wagner's Liebestod which provides the musical setting for the high tragedy which unfolds as inevitably as one day follows another. Boray and Helen have just had tempestuous exchanges which have affirmed that each are equally trapped in playing out narcissistic complexes to the exclusion of any meaningful communication with each other. He's married to his music, even though he says he wants to marry her; she...well she has come to believe in the futility of her faithless ways, and disbelieve in her ability to ever transcend them, and in the midst of proclaiming to him her undying love, we see on her face doubts, grave doubts about her ability to step outside of her baser self and be a real helpmate for Paul. And so.. as the Liebestod reaches its emotional climax, she walks outside her seaside retreat to the shore, and plunges into the oncoming waves, never to return in this life.
Paul goes on though. Even though presently devastated, he can already, only hours after finding out about her death at the scene, proclaim to his cohorts that they need not worry about what will happen to him, he will return, and return soon, to the violin and concertizing. For he truly is married to his music and will have no other mistresses. The artist resigns himself to remain forever trapped in his house of mirrors.
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