Frank Capra's LOST HORIZON: Blu-ray (Columbia 1937) Sony Home Entertainment
Eighty years removed from its theatrical debut, Frank Capra’s Lost Horizon (1937) remains an enigmatic and inescapably haunting work of genius. Based on author, James Hilton’s remarkable Utopian fantasy, the source material for Capra’s magnum opus – a departure from his ‘every man’ social commentaries – proved an uphill test of endurance from the beginning; Hilton’s literary exploration of Homeric and Chaucerian themes forcing Capra into some awkward respites, in order to visualize the intangible, though no less compelling platitudes of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. To this, Capra brought his own unique immigrant’s perspective and passion for the American experience, grafted onto this mythical society, forever thereafter ensconced into our collective memory as Shangri-La. It is to Capra’s credit Lost Horizon continues to resonate as much more than the sum of its parts; the whirl and whiz of Harry Cohn’s fledgling studio, all pistons firing; production designer, Stephen Goosson’s immaculately conceived and fantastically gleaming (though, at the time, heavily criticized) concept for the escapist retreat nestled somewhere in the Tibetan plateau, inspired by the architectural designs of Frank Lloyd Wright rather than authentic Nepal, Indian or Chinese influences; the superlative acting from star, Ronald Colman (never better, than as the conflicted statesman of moral conscience, Robert Conway) and an virtuosic supporting cast – including Thomas Mitchell, H.B. Warner, Margo, Isobel Jewell, Jane Wyatt and, of course, Sam Jaffe, as the unforgettably uncanny High Lama.
In its rough cut, Capra’s trials yielded six mesmerizing hours that studio chief, Harry Cohn briefly considered releasing as two separate movies, before hacking into Lost Horizon with uncompromising, though clear-eyed voracity – also, Capra’s expertise - to will 132 minutes of gripping melodrama (later, unceremoniously desecrated down to 90 minutes for its reissue). Yet Lost Horizon survived these wholesale cuts to its intricately structured narrative without ever losing focus or appeal; all this on a $2,000,000 budget Columbia Studios could scarcely afford. The picture’s tangible allure translates superbly into generously appointed entertainment. Above all else, Lost Horizon remains an exercise in sumptuous film-making on a grand scale, given life and form by the legerdemain of two of the West Coast’s most volatile and creative impresarios. The film is immeasurably blessed by screenwriter, Robert Riskin’s adaptation of Hilton’s prose; a template of conciseness and wit. Fair enough, cuts made after the initial preview somewhat blunt the metamorphosis of Isabel Jewell’s Gloria; from embittered, tubercular-stricken harlot to a spiritually and physically renewed facsimile of her former self, and, with footage still missing (and unlikely ever to be found), the romance between Colman’s forthright diplomat, Robert Conway and Jane Wyatt’s Sondra, the true believer in this Arcadian-principled and imperishable sanctuary, is marginally deprived of its emotional core. But Lost Horizon shimmers with analogous mirage-like precision; a queerly adult fulfillment of that fanciful promise made to us as children, to find that special someplace we can feel welcomed, safe and warm; a return to the cradle of civilization, or perhaps, the nurturing womb from where it all began and where everything is provided, or rather, managed by an omnipotent and benevolent overseer.
The implausibility of Hilton’s novella and Capra’s supreme visualization of its extremes has since inherited a mantle of quality far beyond suspension of disbelief. This makes even Jaffe’s 300 year old Methuselah quite palpable to contemporary audiences. If the High Lama is Shangri-La’s éminence grise, then his most faithful disciple is indisputably, H.B. Warner’s Chang; the spectacled and grandfatherly arbitrator of this peaceful valley’s philosophic principles. The first act of Lost Horizon, in which Conway and his fellow travelers are hijacked and taken to Shangri-La by force, their harrowing plane crash in the frozen mountains, and perilous trek to the cloistered lamasery, the epicenter of all human achievement and harmonious perfection, is perhaps the most compelling. So too, do these early scenes crackle with a strange and moody perversity as Conway and his troop quickly discover they are cut off from the outside world; Shangri-La taking on the ever so slightly alarming flavor of either their prison or tomb. Alas, once the new arrivals have had the opportunity to settle into their new home, the magical spell that seems to halt time as they know it, equally casts an embalming pall upon the production; Capra unable to maintain the tension in his attempt to follow all of the characters in their renaissance of body, mind and spirit.
If Lost Horizon has a flaw, it remains intermittently buried in this second act. Regrettably lost in Capra and Cohn’s edits are Gloria’s more noticeable transmutation from heavily painted and dying prostitute to repentant and sweetly rejuvenated innocence; also, the unsettling evolution of a kindred, if frantic passion between Conway’s brother, George (John Howard) and the mysterious and devastatingly misguided, Maria (Margo); who yearns to escape this perfect paradise by telling a lot of lies in order to convince George she is being held against her will. Instead, Capra focuses on the less than compelling affections blossoming between Sondra (Jane Wyatt) and Conway; his discovery of her bathing nude near a waterfall marking their second ‘cute meet’, and later, her introduction of him to the Tibetan natives and children whom she is schooling, resulting in a few blissful, if vacuous, moments of respite in the sunlit pergolas adjacent the lamasery. These quiescent moments are perhaps meant to counterbalance all the chaotic adventurism of the first and third acts. Regrettably, they also bring the narrative to a screeching halt.
Mercifully, the middle act of Lost Horizon also features two of the most understated and enthralling episodes in the picture; both involving Conway’s summits with the High Lama. In each instance it is Sam Jaffe’s absorbing performance that rivets the audience to their seats; his curiously mercurial stares into the infinite as he gradually lets it be known he and the priest Chang spoke of earlier; Father Pereaux - the man who founded Shangri-La after a perilous journey forced him to sacrifice a limb. The second and even more startling revelation is made during Conway’s further audience with the High Lama; Conway, appointed the heir apparent in charge of Shangri-La’s welfare and future. This moment of transition is both literal and philosophical; Capra snuffing the flame of a nearby candle with a cruel blast of wind from an open window to denote the passage of the founder and ethereal escape of his careworn soul. The last act of Lost Horizon is Capra’s stroppy attempt to return to the harrowing action of its first moments: Conway’s reluctant departure from paradise at the behest of a very caustic George and imploring Maria; the trio’s escape into the night as the High Lama’s torch lit valedictory processional makes its way toward the lamasery; Sondra, crying over their sober tomes to be heard by Conway; the discovery too late that Maria has lied to both men about her age.
She is, as Chang had insisted all along, more than two hundred years old, her youthful mask withered to aged skeletal remains after transgressing against the enchanted properties of this isolated and timeless community. There are conflicting interpretations as to what occurs next; Capra leaving almost every aspect of his narrative open for discussion, beginning with George’s apparent suicide. Does he kill himself after being consumed by the epic guilt from knowing he has doomed his brother to a frozen fate beyond the paradise rightfully belonging to him, or does George merely – and tragically – slip and plummet in terror down the side of the mountain after witnessing the unfathomable horror of Maria’s fate? We are never entirely certain of the motives, only the circumstances that follow; Conway’s inability to find his way back to Shangri-La; his stumbling into a Tibetan village, collapsing at the base of a mausoleum, rescued and restored to his native England; his seemingly manic journey from the life he once knew, aspiring to re-discover Shangri-La recalled by fellow statesman, Lord Gainsford (Hugh Buckler): nearly all of it told in Slavko Vorkapich’s expertly edited montage.
In the fall of 1936, Capra was likely sitting behind his desk, poker-faced and with sweaty palms as Columbia Pictures banked everything it had on Lost Horizon; a huge undertaking that was, in fact, an artistic gamble at best. In retrospect, Lost Horizon was Harry Cohn’s very public ‘coming out’ party; his first real chance to rival the opulence and glamour of MGM. His studio had acquired the rights to Hilton's best-selling novel of 1933; a fascinating escapist yarn, intellectually stimulating and rife with possibilities for a lavish cinematic treatment. Had Cohn bothered to examine the property a little closer he might have also noticed the major hurdles to be overcome: chiefly in Hilton’s pacifist viewpoint that, while captivating to read, would prove as difficult to convey in visual terms, even more so on the titanic budget necessary to capture the scope of the novel’s fanciful elements and bring everything to life. Yet Cohn had faith in Capra; Columbia’s fair-haired boy after his Oscar-winning smash, It Happened One Night (1934); a B-budget ‘road picture’ Cohn initially had absolutely no faith in at all. And Capra was on a role, compounding his success with the equally charming, and as much beloved Mr. Deeds Goes to Town (1936). Both films had set cash registers ringing around the world. They also reaffirmed for Cohn that Capra possessed the ability to helm a large scale movie like Lost Horizon. Yet, Capra was not entirely certain Lost Horizon was his kind of movie. It was big - well beyond anything he had ever tackled. And it presented logistical challenges Capra was not entirely certain he could satisfy. Cohn gave Capra carte blanche to explore the possibilities and a bottom line that topped the combined allotments for all other movies being made at Columbia in 1937.
So, Capra went to work in earnest with longtime collaborator, Robert Riskin, transforming Hilton's platitudes into a workable screenplay. Riskin’s prose would go through several permutations, even as Capra was shooting his movie. In many ways, Lost Horizon was a troubled production from the onset, with Capra investing himself in a series of false starts before hitting his stride. The initial plan had been to have an aged Robert Conway narrate a pro and epilogue. A few surviving stills in the Columbia archive show Ronald Colman sufficiently grayed and wrinkly. However, Harry Cohn was not pleased with this device – and, in truth, neither was Capra, who next elected to shoot an entirely different prologue, this one taking place in the not too distant future: Conway rescued and reunited with his old friend and British foreign secretary, Lord Gainsford; the pair sailing home to England aboard a luxury liner. Conway is suffering from amnesia, but is stirred to reminiscences after hearing a piece of Chopin music played in the ship’s ballroom. He begins murmuring the word ‘Shangri-La’ over and over again, then, unexpectedly, is spurred to make a daring escape at sea. Both Capra and Cohn agreed this introduction slowed the pace of the movie. It was cut after the first preview.
Capra’s rough cut topped out at nearly six hours; trimmed down to three, then roughly two for its general release, and finally, butchered to a scant 90 minutes; clumsily renamed without Capra’s input as ‘Lost Horizon of Shangri-La’ for its WWII reissue. Ironically, the novel’s strengths became the flaws of the motion picture; Conway, finding little else to do except involve Chang in fruitful discussions about the mechanics of this paradise. Capra’s unusual indecision kept the company on its toes, even as Columbia’s balance sheet veered dangerously into the red. Lost Horizon was released with great fanfare and overwhelmingly positive reactions from critics and audiences. But its lengthy and costly development impacted the movie’s ability to earn back its production costs. It would be years before it showed a profit on the ledgers. Arguably, Lost Horizon was the wrong movie for its time: a pacifist’s manifesto made to a world precariously perched on the brink of its own Armageddon.
Lost Horizon did gain steam at the box office during the height of the European conflict, particularly after President Franklin Roosevelt quipped during a press conference that a squadron of U.S. bombers had taken off on a successful bombing raid from a secret base at Shangri-La. But by then Cohn had elected to yet again hack into Capra’s carefully constructed chef-d'oeuvre; releasing a severely truncated 90 minute version at popular prices. Despite this folly, over the years Lost Horizon would be resurrected regularly as late night television fodder. Even commercially interrupted, the movie worked its spell. Indeed, Capra had created a haunting human tragedy from Hilton’s prosaic literature; spooky, brooding and full of mystery.
The film’s production history bears some discussion. On the Columbia Ranch just outside of Los Angeles, art director, Stephen Goossen constructed the largest outdoor set ever built up until that time; the gleaming art deco lamasery - home to the Tibetan High Lama and his idealistic followers. Capra was adamant this secluded 'perfect' world should reflect the modernist view of ‘then’ contemporary western architecture. Thus, Goossen’s designs drew heavily their inspiration from the style known as art deco and from noted designer, Frank Lloyd Wright’s groundbreaking sensibilities. Capra would be criticized by purists for this decision upon the movie’s release. But audiences loved it, and the blueprint for the lamasery was, in fact, much copied in popular housing projects around Los Angeles. If Capra had fudged the details by forgoing genuine Tibetan architecture in favor of pure Hollywood escapism, he was as committed to making his audience feel the frigidness of the Himalayan plateaus, serving as the natural barrier between this ‘lost horizon’ and the rest of the world. His own 1931 story set at the South Pole – Daredevil – had relied on an old Hollywood trick, incorporated crushed gypsum and pulverized marble dust to simulate snow. Although effective, no breath showed. So, for Lost Horizon Capra contacted the production manager of California’s Consumer Corporation, leasing one of its refrigerated warehouses for 23 days. Inside this mammoth 13,000 square foot warehouse, Goossen built a full-size mockup of the Douglas DC-2 with ice chippers macerating 11 tons of dry ice and propelling it into the air. To add to the scope of these snowy sequences, Capra inserted legitimate stock shots from Arnold Fanck’s German film, Storm Over Mont Blanc (1930).
Casting Lost Horizon became something of a minor nightmare. Capra wanted and successfully acquired the services of beloved British actor, Ronald Colman. It was a major coup for the picture, ensuring star-powered box office cache. Capra had also wanted David Niven for the part of Conway’s younger brother, George; the role eventually going to John Howard instead when Niven proved unavailable. Howard was a last minute decision – one thereafter regretted by Capra as Howard made no attempt at a British accent to compliment Colman. Even today, Howard’s participation on the project remains an oddity. In the meantime, Harry Cohn balked at Capra's initial choice of Sam Jaffe for the pivotal part of the High Lama; preferring the portly Walter Connelly instead. To some extent, Cohn’s negativity where Jaffe was concerned may have had more to do with Jaffe’s liberal politics than his acting ability. To satisfy both Capra and convince Cohn, screen tests were made of both Jaffe and Connelly with Cohn reluctantly admitting Jaffe’s was the more persuasive performance. This hurdle overcome, Capra hand-picked the rest of his cast, including winsome Jane Wyatt for the role of the effervescent Sondra and Margo to play Maria; the exotic Russian dissident doomed to an untimely end. To add a touch of the comedic, Cohn borrowed Edward Everett Horton from RKO, and Thomas Mitchell – a free agent – signed on in the role of the reformed con artist, Barnard. With his cast in place, Capra dove headstrong into the arduous shoot.
Our story opens in the war-torn city of Baskul where British foreign secretary, Robert Conway (Ronald Colman) is desperately working to evacuate by plane the remnants of a panicked and fleeing British colony. The unfortunates includes Conway’s brother, George (John Howard), a playful knockabout, Henry Barnard (Thomas Mitchell), his scatterbrained foil; fossil expert, Alexander P. Lovett (Edward Everett Horton) and a prostitute fatally stricken with tuberculosis, Gloria Stone (Isabel Jewell). This sequence was filmed at night at Van Nuys Airport, with 500 local Chinese extras, many who did not speak English and only added to the chaos and confusion of the moment. With Capra’s complicity, screenwriter, Robert Riskin added a sequence not in James Hilton’s novel – the burning of a hanger to illuminate the runway for evacuating planes. Dramatic? Quite, and utilizing Capra’s preference for tight shots. Unbeknownst to these escapees, their English pilot has been murdered and replaced by a mysterious Mongol (Val Durand) who flies into the Tibetan mountains on a kidnapper’s mission to...well…no one’s quite sure. Tragedy strikes after the pilot suffers a fatal heart attack in mid-air, the plane going down and crash landing on a snowy plateau. Disheveled, but unharmed, Conway and the rest of the survivors are ‘discovered’ by Chang (H.B. Warner) who leads them out of the frozen wilderness to a secluded paradise curiously removed from its surrounding, frigid tundra. The initial introduction of Shangri-La is one of cinema’s truly dreamlike – if slightly unsettling – moments; Dimitri Tiomkin’s brooding choral chants underscoring a queerly enchanting, yet somewhat foreboding elixir, unexpectedly reflecting off of the lamasery’s gleaming white façade.
After being shown to quarters befitting their comfort, rest and recuperation from the arduous journey, Chang invites his guests to dine. Before the cuts were made there had been a brief and extremely bitter exchange between Gloria and Chang to emphasize her illness; Chang’s platitudes about seeking inspiration by looking at the top of a mountain as opposed to its base incurring Gloria’s considerable wrath. However, this moment did not survive the final edit. At dinner, George makes several demands of Chang, chiefly to make contact with the outside world and inform the British authorities of their survival. Chang’s cordial explanation - Shangri-La has no means of communication and no regular visitors – even porters - from beyond its sheltered perimeter - is unnerving to all except Conway, whose outward diplomacy belies the fact he feels an immediate kinship with Shangri-La.
During their arrival, Conway had briefly glimpsed Sondra (Jane Wyatt) high atop one of the lamasery’s turrets; her buoyant laughter causing him to trip on its steps. The next day, while consulting with Chang about the creation of Shangri-La, Conway again catches sight of this bewitching girl, this time playing the piano with an elderly man. Conway is lured away from actually meeting Sondra by Chang who insists that when the time is right the proper introductions will be arranged. But Conway quickly notices how Chang skillfully skirts around his persistent inquiries to get to the gnawing truths behind Shangri-La. Chang does, however, recall a fascinating tale about one Father Pereaux – a foreigner who nearly two centuries ago, while hiking through the mountains, became lost, then trapped in the snow and was forced to amputate his own leg to spare his life. Making his way to Shangri-La, Pereaux invested himself in the creation of this perfect world forever isolated from the woes of its outside counterpart. Again, when the timing is right, Chang promises Conway he shall meet the High Lama, who presently presides over this enchanted paradise, although as yet it is not made clear to Conway – or the audience – the High Lama and Father Pereaux are one in the same.
It is to Capra’s credit that he did not fall back on the traditional Hollywood flashback to visualize this bit of exposition, but instead allows H.B. Warner his indulgences in a sublime oration. Warner, a largely forgotten actor today, who rose to prominence playing Christ in Cecil B. DeMille’s 1929 version of King of Kings, is arresting in this monologue; his soft-spoken voice a riveting tool exercised with paralytic excitement. Capra has less success maintaining a balance of meaningful interactions and exchanges between the remainder of his characters. In fact, almost immediately after their arrival to Shangri-La, the screenplay jettisons all but a few fleeting references to Lovett, Barnard and Gloria to indulge in Conway’s unravelling of the mystery behind Shangri-La. Surviving notes suggest Capra’s lengthier three hour rough cut paid more attention to these aforementioned survivors; particularly Gloria, who experiences a miraculous regeneration in both her health and attitude, eventually warming to, and falling in love with Barnard. Again, regrettably, none of this survives in the movie as it exists today, although we do get a rather tender scene between Barnard and Gloria early on, where he notices she has removed her pancake-heavy harlot’s makeup and immediately compliments her on looking better for the loss.
In the meantime, we are introduced to Margo as the agonizing Russian exile Maria, first discovered by George in a private room quietly weaving fabric at her loom. Played in silence, we nevertheless sense an immediate attraction between the pair, if only in their united desire to leave Shangri-La and return to the countries of their origin. Again, not much else survives of this burgeoning romance between Maria and George, leaving the movie’s pivotal sequence of escape (as George begs, pleads and ultimately succeeds in convincing an extremely reluctant Conway to steal away into the night on the very eve of the High Lama’s funeral) rather perplexing and without motivation. However, before this ill-fated departure Conway meets the High Lama; the decrepit mystic revealing himself to be Father Pereaux. Conway is understandably amazed. After all, how could any man live to be two hundred years old? But Conway implicitly believes Pereaux, more so when the Lama tells him their plane crash was no accident, but rather a deliberate attempt made to secure Conway as his successor. It’s a little bit of a stretch, considering there is no way for the outside world to communicate with this secluded paradise; hence, just how the High Lama knows Conway is the right man for the job remains an enigma never entirely explained away. Nevertheless, the High Lama has been closely monitoring Conway’s career and recognizes he is a man truly dedicated to peace.
Sometime later, Sondra is discovered by Conway while skinny dipping in a pond – a sequence shot with dreamy flourish through heavy gauze by cinematographer Joseph Walker on the Columbia Ranch near a cascading waterfall. Thus begins Conway’s great love for this virgin-esque woman who has never been far from his heart since his arrival to Shangri-La. Sequences cut to illustrate their growing mutual affection included a moment where Sondra – while educating local Tibetan children – is encouraged to give Conway the same opportunity, and another scene where the pair visits an elaborate bird house; Sondra showing Conway her flock of doves. Pereaux recalls Conway to his side, confiding in him that the hour of succession is at hand. In one of Lost Horizon’s truly disquieting moments, the Lama’s head gently tilts forward; his visage suddenly ravaged by extreme age, a shadow falling across his body as a strong breeze blows out the wavering flicker of candlelight just behind him, signifying the expiration of his mortal life and simultaneous release of the soul. It remains a terrifying, yet exhilarating moment of realization; Conway immediately forced to come to terms with his newfound responsibilities.
Unhappy circumstance for Conway that George has grown sullen and irate; threatening one of the houseboys with Conway’s gun before insisting his brother take him and Sondra away from Shangri-La. Earlier, Chang had attempted to explain to Conway how the space/time continuum reacts differently within Shangri-La; the lifespan of an individual extending well beyond the chronological stretch of years. However, if any inhabitants were to ever stray beyond its borders this spell would be broken. Conway relays this message to George who regards it as more of a threat, designed to keep them prisoners. Maria comes to George’s side, declaring Chang has lied to them. She is no older than what she appears – presumably, a girl in her mid to late twenties. Torn between his promise to the High Lama and a gnawing devotion to his brother, Conway makes a disastrous decision; to leave Shangri-La with George and Maria just as the High Lama’s torch-lit funeral processional begins. His departure is witnessed by a tear-stained Sondra and very concerned Chang from the lamasery’s outdoor mezzanine.
But it’s too late. Conway, Sondra and George have left Shangri-La to endure the harsh elements beyond its borders. Several days on their perilous expedition, Sondra collapses in the snow, hoisted over Conway’s shoulder before George suddenly realizes she has reverted to a mummified corpse. The tragedy – or rather, reality – that Maria is, as Chang suggested, a woman more than one hundred years old, haunts George. In his frenetic attempt to run away, he plummets off the side of the steep snow-covered mountain, leaving Conway as the sole survivor of their ill-fated expedition; now completely lost in this frozen purgatory. Days indiscriminately pass. Conway grows frail and gaunt, collapsing near a Tibetan mausoleum where he is discovered by some compassionate locals. Capra reverts to montage herein; a series of cablegrams and radio broadcasts heralding the confounding news: Robert Conway is alive! Gainsford arrives in London’s Men’s Social Club to recall his reunion with Conway; a baffling experience. He regales his contemporaries with Conway’s fanciful details about his journey and exile from Shangri-La before disappearing from his stateroom in pursuit of that mythical paradise he gave up. The final shot of Conway scaling a snowy peak; stubble-frozen beard and eyes gleaming with renewed hope as he stares into a distant horizon, merely suggests he may have rediscovered Shangri-La.
Viewing Capra’s rough cut, Harry Cohn had Capra re-shoot this sequence with a cutaway to Sondra clutching at her breast on the windswept precipice leading into the forbidden mountain, waving to Conway who realizes he had made it full circle back to the only place where he could ever belong. Cohn used this ‘happy ending’ for Lost Horizon’s WWII reissue. Thankfully, it did not survive future reissues as it completely belies the movie’s message: that heaven on earth is a decision made by its human inhabitants – either to embrace life as it comes or callously toss its exalted rewards aside in favor of chasing a vaguely inspired human facsimile. As Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe would later do with Brigadoon, Lost Horizon’s mythology is both deeply enriching yet bone-chilling all at once. For it suggests that to embrace true happiness one must leave behind every last vestige of a life better known to them. Sacrificing family, friends, career, et al is only part of the plan. The rest resides in Shangri-La’s medicinal properties, given over to the promise of near – but not quite - eternal life, yet only as long as one remains a prisoner of its cloistered domain. If Shangri-La truly is heaven on earth, then it remains unscrupulously unforgiving if this pact is broken, as it ultimately is with Maria. While many fantasy films have relied on the duality of the traditional fairy-tale – revealing both darkness and light, Lost Horizon demands a more exacting and uncharacteristically ominous ‘high price’ from those seeking its earthly perfections.
The quid pro quo of Shangri-La’s pact with humanity is what is most unnerving. In effect, the movie asks ‘Can we truly be happy at peace, knowing we are confined to a small world buried inside our greater one?’ This question is never resolved and neither is the outcome to Robert Conway’s harrowing trek. We would like to think Conway, even half-frozen and mentally/physically drained, made it back to Sondra and Shangri-La before the final fade out, as this clearly is where Conway’s heart and soul reside. But Lost Horizon – unlike Brigadoon - is vague about this reunion. The possibility Robert Conway has sacrificed human perfection and his own chances for contentment besides – never again to return to him – is a catastrophe that continues to gnaw at our level of expectation, unfulfilled in Capra’s cut minus Cohn’s proverbial happy ending. In these final moments, Lost Horizon achieves its epiphanies about life and man’s pallid pursuit to improve upon God’s works with his own fumbling hands. The film’s suggestion of a possible reprieve for Robert Conway – arguably, an extraordinary individual apart from the rest of humanity – is only modestly nurtured in Capra’s finale, but ironically even less so in Cohn’s more obvious conclusion. To paraphrase the Bible: for what does it profit a man to gain the whole world and forfeit his soul? Either Conway’s acceptance or rejection of everything he could possibly ever want is stained in human sacrifice. Consider Maria and George both come to truly horrific ends. How can Conway justify his return to this perfect world having conspired to deprive two of its residents of this same ‘almost eternal’ happiness? This remains a nagging concern, one that perhaps the precepts of Shangri-La will neither permit nor allow to go unpunished.
At some level, Lost Horizon proved a disappointment for both Capra and Cohn. In the end, Capra lost six reels to Cohn’s insistence for a tighter narrative. As a result, there remain inexplicable gaps that leave a choppy first impression on the viewer. Yet, it is the lasting impression that counts. And Lost Horizon is quite unlike any movie of its generation. Certainly, very unlike anything even remotely attempted today. It continues to tantalize the peripheries of our mind by sheer memory: too great a puzzle to simply unravel upon repeat viewings or dismiss outright; too lush an exercise, even in the philosophical, to excuse as mere pontificating socially-conscious fantasy film-making. There is something disturbingly unsure about its scenario and even more genuinely appealing and enriching about Capra’s aspirations to do more than simply entertain us. Prior to the film’s release, Capra had hoped for another success. Unhappy chance for both director and mogul Lost Horizon’s 3 ½ hour first prevue in Santa Barbara was a disaster.
Disappointed and disillusioned by the lack of immediate response to his opus magnum, Capra reluctantly gave in to Cohn’s demands for a shorter movie; distilling his masterpiece to 132 minutes – still functional and compelling – though hardly inclusive of all the hard efforts he had put forth in the preceding months. Even so, this general release of Lost Horizon failed to recoup its $1,200,000 outlay. But the story of Lost Horizon – the film - did not end there. For its 1942 reissue, Harry Cohn took to modifying the film even further, cutting its runtime down to 107 minutes and changing its main title to the more awkward Lost Horizon of Shangri-La. From this moment on, Lost Horizon fell into a sort of artistic limbo. Infrequently, it played on late night TV. Rarely was it shown at private screenings. Shelved for years thereafter, Lost Horizon’s original camera negative was allowed to deteriorate almost to the point of no return, its edits presumed to have been thrown away long ago – leaving only truncated second and third generation prints available for public viewing.
However, in the mid-1970's UCLA preservationist Robert Gitt undertook to conduct a comprehensive fact-finding mission into the missing footage. From varying source materials gathered around the world and still photos inserted to compensate for the (as yet) absent seven minutes of footage, Gitt and his associates managed to cut together a facsimile of the original roadshow engagement. Sadly, Lost Horizon remains a partially lost film; a tragedy even as what exists continues to sparkle with rare ghostly brilliance. Two years ago, Sony Home Entertainment, the custodians of the old Columbia/Tri-Star catalog, marked a stunning debut of Lost Horizon in a limited theatrical engagement, sporting nearly a full minute of newly discovered footage and a brand new 4K digital restoration. Curiously, their hard-earned efforts were then ported over to the relatively obscure (at least in North America) Australian label, Viavision/Madman for a superior Blu-ray release that is still currently available. Now, Sony has deigned to give the rest of us a digibook edition, adding the excised audio commentary by Charles Champlin, as well as Kendell Miller’s ‘photo documentary’. As both of these extras were available on Sony’s old DVD release from 2001, they haven’t exactly stretched themselves to create a comprehensive package for Lost Horizon’s 80th anniversary. The 1080p transfer here is identical to the 4K remastered Viavision/Madman disc.
Now, permit us to debunk a few myths. First, Lost Horizon remains a partially ‘lost’ film; the missing pieces substituted with a complete audio track set to still images. Yes, I know; I wish it were not so too. But we do gain almost a minute of ‘never before seen’ footage during the High Lama’s address to Robert Conway and this is a definite plus. Second, owing to improperly stored archival elements and NO original camera negative, the condition of this new Blu – while advancing considerably over the old DVD release (personally, I would call it a triumph and minor miracle…all hyperbole aside) – will never exhibit the stunning clarity one would hope to see. Deal with it! What is here has been given the utmost care and attention. When the archival elements are in relatively good shape we get a fairly impressive visual presentation; the grey scale, finely nuanced, and grain looking indigenous to its source with solid – if not perfect – contrast. The 16mm dupes are still in atrociously rough shape. Yet, even here Sony has done the utmost to stabilize the image with all the wizardry in their digital toolbox and the results are head and shoulders better than the tired ole DVD incarnation.
Humbly, I submit that film lovers everywhere owe Grover Crisp and everyone involved in this Herculean resurrection a sincere debt of gratitude. Lost Horizon on Blu has been painstakingly cleaned up to optimal quality. Again, barring a miraculous (and highly unlikely discovery) of some complete print stored in the Tibetan high mountains, this is likely the very best Lost Horizon will ever look on home video. Better still, the soundtrack has also been given a badly needed upgrade, exhibiting far subtler nuances than ever before; Dimitri Tiomkin’s score sounding magnificent in uncompressed DTS mono.
Extras have been reassembled from Sony’s DVD release: the compelling audio commentary from UCLA Film Preservationist Robert Gitt, hosted by Charles Champlin; also the detailed featurette outlining the Lost Horizon that never was, hosted by Kendell Miller – plus a featurette where Gitt explains a bit about the painstaking ‘search n’ rescue’ and ‘restoration’ efforts conducted in 1999: brief, dated, but oh so wonderful to have. Finally, we get the ‘alternate ending’ where Conway does find his way back to Shangri-La, with Sandra still waiting near the snowy mountain pass. We also get the original theatrical trailer. Interestingly, the Frank Capra’s American Dream – previously included on Criterion Home Video’s Blu-ray release of It Happened One Night (1932), and also having found its way to the Viavision release is not included here. Instead, we get a gorgeous digibook with some fun factoid information and a lot of glossy artwork.
On a personal note: Lost Horizon is a perennial favorite. I recall seeing it as a child and being spellbound, made anxious and confused by its imagery and by its story of one man's decision to abandon everything he has ever known for a chance to live as most men would desire, but few – if any – actually do. Even in its fragmented state of disrepair, I simply adore this movie - despite incongruities created by absent footage and more absent-minded idiocy that allowed for such a brilliant piece of cinema art to decay almost to a point of no return. It is from this perspective that Lost Horizon comes very highly recommended. The timeless quality of longing for something better than perhaps even life itself remains indestructible and intoxicating. Arguably, Lost Horizon shines through the weariness of its print master. The elements, while greatly improved, may continue to disappoint. But the story never does.
FILM RATING (out of 5 - 5 being the best)