THE COLLECTOR: Blu-ray (Columbia, 1965) Indicator/Powerhouse

Terence Stamp and Samantha Eggar make the most from the characters in author, John Fowles’ nightmarish novel, reconstituted by screenwriters, John Kohn and Stanley Mann into, essentially, a 3-act/2-person exercise in stagecraft and confinement, helmed by director extraordinaire, William Wyler.  The Collector (1965), is actually the movie Wyler wanted to make after already agreeing to helm The Sound of Music over at Fox. A rift in those plans – creative differences between Wyler and producer, Saul Chaplin, plus a gracious whim of fate – changed the course of both movies for the better…well, sort of; Robert Wise, making melodious magic from the Rodgers and Hammerstein property even as Wyler embarked to transform Fowles’ curious prose into a thoroughly unconventional and nail-biting tale of marginalization, entrapment, and ultimately, death. William Wyler never thought small, and, in fact, his rough cut of The Collector was not unlike a psychological epic, running nearly 3-hours. Under pressure from Columbia Pictures, Wyler hacked into what he considered his masterpiece, excising a 35 min. prologue that included virtually the entire performance from noted English actor, Kenneth More.

In its present form, The Collector is something of a misfire. Even as it possesses two truly inspired performances as a very competently edited distillation of Fowles’ novel, heightening the necessary tensions of the good ole-fashioned ‘locked room’ bone-chiller, the picture never gains enough momentum, outside of a few carefully timed vignettes, to make it truly memorable. The Collector also deprives its director from applying ‘the Wyler touch’ – a quality for which William Wyler was universally renowned and greatly admired. It makes sense too. As The Collector’s Freddie Clegg is a fairly superficial lot. Deprived of his prologue, depicting at least part of Clegg’s back story, what we get from Wyler and his star, Terence Stamp, is little more than the kooky cookie-cutter thumbnail of a badly besieged mama’s boy. Stamp’s Clegg cannot and does not even yearn to comprehend a world outside of his own skewed perspective. Instead of finding his niche in the world at large, Clegg has regressed to create a cocoon, virtually limited and unable to blossom in any soil beyond his ancestral home. His brief excursions into London merely expand upon his mad zoological fascination with ‘collecting’.  From the outset, Fowles’ novel presented grave challenges for Wyler as it was essentially divided into two halves; the first, concentrated on the kidnapping and imprisonment of Miranda Grey (Eggar); a winsome art student, unknowing of the gruesome fate to befall her; the second, a transfixing deconstruction of the mindset of her graceless and diffident captor, Freddie Clegg (Stamp). Bewitched by butterflies, but knowing absolutely nothing of girls – or rather, women – Clegg believes he can sway Grey to partake of his warped whimsy, simply by chloroforming, then whisking her away to his elaborate basement flat, concocted for just such an occasion.

While Clegg’s idea of the ideal romance owes more to the perversions of The Silence of the Lambs’ (1991) closeted bisexual serial killer, Buffalo Bill, Clegg’s modus operandi for imprisoning Grey is more innocently an obsession to possess rather than devour his prey. Clegg really believes getting a woman – any woman – to love him is as simple as stealing her from the only world she has ever known. In literary form, The Collector simultaneously served as a wicked parable, chiefly critical of the English caste system. Our kidnapper is not exactly power-tripping on the domination of his subject either. And, if the novel is making a commentary about the remote hostility in what was then contemporary society, it seems to be that only a true innocent, undamaged by life itself, and living obscurely in the lush Sussex countryside, can appreciate what an Eden life could be, if only women would accept it on a man’s terms – more expressly, one man, who drugs and drags them against their will into his version or ‘perfection’ suitable and satisfying, at least at first, but only to his adoring male gaze. Creeeeeepy! Uncannily timed also, as Fowles’ book came out at precisely the wrinkle in time when second-wave feminism had already begun to champion a woman’s independence. Despite his rather cool and immaculate exterior (Fowle never describes his anti-hero wearing anything less fashionable than upper class tweeds, befitting the socially affluent), our Freddie Clegg is a backward misanthrope, so out of touch he cannot appreciate The Catcher in the Rye. Increasingly, he comes to loath what he maintains is Miranda’s smug superiority.

No doubt about it. Clegg is a dangerous lot, his reality limited to what he knows (which ain’t much) and what he desires (a woman of his choosing to make his wife). Whether or not a woman of such standing – or any woman for that matter – would choose him is immaterial to Clegg. Alas, as with all great odysseys to find true love, Clegg’s alternate universe will not be conducive for anyone’s idea of grand amour. And yet, as portrayed by Terence Stamp, it is impossible not to express at least a modicum of empathy for Freddie Clegg. Although Stamp (who first rejected the part outright, and even after accepting it, chiefly to work with Wyler, was not entirely certain he had made the right decision) plays Clegg with all the remoteness of Fowles’ flawed spook in gentleman’s clothing, Stamp intrigues us with the more subtle fragileness steadily emerging in his finely crafted performance; a slight quaver in Clegg’s ever-calm voice, or the sudden glimpse of inescapable sadness – that sinking feeling caught in his otherwise doll’s head-dead eyes, if only for just a second after Miranda rejects Clegg’s marriage proposal (and this, after having prepared a lavish table and bought her a stunningly handsome soft pink party dress. What captive could refuse him now?!?!? – not!).

The Collector is utterly compelling because it never follows a predictable course to achieve its chills. From the moment we first see Clegg in his RV, patiently stalking the unsuspecting Grey outside her London Art School, surrounded by girlfriends, quietly observing her at a local pub where she meets with the unanticipated and heart-wounding rejection from a slightly older suitor, right until the moment where Clegg brazenly ambushes his victim in broad daylight with a rag-full of chloroform in the back alley, Wyler sets up the notion that anyone at any time can fall prey to a seriously unhinged stranger lurking in plain sight. Perhaps this cue, Wyler pilfered from Hitchcock, who openly touted that simply by walking down any street in the world one was apt to pass within inches of a sadist, rapist or murderer. What a lovely thought. Makes me want to take a walk in the rain right now and hope I actually make it back to my home in one piece. Yet, Clegg’s motives are even more crazy and, at once, unanticipated. Even his proposal of marriage comes with caveats: Clegg assuring Grey she need not share his bed – only his life, with optional separate bedrooms where she might even choose to lock the door. It is the pretext of a life together, rather than an actual life together that Clegg finds compelling. As though to sweeten the deal further, Clegg – at least at the start, even promises to restore Grey to her former life if she will merely tolerate him for this ascribed period of exile for a month’s time.

It may sound as though I am pitying Freddie Clegg – and perhaps, just a little – I am. Pity is not appreciated in Clegg’s world. But he is a thoroughly sad lot; small, not only in stature, but expectations for a life he otherwise might have found on mutual terms with a woman he did not have to kidnap. At the crux of Clegg’s affliction, the virtual centerpiece of all of his insecurities, remains a deeply rooted desperation to be loved. Too bad for Clegg, Miranda Grey can never do this – for obvious reasons. Indeed, Grey is her own woman, not another one of Clegg’s butterflies to be perfectly embalmed in formaldehyde. She toggles between abject fear, absolute contempt and a queer sort of solicitous charity, half Stockholm Syndrome/half self-serving rationale to quieten Clegg’s emotional rockiness; getting him to believe all his fantastically grotesque dreams may, in fact, have a chance at playing out to the proverbial ‘happy ending’. This too is not to be for either sufferer caught in this harrowing game of cat and mouse.  Even as Clegg stalks, then locks Grey in his stone cellar - a windowless tomb by design, complete with most of the creature comforts of home, including a brass bed and electric heater, he is incapable of treating his newly acquired paramour as anything more hopeful than another specimen in his rapidly expanding butterfly collection.

The opening act of The Collector concentrates almost entirely on Grey’s gradual acceptance of the situation, employing faux empathy, fake illness and false romantic love; all, in an endeavor to beat Clegg at his own game. The tricks never break down Clegg’s cut-off psyche, and indeed, with each bit of applied – and failed – cunning, Miranda Grey merely succeeds, only at ticking off her attacker to the point where Clegg’s already anesthetized emotions become garishly desensitized; not only to her charms, but equally her genuine health concerns. At first, none of this is immediately apparent. Indeed, Miranda finds Freddie is quite concerned for her well-being. He brings exquisitely prepared food on an elegant tray, sneaks in some art supplies so she can continue her studies, and, plies her with her favorite book, The Catcher in the Rye, after she has gone to bed. Clegg has even done her shopping for some fashionable clothes to satisfy her vanity for pretty nice things. His efforts should have yielded something in return. But no. Grey’s fakery of appendicitis ends when Clegg immediately rushes for the doctor, only to hide behind the open door in wait for Grey to try and run away. Frustrated by his own inability to woo Miranda, Freddie makes her a promise he never intends to keep. If she will learn to ‘like’ him, he will restore her to that former life in London at the end of the month. Believing this might actually happen, Miranda invests in satisfying Clegg’s attentions in her. She placates him, feigning interest in his butterfly collection and even paints pictures for him to admire.

Sadly, Clegg mistakes Grey’s fondness for the real deal, making it all the more bittersweet when she reveals truer emotions to turn Clegg to stone once again. At one point, Clegg allows his captive a chance at a real bath in his upstairs. Regrettably, Miranda quickly realizes he has already boarded up all of the windows on the second floor to prevent her escape. Worse, when one of the neighbors (Maurice Dallimore) comes to call, Clegg is forced to bind and gag Miranda to the metal plumbing to prevent her cries for help. Instead, she turns on the water using her toes, causing the ball and claw tub to overflow; the steaming water, rolling under the door and down the staircase, attracting attention. Clegg cleverly suggests he has left the water running, ushers the unsuspecting man outside, then retreats upstairs to take control of the situation. With each transgression, Clegg’s patience wears thinner, culminating in the eve of their supposedly ‘last parting’ dinner together. Having bought Miranda a new dress just for the occasion, Clegg escorts her to an elegant table prepared with a feast and champagne. Believing he will be true to his word and set her free at midnight, Miranda is cordial and even modestly flirtatious, offering to see Freddie socially once she goes home to London.

Her charity sets the wheels of his mental implosion into practice. Clegg admits he could never court Miranda in public. Her friends would find him awkward and idiotic. She denies this. But then he proposes marriage, offering Grey an exquisite engagement ring. She is repulsed by this gesture and cannot hide it. Humiliated for the last time, Clegg drags Miranda back to the cellar, declaring he will never allow her to regain her freedom. Hysterically, she seizes a nearby shovel and strikes him in the head, opening a rather severe gash.  As he begins to profusely hemorrhage, drifting in and out of consciousness, Clegg nevertheless manages enough strength to drag Miranda into the cellar and lock the door behind him. As she weeps uncontrollably, Miranda accidentally knocks over the electric heater. It shorts out, leaving her damp and shivering in the freezing cold basement. Meanwhile, Clegg drives himself to a nearby clinic for treatment. Three days of forced contrition pass; Clegg, refusing to bring Miranda any food or comfort. Unknowing of her condition, by the time Clegg returns he discovers Miranda gravely ill from malnutrition and hypothermia. Frantic, he hurries to town for the doctor, leaving the cellar door wide open behind him. Free to depart, Miranda is now too weak to escape. En route, Clegg has yet another change of heart, instead going to the pharmacy for some pills. By the time he returns, Miranda has died. In the movie’s epilogue we hear Clegg’s voice over, blaming Miranda for her own folly. After burying her beneath his favorite tree, Clegg reverts to his old habits, preparing the chloroform as he stalks his next victim – a young nurse (Edina Ronay) on her way home from hospital. 

The Collector is a fairly disturbing departure for William Wyler. Lest we forget, here is the genius behind such exuberant entertainments as Wuthering Heights (1939), Roman Holiday (1953) and Ben-Hur (1959). The Collector is in keeping with Wyler’s lifelong desire to see if he could make at least one picture in every genre. Miraculously, most of Wyler’s screen efforts remain exemplars in those respective genres – his peerless craftsmanship, a veritable text book for contemporary film makers to admire, study and emulate. It is fairly safe to say The Collector is not first-tier William Wyler. That said, it is decidedly unusual, strangely compelling and, in spots, marginally entertaining. The subject matter is only partly to blame; ditto for the picture’s downbeat finale. Indeed, Wyler rejected Terry Southern’s un-credited rewrite of the screenplay as it allowed Miranda her hopeful escape and survival. In the end, Wyler had his way and was stuck with the decision to conclude The Collector on a deliciously macabre note. It seems oddly perverse to suggest an ‘on screen chemistry’ between Eggar and Stamp. But each pulls out all the stops to compliment the other as the yin and yang in this thoroughly flawed and fatally combative relationship.

I have always found Terrance Stamp to be one of those moodily magnificent figures of the cinema. Truthfully, his look unsettles me; those milky blue eyes and that death-mask-like scowl that, at once says nothing and yet everything about the homicidal creature lurking just beneath the surface. Even when cast as the ‘romantic’ lead in a picture like Far from the Madding Crowd (1967), Stamp emanates the deadliest of intent with a cool and sinister slyness that is terrifying at a glance, and even more nerve-jangling as the layers are peeled back to reveal his hard and Godless core. Samantha Eggar is stunning as Miranda; a girl whose life is book-ended by two hyper-charged scenes of high-stakes hysteria and expiring whimpers. Between these polar opposites, Eggar runs the gamut of emotions, convincingly terrorized by the very real prospect, never to see the clear undiluted light of day again.  In the end, her worst fears are realized. In many ways, ours too.

The Collector arrives on Blu-ray via Indicator/Powerhouse’s alliance with Sony Home Entertainment. The results, remastered in 2K, are mostly solid, save one sequence to be described in a moment. On the whole, colors are richly saturated. Contrast is excellent and shadow detail quite startling. The Collector was photographed by Robert Krasker and Robert Surtees, so the results are first-rate. Now, regarding the aforementioned ‘one sequence’. It begins from Clegg’s point of view inside his RV, stalking Grey as she exits the art school with a gaggle of her fair-weather friends. What we see outside the window is shot through a series of Venetian slats. So far, so good, except there appears to be some horrible line doubling, as all of the background information acquires a blurred, tiling effect. Mercifully, this sequence is brief and the picture elements snap together with razor-crispness once Miranda enters the pub to meet her paramour for the last time. Throughout The Collector, various inserts suffer from a residual milky softness. There is also some minor fading, again, sporadic and not in keeping with the overall quality of this 1080p transfer. The audio is mono DTS and adequate for this presentation. 

Extras include 2 Guardian ‘audio only’ archival interviews – the first, featuring William Wyler, the second, Terrance Stamp. These play over the duration of the movie as a sort of ‘commentary track’. We also get brand new ‘sit-down’ interviews with Stamp (who has not aged well), and, Eggar (still looking fabulous), as well as a legit audio commentary from critic/author, Neil Sinyard.  Critic, Richard Combs weighs in with his reflections on the movie. There are also very brief featurettes devoted to the locations, and, a vintage promo junket made while the movie was still in production; plus, an image gallery. Indicator has also produced a handsome 40-page tribute booklet, chalked with exquisite details, glossy photo art, and essays by Carmen Gray. Bottom line: The Collector will not be everyone’s cup of tea. It is a fairly unsettling thriller in which death looms large and life is as unpredictable as what may or may not be waiting just around the next corner. This Blu-ray provides a comprehensive look back at one of William Wyler’s decidedly lesser works. For those who admire Wyler in general, it is essential viewing.  Recommended.

FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)

3.5

VIDEO/AUDIO

3.5

EXTRAS

4