THE LOST WEEKEND (Paramount, 1945) Universal Home Video

BEST PICTURE - 1945

Ashamedly, I have never been able to warm up to actor, Ray Milland. I am not entirely certain why, as I can definitely recognize Milland as a very fine talent whose enviable career spanned the decades from the end of the silent era to 1985 – and, in a formidable range of roles for which Milland – mostly – acquitted himself rather nicely of the material as written. Born Alfred Reginald Jones (oh no!, that would never do on a marquee), the Welsh-born Milland (hardly an improvement in my opinion), was a beloved of Hollywood, and, apart from my dismissive jibes, worked for virtually all of the top-flight directorial talent during Tinsel Town’s golden age, including Hitchcock and Billy Wilder. His Oscar-winning role, that of a raging lush in Wilder’s The Lost Weekend (1945) remains the movie for which Milland will likely always be best remembered. And perhaps, this too is part of the reason for my general lack of engagement with the actor’s body of work in totem. I state all of this, simply to point out two things: first, my judgement of Milland as a ‘take it or leave it’ talent is grossly prejudicial and unfair, and second, to suggest that perhaps it is precisely for this role that my opinion has been tainted, as New York writer, Don Birnam, the anti-hero of this corrosive and harrowing tale of alcoholism, is hardly an empathetic figure. Actually, he’s a devious bastard.   

Like most of Hollywood’s gilded age alumni, Milland came to the picture-making biz second best, or rather, after already having a life beyond it, serving in the British Army as an expert marksman, horseman, and airplane pilot. Landing his first role in MGM’s The Flying Scotsman (1929) paved the way for in-roads into a nine-month contract as a stock actor. Evidently, Metro did not take to the actor either. When the contract ended, his option was not renewed. But Milland quickly bounced back with a pick-up at Paramount, with several loan-outs to Universal. While the movies he made at both studios during this internship could hardly be considered ‘classics’ they kept Milland employed and, intermittently proved popular with audiences. They also afforded him the stability of a 20-year alliance with Paramount as their highest paid star; promoted to A-list leading man status in pictures after The Lost Weekend, with The Major and the Minor (1942), The Big Clock (1948), and The Thief (1952) – outside of Dial M for Murder (1954, but made for Warner Bros.) - his best films.

The Lost Weekend unequivocally represents the pinnacle of Milland's tenure at Paramount; a picture, painfully daring in its portrayal of alcoholism. And truly, it affords the star his one moment of potency in a career mostly culled from fluff.  Milland would later recall how, having just arrived home from Peru, he was to discover a novel on his front stoop with a note written by Paramount’s then head of production, Buddy DeSylva – “Read it. Study it. You’re going to play it.” Such was the age in Hollywood, when stars did as they were told. Personally, I would have that time again.  Alas Milland, a straight-arrow, found the situations in Charles R. Jackson’s novel utterly foreign to his relative teetotalism.  And Milland, who had perhaps grown comfortable in playing laid back types and comic fops, was also gravely concerned the part of Don Birnam would require ‘serious acting’ – perhaps too great a chasm for him to straddle. Informed by DeSylva that the team of producer, Charles Brackett and director, Billy Wilder would be helming the picture put Milland somewhat at ease as their previous working relationship on The Major and the Minor had been a pleasant one.

Milland would later suggest he completely threw himself at Wilder’s mercy, trusting the director to reign him in should he overact the part with amateur theatrics. Going against his own grain, Milland’s first attempt to play Don Birnam while actually inebriated was a disaster.   But Milland’s second endeavor, to understand the illness from the inside out, would prove a sobering experience; the actor, checking himself into Bellevue’s psychiatric ward for the night, surrounded by actual patients, suffering from delirium tremens. To say this experience was impactful on Milland’s performance is an understatement. In fact, Milland could only stand his self-imposed incarceration until 3am, when he promptly checked himself out of Bellevue and began the immersive and transformative process of becoming this crumbling man as written by Jackson. Losing weight for the role, Milland shot for a few days in New York before returning to Hollywood to complete the picture. But the strain of the process, also, the grotesqueness of the subject matter, really took its toll on the star’s home life. Near the end of production, Milland found it impossible to disentangle himself from Birnam’s moroseness. After production wrapped, Milland, along with his wife, Muriel, departed for a much-needed vacation to Canada. Meanwhile, the buzz in Hollywood was Milland’s performance would likely net him a Best Actor Oscar nomination; sentiments echoed by Brackett, who confided in Milland he had achieved ‘something really worthwhile.’ Paramount executives, however, remained unconvinced. Indeed, The Lost Weekend was unlike any other picture – not only made at their studio – but entirely removed from its vintage. Film noir may have been darkly themed. But The Lost Weekend was nightmarish to the point of perversely unsettling. What Wilder had created was an unflinching incubus, addressing the elephant in the room that was virtually a main staple at every Hollywood party since the repeal of prohibition. Would the public take to it? Or was The Lost Weekend much too far ahead of its time?

The studio – and Milland – had absolutely nothing to fear. The New York critics raved about the movie and the star’s performance.  In addition to the Oscar, Milland would take home awards at the Cannes Film Festival, the National Board of Review, and, the New York Film Critics Circle. As for the public, many became convinced Milland actually was an alcoholic – a reputation that would dog the actor for some years yet to follow. The Lost Weekend’s overwhelming success at the box office made Paramount reconsider Milland’s status, making him their highest-paid star shortly thereafter. Regrettably, the pictures that came later were not of the same caliber. And Milland – who arguably lacked the ‘good looks’ of a matinee idol to buoy him in bad roles (fun to look at, even if the material was junk), steadily found the accolades and adulation that had instantly come to him immediately after The Lost Weekend’s premiere, were steadily being eroded by less than ‘good’ parts in some very lousy pictures.  Although he continued to be cast as a leading man opposite some of Hollywood’s biggest leading ladies, the chemistry was lacking. Age too was creeping up on Milland, whose doughy features filled out; his hairline receding, his eyes, beginning to bulge. And so, after an amicable departure from Paramount, Milland comfortably moved into the director’s chair, working in television (then, considered the red-headed stepchild of the industry, suitable only for cast-offs and has-beens). Even so, Milland became a major player in this burgeoning medium from 1955 until 1985. And far from being bitter about the move, Milland was fairly circumspect about Hollywood’s affinity for ‘bright young things.’ “Do what you can with what you've got,” he once explained near the end of his life, “I know actors from my generation who sit at home and cry 'Why don't they send me any scripts?' I tell them, ‘Because you still think of yourself as a leading man. You're 68, not 28. Face it.’”

The Lost Weekend opens on a Thursday; Wilder and Brackett deliberately nailing down the timeline for an added layer of verisimilitude as closeted alcoholic and New York writer, Don Birnam prepares for a weekend retreat with his brother, Wick (Philip Terry), who is eager to discourage his drinking. Inadvertently, Don’s devoted gal pal, Helen (Jane Wyman) proves the proverbial fly in their ointment, arriving with two tickets for a concert. Desperate for a nip, Don suggests Helen take Wick instead. He and Wick can take a later train for their planned vacation. Besides, he has not finished packing yet. While neither Helen nor Wick wants to leave Don alone, having witnessed the bottle he has clumsily tucked on the other side of the window sill, they reluctantly agree to Don’s terms and toddle off to the concert. Unbeknownst to Don, Wick has poured out the contents of the bottle. Frustrated, though hardly without a Plan-B, Don hurries to Nat’s Bar, stealing Wick’s money for the cleaning lady to pay for his booze.  Time gets away from Don. Indeed, his drinking again has taken precedence. Returning home hours too late to catch the late train out of Manhattan, Don discovers Wick about to leave his apartment. Helen agrees to stay behind and wait for Don’s return. Unwilling to have her see him like this, Don narrowly avoids Helen. Instead, he skulks back to his apartment to indulge in the cheap whisky he has just bought.

Returning to the bar the following day, Don is admonished by its owner, Nat (Howard Da Silva) for treating Helen so badly.  Don sheepishly agrees. Helen deserves better. He recalls in flashback, their first encounter; a mix-up of cloakroom tickets at the opera-house. During their ‘cute meet’ Helen, in fact, made Don want to be a better man. Don became wholeheartedly invested in sobriety until overhearing a conversation between her parents (Lillian Fontaine and Lewis Russell), wondering if he was good enough for their daughter. Thereafter, he lost his nerve and telephoned to cancel their rendezvous. When Helen arrived at the apartment, Wick feebly tried to cover for Don – explaining how his brother was really ‘two people’ – the writer fearing failure, and the out-and-out drunk, chronically in need of someone to bail him out of a bad situation of his own design. Perhaps, this revelation stirred ‘the mother instinct’ in Helen. For she has since remained loyal and empathetic to Don’s struggles with the bottle.  In the present, Don migrates to another bar where no one knows him. Raring for a fix, but without funds to procure it for himself, Don attempts to pilfer a few bucks from a woman’s purse and is ejected from the establishment after being found out.  Demoralized, Don returns to his apartment and discovers a bottle he had earlier stashed in a light fixture. Now, he drinks himself into a stupor.

By Saturday, Don is broke and a wreck.  He lies to Nat about having already begun his ‘tell-all’ novel about alcoholism when, in reality, he is plotting to pawn his typewriter for some quick cash to get tight.  Mercifully, all of the pawnshops are closed for Yom Kippur. Returning to the bar, contrite and nervous, Don is refused service. Frantic for cash, Don attempts to lay a little charm on Gloria (Doris Dowling), a girl he knows is sweet on him. Despite having earlier stood her up to go on a binge, Gloria reluctantly gives Don some money.  However, while departing her apartment, Don clumsily falls down the stairs and is knocked unconscious. Awakening the next day, Don discovers he has been checked into the alcoholic’s ward at Bellevue, attended by the cynically cruel male nurse, Bim Nolan (Frank Faylen), who mocks all of his patients as ‘guests of Hangover Plaza.’ Nolan promises a cure for Don’s delirium tremens. But Don refuses to help himself and is successful at making his escape while the staff are preoccupied with another delirious and aggressive patient. Monday morning sees Don steal a bottle of whisky, hurriedly drowning himself in its anesthetizing waters. Only this time, the results are hardly comforting. Don suffers a horrific series of hallucinations. Unable to discern the real from the fantastic, Don is discovered by Helen in a fragile and fevered state. Devotedly, she stays the night, monitoring him from the next room. But in the morning, Don sneaks away to pawn Helen’s coat – the very thing that first brought them together.  Certain Don has taken the coat to trade for booze, Helen is gravely concerned when the pawnbroker informs her Don has instead sold the coat for a gun and bullets that he previously hocked. Rushing to his apartment, Helen finds Don preparing to commit suicide. Nat arrives with Don’s typewriter. Helen begs Don to reconsider his life. She loves him dearly, in spite of his flaws. Determined to remain sober for his own sake, as well as for hers, Don begins to write his memoir ‘The Bottle’ – dropping a lit cigarette into the last glass of whisky as proof of his determination to beat this disease.

The Lost Weekend is perhaps the frankest and most socially conscious depiction of alcoholism ever put on the screen. Certainly, it is a stark and terrifying reminder of the ravages of the disease. Milland gives the performance of his career; genuinely unsettling, raw and honest.  The picture’s hopeful ending is perhaps a tad strained. But we accept it as part in parcel of the then reigning Hollywood convention for the proverbial ‘happy ending’. Will it end ‘happily ever after’ for Helen and Don? Wilder is circumspect about suggesting as much. Indeed, the finale to The Lost Weekend is open-ended at best. After all, we have seen Don try to break the habit repeatedly, only to find new and humiliating ways of slinking back into his penitent drunken ways. Jane Wyman’s sweet Polly Purebred is convincing enough. But the rest of the supporting cast are just window-dressing for Milland’s central turn as the basically ‘good guy’ steadily giving in to his more degenerative and slovenly ways, slavishly devoted to strong drink.  Originally, Billy Wilder had wanted Jose Ferrer for the lead; Wilder, drawn to the material from his experiences working with the alcoholic, Raymond Chandler on the screenplay for Double Indemnity. Likewise, Charles Brackett would have preferred Olivia de Havilland for the part of Helen, although rumor has it both Kate Hepburn and Jean Arthur campaigned heavily to be cast.

Interestingly, a prevue audience laughed at The Lost Weekend, believing Milland’s performance was over the top. Paramount toyed with the idea of shelving the picture indefinitely, worried that Wilder’s adaptation had not done enough to blunt author, Charles Jackson’s inference of Don as a closeted homosexual. However, the picture screened at the prevue lacked Miklós Rózsa's Theremin-inspired underscore. As this contributed greatly to the pathos for Don’s alcoholism, the second prevue, with the score added, greatly enhanced the experience, and, the audience response proved favorable. Concerned that sales might be impacted by a movie advertising their product as a corrosive influence, the liquor industry en masse launched an aggressive campaign to discredit The Lost Weekend as pure tripe before its official premiere, with the Allied Liquor Industries writing Paramount a rather strong letter, suggesting The Lost Weekend would prove the cause célèbre for reinstating prohibition. Liquor interests too were responsible for hiring noted gangster, Frank Costello to put pressure on Paramount – offering the studio a cool $5 million if they agreed to burn the original negative. Recalling this incident years later, Billy Wilder glibly suggested that if Costello had posed to him as much, he would have happily lit the bonfire himself. The Lost Weekend was a huge hit for Paramount. In the intervening decades it has remained a stark and original movie about the perils of self-indulgence.

It is positively indecent that Universal Home Video has not come around to releasing The Lost Weekend on Blu-ray in region A. In region B, The Lost Weekend has been available for almost 4 years, thanks to Eureka! third-party distribution of the Uni catalog. Perhaps with newly minted third-party distribution agreements in North America via Kino Lorber and Twilight Time we will finally get The Lost Weekend in hi-def on this side of the pond. For now, what we are stuck with is a very fine-looking DVD, mastered in 1999 when Uni still cared about their vintage catalog. Aside: in the leap-frog of corporate mergers that occurred in Hollywood throughout the 1960’s and 70’s, MCA officially acquired all of Paramount’s pre-1950’s back catalog – an oversight resulting in Uni as the eventual custodians, as MCA and Uni had merged in 1962. For a DVD, The Lost Weekend looks quite good – solid contrast, excellent tonality and a light smattering of film grain, indigenous to its source. The audio is 1.0 mono and serves the movie well. Could it look and sound a lot better in 1080p? The answer is, of course, ‘yes’ as the Eureka! Blu-ray illustrates. Worse, the Uni disc has NO extras. Bottom line: The Lost Weekend is deserving of a new transfer on Blu-ray. Hopefully, we will get it someday soon.

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

4.5

VIDEO/AUDIO

3.5

EXTRAS

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