A FOREIGN AFFAIR: Blu-ray (Paramount, 1948) Kino Lorber

A sex comedy about the American occupation of Berlin after the war with a few Nazi-yuk-yuk’s and Marlene Dietrich thrown in; Dietrich, as a slinky chanteuse using an American army officer to maintain her cover and her freedom after the war: it all must have seemed like a good idea at the time – that time, being 1948 – with everyone’s strong desire to move past those horrendous years of European conflict. But writer/director, Billy Wilder, in another collaboration with producer/writer, Charles Brackett, was to quickly discover there are just some human foibles you simply cannot poke a stick at, even with a straight face and acerbic wit – Nazis and post-war human suffrage, topping the list of no-noes. Shot mostly in the grotesquely wounded remnants of a bombed-out Berlin – a city in ruins – Wilder and Brackett’s A Foreign Affair (1948) remains a very odd duck for which the passage of time has not entirely improved its prospects as a frothy and fabulous romantic comedy. I suspect Wilder and Brackett are going for the jugular; the most egregious and tasteless of their vignettes involving U.S. Capt. John Pringle’s (John Lund) decision to ‘reprogram’ a brainwashed Nazi-youth, Gerhardt Meier (Ted Cottle) - whose favorite past time is drawing chalk swastikas on any surface set before him, even the back of his own father’s (Richard Ryen) coat - by simply sending the boy to an American youth baseball camp. Wilder gets more – or rather, ‘better’ mileage from Millard Mitchell’s Colonel Rufus J. Plummer, who summarizes the grave condition of Germany’s post-war collective soul, crippled by its defeated propaganda and considerable human losses in the war. Plummer’s various monologues throughout the picture are sobering reminders of a reality that the central plot, involving Pringle’s awkward dalliances with Dietrich’s sly and conniving Erika Von Schluetow, and his unlikely blossoming love affair with a very mannish U.S. Congresswoman, aptly named Phoebe Frost (Jean Arthur), are desperate to obfuscate. Like all of Wilder’s best comedies, there is a lot more to A Foreign Affair than initially meets the eye. But the delicate balance between truth and fiction is not entirely licked here; Wilder and Brackett’s affliction, the inescapable atrocities committed by the German war machine, even as Berlin – sad, yet stately - smolders in its own ashes.  

Distilling all of the nation’s post-war problems into mere ‘fraternization’ between the local fräuleins and U.S. G.I.’s, out for…well, you can guess…seems a naïve insult to the more altruistic post-war occupation of Berlin.  And the plot is even further hampered by two generally unlikable, if morally complicated, performances from our female stars. Jean Arthur is too stiff-britches and pain-in-the-ass meddlesome for her own good; her buttoned-down conservatism roiling into a sort of pseudo-lesbian frustration, and, chronically outspoken to a fault, with barely a scene or two to establish the essential ‘soft core’ of her character that could make a fellow like Lund’s Pringle fall madly for her – even if they are from the same district back home; always, the necessary code to breed a certain modicum of home-sickness. As for Dietrich…it must have stuck in her sexy craw to be cast as the Nazi gal-pal; Dietrich, in reality and famously, in an interview, denouncing Hitler and the nation that bore her, concluding, “The Germans and I no longer speak the same language.” And Dietrich, who tirelessly campaigned for the Allies and sold a ton of war bonds in support of the American war effort – perhaps as much an illustration to her fans of an unwavering fidelity to her adopted nation, is rather ruthless in A Foreign Affair, making no bones about Erika’s instinctual greed and desire for self-preservation. Erika will do anything to escape paying for her war-time alliances as the diamond-studded and ermine-lined arm-candy to some of the Third Reich’s top Nazi officials, including Hans Otto Birgel (Peter von Zerneck).

We have yet to mention the wooden-headed and charm-free John Lund here; a less animated performer, the likes of which we have not seen from many a bit player; far less, from a leading man. Lund’s ‘allure’ has always eluded me. Sporting neither matinee idol ‘good looks’ - for which a goodly number of shortcomings are oft forgiven and/or overlooked – nor the acting chops to be anything better than passable in the part, Lund’s Capt. Pringle never engages the viewer beyond a minor sip of congeniality. That Erika could so completely bamboozle Pringle with her exoticism is, perhaps, forgivable as the potency of Dietrich in her prime, especially when she cavorts in her shimmering sequined gown, cooing Friedrich Hollaender’s ‘The Ruins of Berlin’ to a packed audience in a drafty rathskeller, is never anything less than spellbinding. Arguably, Lund – with the proverbial ‘pole’ firmly implanted between parts south of the equator – is the ideal mate for Jean Arthur’s brittle and brooding Congresswoman. But A Foreign Affair is neither as frothy as one would desire from one of Billy Wilder’s vintage champagne cocktails, nor as sobering in its message. Wilder and Brackett appear to be leading up to some great social commentary, only, and rather predictably, to regress into a shallow lover’s triangle that is, arguably, the picture’s bread n’ butter.   

Wilder and Brackett’s shrewdness gets in the way of the laughs, rather than augmenting and complimenting them. The picture is comparatively unbecoming all around; its depiction of delegates from the U.S. Congress as stodgy, slightly dotty, and, thoroughly out-of-touch do-gooders; the Department of the Army, fraught with idiots and bumblers of every shape and kind. The WAC’s, tomboyish and clumsy; the MP’s sent to question Erika, presumably being dictated to by the wrong heads, and quite unable to locate their own asses without a compass and a map. Wilder’s usual tread of honesty is more heavy-handed than hard-hitting here, if just as sardonically sophisticated. The entire modus operandi for the picture, that given half the opportunity, people – even of disparate languages and political views – will find a way to take advantage of each other, most immediately, for their own sexual gratification, is a truly callous view of humanity – Godless, morally bankrupt and guileless in its greed. Indeed, Phoebe Frost is distinctly appalled by what the army has labeled as ‘fraternization’ – finding more moral outrage than morale problems, and determined to put a period to the mysterious Erika Von Schluetow whom she perceives as a central figure, promoting this post-war den of iniquity. Eschewing their homesickness by partaking of ‘healthy’ temptations in smoky cafés, or trading candy bars for disposable ‘romances’ with a little sex on the side, the soldiers sent to protect are instead being corrupted. And Colonel Plummer is not only turning a blind eye, but shamelessly condoning such behavior under the rubric that ‘boys will be boys’.

As concocted by Wilder and Brackett, A Foreign Affair never devolves into the sort of truly tasteless excursion one might expect from any number of today’s film makers. Aside: I suspect, only because of Hollywood’s then reigning code of censorship. This Wilder abhorred but was nevertheless forced to adhere. But the picture has its difficulties, even for Wilder and Bracket, in overcoming a sort of rank and faint-smelling rotten crassness, even with the pair’s sparkling wit and worldliness to recommend it. Jean Arthur’s punctilious and pragmatic Phoebe is our navigator through this labyrinth of loo-loos. But her initial reaction to ‘love’ reeks of some puckered old school marm’s inelastic conceit to admit she too was born with a clitoris – or worse, a green school girl’s virginal naiveté, ensconced in some Victorian-age slum prudery that continues to celebrate the marvels of the chastity belt and irreverently condemn carnal lust without ever having experienced it first-hand. Alas, Arthur isn’t funny. She is just plain out of step with the times and sooooo hard line, one would think this Congresswoman hailed in her iron petticoats from behind the Iron Curtain. Contrasting Arthur’s rigid crumb is Dietrich, as the thoroughly enigmatic sexpot in wolves’ clothing. With her blonde tresses tussled, a half-come-hither/half-sinister glint caught in her eye, Dietrich achieves the most fascinating and layered recital in the picture; daring to be openly contemptuous, while grasping for all she can get, and, convention, Congress and Nazis be damned. What a woman!

Wilder’s uncanny ability to find the humor, even in Nazi war guilt, the decimation of an entire city, and the unscrupulous black market that immediately dogged the rebuilding process, escalates the drama to an uncanny crescendo of exhilarating thrills and death – hardly the trappings of a conventional ‘rom/com’. And yet, somehow it works – mostly, or at the very least, partly; the net result, a finite example of post-war propaganda where Hitler’s vial war machine, and the atrocities derived thereof can be viewed, as practically on par with the American occupiers who, from their vantage as the victors, now – even in the rubble – have managed to unearth the gemütlich beer garden and strudel mementos of yesteryear for their own diverting ‘good times’ before running back home to their mamas and sweethearts; leaving the Tirolean landscape strewn in empty Coke bottles and Hershey bars wrappers. After a bombastic main title by Frederick Hollander, actually an orchestral version of ‘The Ruins of Berlin’, we are thrust into the staggering desecration of Berlin, circa 1947. Little remains of this one-time jewel; its prominent landmarks, since reduced to cinder blocks by the incendiary attacks in the last days of the war. Despite its shockingly apocalyptic landscape, life has begun to return to the city. Enter Iowa Congresswoman, Phoebe Frost with an entourage of congressional ‘observers’ to investigate the morale of the ten-thousand troops still stationed in the American sector. The official greeting is dismissed by Phoebe as ostentatious camouflage, put on by Colonel Plummer for their benefit. Nevertheless, Phoebe brings warm greetings and a cake for Captain John Pringle, home-baked by his fiancée, whom he has not seen in four years.

John feigns being homesick for the girl he left behind. Actually, he has no intention of ever returning to her and immediately trades the cake on the black market for a mattress, as well as various other hard-to-find luxuries that he bestows on his German gal-pal, Erika von Schluetow. She may be a slinky torch singer now. But back in the day, von Schluetow was the highfalutin gal-pal of Hans Otto Birgel, a high-ranking Nazi officer and part of Hitler’s inner circle. While being given the fifty-cent tour of Berlin’s bombed out relics by Colonel Plummer, Phoebe takes notice of multiple instances of ‘fraternizing’ between young German girls and American soldiers; some, having already established blended families since the fall of the city. Mistaken for one of the frauleins by a pair of rowdy American soldiers, Phoebe decides to accompany her newfound companions to the Lorelei nightclub where Erika sings. The soldiers inform Phoebe of Erika’s checkered past – girlfriend to either Goering or Goebbels, but since the war, under the protection of an anonymous U.S. officer. Her moral indignation knowing no boundaries, Phoebe confronts Plummer on the legalities of what he harmlessly perceives as ‘our boys occasionally getting out of line’ and furthermore, demands to know what is being done about Erika von Schluetow. By rights, Erika should be serving time in one of the Allied detainment camps until her party loyalties either can be corroborated or dispelled.  

At the same instance, Phoebe decides to trust John Pringle, as a compatriot from Iowa, but also because she believes he has an honest face. Unbeknownst to Phoebe, John is Erika’s boyfriend, responsible for her tenuous freedom. After screening a newsreel that shows Erika accompanying Hans to the opera, the pair given a warm-hearted reception by Hitler himself, Phoebe elects to have John accompany her in a stake-out of Erika’s apartment, certain that if they wait long enough in the dark, Erika’s protector will reveal himself. Alas, after accidentally leaning on the horn of his Jeep, Erika mistakes it for his usual calling to her. She tosses a key out of her second story apartment window. John feigns no prior knowledge of their assignations and Erika, emerging from the apartment to see what has become of him, equally lies to Phoebe about ever having met him in the past. The ruse is successful. But Erika is sly – and too outspoken for her own good, leaving Phoebe even more determined to unearth her secret lover. The next day, Phoebe ask John to accompany her to army headquarters to access Erika's official file. To prevent this from happening John pretends to be in love with Phoebe. At first appalled by his impromptu kiss, Phoebe becomes smitten with John. To further detour her passion for seeking out the truth, John proposes marriage after a 48-hr. whirlwind romance. Meanwhile, Erika pleads with her lover to be taken to America. For the first time, John realizes just how manipulative Erika can be and his love for her severely cools.  That evening, Phoebe dresses up for a night on the town, culminating in a pit stop at the Lorelei.  The night ends badly when Erika insults Phoebe and the girls are busted in a military raid on the club. Meanwhile, Plummer orders John to stay away from Phoebe and pursue Erika to ferret out her real lover, Otto – a Nazi war criminal gone underground since the end of the war.

At the police station, Erika convinces Phoebe not to embarrass Congress by identifying herself. Instead, Erika gets Phoebe released by saying she is her cousin. Believing Erika has befriended her, Phoebe accompanies her to her apartment. Only now, Erika cruelly reveals John is her lover. Deeply wounded by this revelation, Phoebe hides as John returns to Erika’s apartment to inform Erika his romance with Phoebe is just a ruse. Revealing herself to all, Phoebe departs, utterly humiliated. Awaiting their return flight to America, Plummer has the trip delayed due to inclement weather, in order to force a reconciliation between John and Phoebe.  Meanwhile, at the Lorelei, Otto Birgel stealthily enters the smoky club from the kitchen while Erika is performing for the men, armed with a gun he plans to use to murder John.  Mercifully, the vigilant American soldiers catch sight of Birgel and his pistol glinting in the afterglow of Erika’s spotlight. They shoot first and kill Birgel. Thus, as Plummer's Jeep approaches the club with Phoebe in tow, they are greeted by patrons fleeing the Lorelei and MP’s detaining civilians.  Realizing John was never truly in love with Erika, Phoebe burst into the club, thoroughly relieved to discover Otto’s body lying under a tarp on the floor. Plummer has Erika arrested. She will serve time in a labor camp. Determined to marry John, Phoebe corners him, indiscriminately flinging aside bar stools until the two are standing toe to toe. The couple kiss, as John begins to recite The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere.

A Foreign Affair is by far Billy Wilder’s most uneasy comedy – too introspective to appeal as light entertainment, and too giddy to take any of the horrors of war seriously for too long. As the lovers, Jean Arthur is far too straight-laced to be believed, while John Lund’s turgid military man is neither as appealing nor as valiant; a rather unwitting fop, blowing hot, then cold, and finally, luke warm with the prevailing winds of change; from his own misguided passion – blinders on, to official duty, and finally, genuine affections for this tight-britches gal of his class and home state. Dietrich’s performance outshines them all. But Millard Mitchell’s Colonel Plummer remains Wilder’s mooring line, anchoring the audience with repeat reminders of the post-war fallout and human cost on both sides of the battle. For once, Wilder’s socio-political commentary seems to outweigh his ability to hide his ‘message’ in a candy-centered entertainment. Wilder’s characters are always more worldly than the average Joe, even if they outwardly play to the superficial character traits of John Q. Public. But here, the only character to escape such scrutiny is Dietrich’s sharp-tongued chanteuse. Dietrich is magnificence personified, excelling at dark and sinister bitterness, sheathed in the glittery elegance and vapors of a pre-war/pre-Nazified Germany, when laissez faire cabaret performers showed a little leg and far less talent, but were all the rage nonetheless. Aside: Dietrich’s abilities as a ‘singer’ in the movies has always baffled me. Although she frequently warbled a tune or two, the effect for me was always two-parts clucking chicken to one-part croaking toad, hardly a flattering take-away, as Dietrich badly fractures both the tempo and tonal pitch. Her songs in A Foreign Affair are par for this impression. She fares better belting out ‘The Ruins of Berlin’ than she does attempting rhyming couplets during ‘Black Market’ – a scathing ditty whose potency is all but destroyed by Dietrich’s half-spoken rendition of the lyrics. In the last analysis, A Foreign Affair is less than satisfying because, like Dietrich’s talents as a singer, it fails to completely gel as anything better than Wilder and Brackett’s ‘message’ picture. The comedy is too screwball to amuse and the drama, more unsatisfying because it haunts us long after the laughs dissipate.

A Foreign Affair arrives on Blu-ray via Universal Home Video’s alliance with Kino Lorber. Alas, the results herein are well below par. Again, I wish I could get through to Uni’s executive logic that continues to farm out tired old masters to Blu-ray without any attempts made to upgrade the image. A Foreign Affair sports good tonality. But the image is unnaturally harsh, owing to untoward digital manipulations. The sharpening creates minor ringing halos and amplifies grain to a digitized grit. This sincerely distracts. Worse, no clean-up has been performed. While many scenes play with minimal age-related damage, there are a handful of crucial moments that appear, either to have been sourced from badly worn third-generation prints or fed through a meat grinder; streaks, mottling, tears, white speckling and vertical lines running up and down the screen. This really is a visual hodgepodge, and, on occasion, a terribly sloppy mess to wade through. Add to this, shimmering of fine details and contrast just a tad leaning too dark, and well…the results are disappointing to say the least. The 1.0 DTS mono is adequate and sounds far better than the movie looks. We get an audio commentary from Joseph McBride that, at times, positively gushes with praise. Evidently, McBride loved this one a lot more than me. There are also trailers for this and other Billy Wilder product being peddled by Kino. Bottom line: Uni’s short-sightedness on the 1080p mastering has deprived Wilder’s B&W flick of its visual aplomb.  Pass and be glad you did.

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

3

VIDEO/AUDIO

2

EXTRAS

1