THE LOST WEEKEND: Blu-ray (Paramount, 1945) Kino Lorber

 True confessions of a self-professed cinephile. Ashamedly, I have never been able to warm up to several actors, near-universally renowned for their craft and artistry. Try as they might, there is just something about them that fails to register with me.  Melvyn Douglas is one such star from Hollywood’s golden age I could have sincerely done without; Robert Young, another. And Ray Milland, more pertinent to this review, is yet another. I am not entirely certain why Milland’s work in pictures doesn’t catch my admiration on the upswing, as I can definitely recognize his as a very finely honed talent whose enviable career spanned decades, from the end of the silent era to 1985. Moreover, Milland in his prime possessed a formidable range, reflected in the diversity of his repertoire. I am not suggesting Milland is a bust with me. Indeed, I enjoy a lot of movies in which he appears. I just – somehow – enjoy them a little less, and can think of at least 5 other actors who, ostensibly, would have been ‘better’ – again, at least for me.  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. Apart from my dismissive jibes, he worked for virtually all of the top-flight directorial talent during the golden age of the studios, 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 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 criteria: first, my judgement of Milland as a ‘take it or leave it’ talent is grossly prejudicial and unfair. Second, I wish to suggest that perhaps this movie is precisely the reason why my opinion has been tainted against Milland for so long, as Milland, as New York writer, Don Birnam, the anti-hero of our corrosive and harrowing tale of alcoholism, is hardly an empathetic figure. Actually, he is 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 to a nine-month contract as a stock actor. Evidently, Metro’s raja – L.B. Mayer - did not take to the Milland either. We have that in common. Thus, when the contract ended, Milland’s option was not renewed. But Milland quickly bounced back with a pick-up at Paramount that included 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, proved popular with audiences. They also afforded him a home and enviable stability in a profession not readily known for such provisions: a 20-year alliance with Paramount as their highest paid star. Milland was 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.), fondly recalled as his best work. I’ll concur. He is good in all of the aforementioned. But would not Cary Grant have been better in Dial M or The Major and the Minor? Okay, I’ll stop with the comparisons. Unfair, I know.

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 Milland such potency in a career mostly culled from fluff.  Milland would later recall how, having just arrived home from Peru, he was to discover the 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 the team of producer, Charles Brackett and director, Billy Wilder would be helming the picture put Milland marginally 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 sober-minded experiment. To better understand the character, Milland checked himself into Bellevue’s psychiatric ward for the night, surrounded by actual patients suffering from delirium tremens. To say the experience was impactful on Milland’s performance would be 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 transforming into his crumbling alter ego 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 status of a matinee idol to buoy him in bad roles (fun to look at, even if the material was junk), found the accolades and adulation come to him immediately after The Lost Weekend’s premiere, steadily 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 also largely lacking. Age too was creeping up on Milland, whose doughy features filled out. His hairline receded and his eyes began 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, he 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 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 Nate’s Bar, stealing Wick’s money for the cleaning lady to pay for his booze.  Time gets away from Don. Indeed, his drinking 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 her. 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 skulks off 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 physical 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 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 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 feverish 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 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. And Wilder knew from whence he wrote, 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 too over the top. Paramount toyed with the idea of shelving the picture indefinitely, worried 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 responded favorably. Concerned sales might be impacted by a movie advertising their product as a corrosive influence, the liquor industry banded together to launch an aggressive marketing 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 a 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.

Universal, the custodians of Paramount’s pre-fifties catalog, have finally come around to offering a remastered edition of The Lost Weekend on Blu-ray via their alliance with Kino Classics. In region B, The Lost Weekend has been available for almost 4 years, thanks to Eureka! The Kino release is cause for celebration as it bests the Eureka! release in terms of contrast and gray scale tonality. Fine details pop as they should and the image is free of age-related artifacts. One minor caveat. The Eureka! appears to show a tad more information on all sides when directly compared to the Kino. The differences are negligible at best and, given Kino’s overall improvements in image quality, not a deal breaker. The Kino release is also brighter than the Eureka! Blacks still remain velvety and crisp, but now we get more information in background detail, and a more amply endowed grain structure that seems far more indigenous to its original source. The 1.0 DTS audio is indistinguishably solid across both releases. The major regret with Kino’s release is extras. We get only an audio commentary by Joseph McBride (very ample and informative), plus a radio adaptation lasting almost a half-hour, plus another episode of Trailers from Hell, and the movie’s original theatrical trailer. Lost in the shuffle – presumably due to an issue with rights, the 3-hr. 3-part BBC interview with Billy Wilder, and Eureka!’s flashy 36-page companion booklet, that not only contained a breakdown of the infamous ‘hallucination’ sequence, but also excerpts from Jackson’s novel, and a new essay by David Cairns. For a movie of such social significance, I would have expected Kino to spend a little more and feature some goodies to offset these losses for North American collectors. Tragically, no. Bottom line: Kino’s 1080p transfer bests the Eureka! So, if your player is Region A locked, you’re definitely in luck. If its swag you’re after and have the means to play discs from alternative regions, then Eureka! easily beats the pants off this release. Judge and buy accordingly!

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

4.5

VIDEO/AUDIO

Eureka! - 3.5

Kino – 4.5

 

EXTRAS

Eureka! – 4

Kino - 1