CAMILLE: Blu-ray (Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1936) Warner Archive
When I watch a Greta Garbo movie, I
am acutely aware of two great tragedies: the one unfolding on the screen by
design, the other, more devastating, made by this elusive creature who would
never again appear before the cameras after 1940 – retired at the age of
thirty-six. For me, this latter realization of the resolute goddess denying us
her presence, herself denied the luxury of appearing in anything beyond a
little known and even more rarely seen screen test made for producer, Walter
Wanger in 1949 – ten-years after her self-imposed exile – this truly is the
Garbo of near mythical proportions. The unicorn, the sphinx, an enigma bottled
in a time capsule of her own youth, yet relegated to another lifetime entirely,
to be forever misinterpreted and so completely misunderstood. For the record,
Garbo never said she wanted to be alone…at least, not in real life. That famed
quotation, like everything else we know or believe to be true about Garbo was,
in fact, an invention of Hollywood; just a line, first uttered in rehearsed
despair in Grand Hotel (1932), repeated in the movies thereafter, and
then, finally, substituted as the leitmotif for Garbo’s own reclusive
life. But the reality is, Garbo only
wished to be ‘left alone’ – a fine line of distinction, perhaps, but
applied equally to the press (who relentlessly dogged her every footstep for
years) and to her fans (who continued to quietly stalk her around Manhattan
while she shopped for antiques). Instead, Garbo chose to remain perennially
loyal and available to those she trusted most – a very select group, indeed –
but to whom she was quite simply a person of flesh and blood, perishable and
sincerely alive, something she arguably never was on the screen.
For although there are few among
her contemporaries (and virtually none in today’s batch of aspiring starlets)
who can so readily ignite the screen with a mere flicker of sadness caught in
her eye, Garbo on camera remains an adored mannequin, more prized than flesh,
yet somehow less genuine and accessible. Personally, I adore this creature of
light and shadow, realizing that in my adoration of the unicorn I am precisely
the sort Garbo would have shied away from in life, to whom she would have drawn
the curtains or shut the door in my face before I could be so bold as to utter “I
love you.” So perhaps, like that
elixir of elusive femininity she plays in Camille (1936) it is best – at
least for me – she exists as an untrue memory in my heart where her intangible
perfection can remain the guarded unhappy secret of this daydreamer obsessing
over an apparition. Garbo is in the full flourish of her hypnotic faculties in
George Cukor’s Camille, arguably, the film for which she remains
revered, cherished and most fondly remembered as the great actress she so
obviously was. In playing the doomed courtesan, desired by the impossibly
handsome, Armand (Robert Taylor), a much younger love-struck optimist, Garbo
positively glows. That she found queer strength in this character’s ailing is
perhaps no great surprise. For Garbo knew something of heartache, better still,
of the destructive nature of Hollywood sycophants who had once praised, then
condemned her one-time lover, matinee idol, John Gilbert, into an early grave.
Marguerite Gautier is first
introduced to us as the lady of the camellias, a rapturous courtesan with a
naughty twinkle in her eye, selling herself for the luxuries that only money
can buy; pretty flowers and exquisite clothes to lure even more prospective
suitors to buy her things while she spends her time and energies elsewhere
instead of on them. Yet behind the smile there lurks a timidity untainted by
these decadent hours wasted in the mercantile trade of flesh; a commodity
picked apart and readily exploited by Marguerite’s fair-weather friend; the
saucy dressmaker, Prudence Duvernoy (Laura Hope Cruise) who forewarns
Marguerite she will not be young and desirable forever. Far from looking out
for Marguerite’s well-being, Prudence is a straggler, all too eager to exploit
her friends’ extravagances for money; living high on the parties she attends,
populated by a motley band of disreputable users, devoted to nothing better or
even as lasting as the gaiety of the moment.
Into this den of iniquity comes
Armand Duval (Robert Taylor); a reveler as yet not made fully corrupt by these
wily good times of his school chum, Gaston (Red O’Malley) and who freely falls
almost instantly - passionately - in love with Marguerite. She thwarts his
advances with playful abandonment, ignoring the truth in his sentiment as
generic lust, and even more obtusely setting aside his genuine concern for the
ailment that has already begun to erode her lungs. Armand cannot bear to watch
as Marguerite struggles to breathe, whirling about the dance floor with wild
abandonment, all but ignored in her obvious distress by these wicked indulgers,
too self-involved in their own benign pleasures. Later, in Marguerite’s
atelier, Armand throws himself at her head. He is so vital and so sincere that
she momentarily surrenders the ersatz luxury of a jaded voluptuary, promising
to be completely his if he will encourage her friends to leave. Marguerite
informs her loyal servant, Nanine (Jessie Ralph) of this admirer’s return – a
romantic pas deux cruelly denied when her most wealthy client, the barbarous
Baron De Varville (Henry Daniell) unexpectedly returns early from a trip
abroad.
The Baron is a deceiver, ruthless
in his unquenchable thirst to possess Marguerite, not out of love, but to
inflict and satisfy his own sadomasochistic fantasies. Thus, when Armand
returns to Marguerite’s apartment, the way is barred. He leaves unfulfilled, though
hardly bitter or saddened. Regrettably, there is time enough for these more
destructive emotions to brutalize, torment and harden his heart. At a horse
sale the next afternoon, Armand is reunited with Marguerite. She half-heartedly
apologizes for their delayed reunion and he accepting whatever superficial
favors of kindness she is willing to parcel off to him. Armand introduces
Marguerite to his friends, Gaston and Nichette (Elizabeth Allen); Gaston’s
bride to be. Their innocence is infectious, leaving Marguerite to reexamine her
own life’s pursuits, only to discover how precious little time remains to make
amends for all the wickedness she has chosen to live by. When the Baron
announces another trip abroad, Marguerite decides to spend her holidays with
Armand at his ancestral home. There, she witnesses the vows of Gaston and
Nichette and dreams in vain of the day when she will marry Armand. He is all
too willing to make Marguerite his beloved wife. But Armand’s father (Lionel
Barrymore), knowing what scandal such a union will bring and sure to impugn
Armand’s future prospects as a solicitor, begs mercifully for Marguerite to go
away without ever explaining her reasons to his son. Realizing that in making
such a request, Monsieur Duval has only his son’s future prosperity in mind,
something Marguerite perhaps has not fully considered in light of her own, she
reluctantly concurs, that to marry Armand would only drag him down to her
level. She must therefore sacrifice her own happiness for the sake and longevity
of his – alas, out of true love.
When Armand returns, he finds
Marguerite gone back to Paris, his discovery made all the more bitter after
finding her on the arm of the Baron inside one of Paris’ more fashionable
gambling houses. Certain her return to the Baron has been motivated by greed
alone, Armand wins a considerable amount of money at the tables, confronting
Marguerite before the whole of the establishment and angrily casting his
winnings in her face. She can buy her own grave as far as he is concerned.
Little does he realize the prophetic nature of these remarks. For only a few
days later, word arrives that Marguerite has been publicly spurned by the Baron
– her reputation, even as a courtesan, in tatters. Moreover, she is now quite
obviously dying and confined to her bed chamber. Learning of the severity of
her condition and also of the self-sacrifice made on his behalf, Armand rushes
to Marguerite’s bedside. He professes his love again; love that had never truly
cooled, but rather was blunted, then masked, by wounded jealousy. Armand begs
Marguerite’s forgiveness and pledges his life to hers, only to have her quietly
die in his arms; the dream of their life together ended by this last cruel
twist of fate.
Camille is superb
melodrama. There is something of a bitter resentment in this lady of the
camellias, Marguerite Gautier, dashing herself to pieces as a wave upon the
shore; resigned to spare the man who must never know how deeply her still
waters run. She, however, is incapable of existing without his love – a central
theme in many a Garbo classic (Grand Hotel, Anna Christie, Anna
Karenina, Queen Christina). For fans morbidly yearning to bear witness to
such spectacular altruism, Camille is our drug of choice and Garbo the
quintessential figure of martyrdom. It is a tale directed with the inimitable
light touch only George Cukor intuitively understood, and in which the
grandiosity of deepening depression bows our heroine’s spirit, fairly
shattering the fickler devotions of her counterpart male beauty. And it all
comes with an added kicker - the specter of death lurking about to claim this
merciful angel back into the ether from whence she first deigned to emerge;
fully formed and stepping into the satin light of William H. Daniels and Karl
Freund’s sublime cinematography – the ultimate romanticized figure of feminine
suffrage. Exactly how much of Marguerite Gautier is in Garbo – or vice versa –
is left to the ages and historians to ponder and discuss. Apart from being the
consummate pro, Garbo is also the visual manifestation of this lyrical
epistolary, the conjurer of her own illusive magic. Was she ever as real or
just a figment of the imagination, taunting and tantalizing with her dumb show
– laughing at us all as in Ninotchka (1939) or infrequently, through
more bitter tears, as she does from the peripheries at Armand in Camille;
one moment, deliciously pleased and reveling in her artfulness, the next,
granite-faced and lethally stern, perversely to deny him genuine intimacy, yet
perhaps compassionate and/or fearful to singe this mere mortal in the afterglow
of her megawatt stardom.
Garbo is a luminous star in the
cinema firmament; untouchable, apart and remote, so perhaps it should not have
come as any surprise – profound or otherwise – that she chose a life apart
after her all too brief tenure in Hollywood. In doing so she did we daydreamers
a great favor, denying us Garbo – the illusion, perfectly preserved in the
mind’s eye – while Garbo, the woman, continued to live and age among us. How
could any reality removed from the one concocted by MGM hope to compete? And
yet, just now, I would have preferred that Garbo much more to this splendid
sybarite, blossoming like a ghost flower in Camille – much preferred to
have basked in the friendship of such a relaxed raconteur, who deliberately
spoiled any photographic attempts to immortalize her in later years with a
finger brought up against her chin or hat casually raised in front of her face.
It must have been a very brave creature indeed, to have made the journey from
her native Stockholm to Hollywood – more defiantly real to have faced those
devouring flashbulbs from the paparazzi after Hollywood was through with her,
or she with it – or both. Garbo today invokes a universal, unfettered by the
hourglass of time. The granules of sand slipping away for the rest of us
somehow do not apply to her. She lives because of film – because of this film
in particular – and because of all those hours concentrating on her carefully
crafted persona in front of the camera – arguably, Garbo’s one enduring love
affair. But she is never more alive than in Camille, revealing just
enough about this bittersweet tart while never quite satisfying our insatiable
need to truly understand the woman playing her. Or does she? Is Marguerite
Gautier the Garbo of Camille or the Garbo from this mythology, of legend or of
a more primal reality; one desperate to be recognized? Perhaps we shall never
know. Then again…as mere mortals, perhaps we were never meant to.
The Warner Archive (WAC), at long
last bows Camille on Blu-ray. The B&W image makes a
marked step up from the tired old DVD release from 2001. It’s not perfect,
alas, and, even more regrettably, can never be. Long ago, original elements
faded into obscurity leaving only 2nd and 3rd generation
prints from which to strike future masters. WAC is cribbing from some highly suspect elements
that are at least 3 generations removed from an OCN, using dupe negatives when
even 3rd generation materials lapse. Given the Herculean task of
working with such terrible source material, tonality here is remarkably solid. The
image is expertly contrasted and free of age-related artifacts. Better still,
fine details have been vastly improved. Film grain is regrettably amplified beyond
what would otherwise be deemed as ‘normal’ – again, owing to source
materials. Do not expect a razor-sharp image and you will not be disappointed. Residual softness is the norm.
But no one should be complaining, because
WAC has done everything in its power to make Camille sparkle as never
before on home video. It’s not the resultant quality that should be championed, but rather the titanic effort exerted in time and money spent correctly to get what
remains on celluloid up to snuff, and arguably, a shay beyond. The 2.0 DTS mono mix sounds
wonderful, with barely a hint of hiss during quiescent scenes and zero pop
elsewhere. Extras include a very badly worn print of the 1921 silent version
starring Alla Nazimova and Rudolph Valentino, a radio broadcast of Camille
and the trailer for the 1936 version. Bottom line: no self-respecting cinephile can do without WAC's newly minted Blu-ray. Despite its shortcomings, this one is very highly recommended!
FILM RATING (out
of 5 – 5 being the best)
5++
VIDEO/AUDIO
3.5
EXTRAS
2
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