CIMARRON: Blu-ray (MGM, 1960) Warner Archive

“Terrific as all creation!” was the tagline used to promote RKO’s Academy Award-winning Best Picture of 1931. In one of those Hollywood’s ironies that never fails to illuminate with hindsight, Cimarron - critically lauded, though commercially a clunker - to have lost money for RKO in 1931, while walking off with the Best Picture Oscar, found renewed life in 1960 in what ought to have been a glossy, big-screen remake to best their efforts; especially a la MGM – the studio, once to have boasted more stars than there are in heaven. Regrettably, by 1960, Metro could be more astutely counted upon for its string of expensive flops. These continued to put a strain on the company’s ability to make the sorts of sprawling and star-studded entertainments to have typified their output during the old Mayer/Thalberg era. Alas, after 1950, the revolving management that took over did little to improve MGM’s prospects.  As times and tastes were to extraordinarily shift, pulling the rug out from the glamour gala days of yore that had once ear-marked Hollywood en masse – and MGM in particular - as a place unlike any other, where the dreams dared to be dreamed, really did come true, the 1960 reboot of Cimarron further promoted the idea that MGM was still living vicariously through its past achievements, and quite incapable of keeping up with the times.  To be fair, in 1931, sound was new and the western saga, rife for rebirth. So, the wordy and soap-opera-ish antics to evolve in Cimarron then were beloved by those who saw it. 

Flash head four decades, and Cimarron had become quietly disregarded as one of the most undeserving Best Picture winners in Oscar history. Let us be clear. The original Cimarron was made at a time when racial biases were not only well-tolerated, but acceptable. So, we can – and must – forgive a Hollywood then, for its own subscription to what was an inculcated cultural mindset. The picture’s slapdash storytelling – unendingly, to slacken the tension, making dull, scenes that ought to have crackled with the spark of sentiment, and, for long stretches, save the land race – became the real/reel unforgivable sin of this 60’s remake. Interestingly, similar misfires were quietly overlooked by Academy voters in 1931 who, then as now, had enjoyed the visual bloat that only an A-list budget could provide. But it ought to be pointed out, despite its impeccable source material – a page-turning best seller by Edna Ferber – at 123 minutes, the ’31 Cimarron was a real fanny-twitcher. So, to discover its ’60 reboot something of a slog and a snore, 27-minutes longer, is really no surprise. Despite the myriad of changes made by screenwriter, Arnold Schulman, to streamline the story, while adding girth to its characterizations, the resultant spectacle – and the melodramatic histrionics that intervene - are still soap-ish and sloppily strung together. The original Cimarron had suffered from a dearth of opportunities for any of its characters to develop distinct personalities beyond some thumbnail traits, as unfulfilling as sitting through a four-hour audio-animatronics dumb show at Epcot. The movie’s view of minorities was invariably condescending – again – by today’s standards, yet in hindsight, ever-more a testament to the pervading cultural mindset then, not always accurately depicted in history textbooks written about that time now.

The rights to Cimarron, first published in 1929, had cost RKO a whopping $125,000 to procure; a testament to the drawing power of Ferber’s name above the title. Alas, unable to recoup its elephantine budget of $1.5 million in 1931, Cimarron – the movie – would continue to hold the dubious distinction of being the only Oscar-winning Best Picture to lose money. With the exception of its Oklahoma land rush sequence, re-created with 5000 extras and simultaneously photographed by two-dozen cameramen, little of Cimarron was technologically remarkable – even in 1931. Invested in extolling every last virtue of the Ferber novel, the film became slavishly anchored to the book’s careful construction which does not translate into pure cinema, lacking any sort of narrative momentum beyond a mere and terminally endless processional of over-the-top lamentations to derail the marriage of our enterprising pair of daydreamers, then played by Tom Mix and Irene Dunne.  The ’31 Cimarron was director, Wesley Ruggles fourth movie of the sound era. Ruggles, a truly prolific figure during the silent era would see his prospects dwindle after Cimarron, despite his own Oscar nomination as Best Director.  Notwithstanding its notoriety in 1931, by 1960, Cimarron’s reputation had withered. So, to discover MGM’s renewed interest in a Cimarron reborn is more than a little perplexing. Perhaps, the powers that be naively believed they could do better.

Ironically, the year before Metro had had a superb and multi-Oscar-winning smash hit with the lavishly appointed Italian remake of Ben-Hur (1959) one of the grandest movies of the silent era. So, to discover Metro’s verve for yet another resurrection secured for Cimarron by casting popular stars, Glenn Ford (who, age-43 supposedly wrecked his back on the first-day’s shoot driving a wagon and spent the rest of the picture in excruciating agony, strapped in a back brace and pumped full of Novocain) and Maria Schell (fresh from her invigorating star turn in 1959’s The Hanging Tree) in the leads seemed to guarantee a winner. Add to the mix Mercedes McCambridge and Russ Tamblyn also on tap to conquer Ferber’s multi-generational saga and Cimarron ought to have been one for the ages. Instead, at precisely the moment momentum for the project was kicking into high gear, MGM second-guessed their investment, cruelly slashing the picture’s budget until director, Anthony Mann literally gave up and departed to work on El Cid in Spain, leaving an un-credited Charles Walters to finish things up as best he could. It’s more than a little off-putting, but morbidly in keeping with the artistic malaise engulfing MGM’s backlot then. And Schulman’s screenplay is no help at all. Indeed, the narrative structure of the piece is a travesty — front-loaded with a spell-binding recreation of the Oklahoma land rush, then shrinking almost immediately in stature and storytelling into a wan pop opera, lightly peppered in denied ambitions and a meandering, and artificially inserted central theme of intolerance railing against the traditions of civilizing these wide-open spaces of the American western frontier.

The arc of Tony Mann’s film career is both impressive, and yet curious. After proving his mettle on cheaply made 40’s Eagle-Lion noirs he exploded onto the Hollywood scene with some high-profile western dramas, starring James Stewart.  Throughout the 1950s, Mann earned big studio contracts and made some clever alliances that really advanced his career. At MGM, he made ‘small’ pictures of considerable artistic merit and lent his expertise to the studio’s elephantine Roman toga-party, Quo Vadis (1950) on the evacuation of Rome after Nero has torched the city; arguably, the best thing about the movie. So, 1960’s Cimarron was hardly out of Mann’s league, if to remain distinctly out of touch with what audiences hoped to see from him next.  Indeed, Mann did not come to Cimarron out of love for the project, but from necessity to realign his reputation in Hollywood after a particularly bitter divorce at Universal-International and James Stewart. Mann’s next opportunity to distinguish himself, 1960’s Spartacus, was yanked from his creative hands by the picture’s star/producer, Kirk Douglas, who had always sought director, Stanley Kubrick in his stead, had been denied Kubrick’s services at first, due to previous commitments, but then found a window of opportunity to hire Kubrick, even though he had already signed Mann to helm this Super-Technirama 70mm production.  So, Mann, already demoralized, and still licking his wounds, came to Cimarron with a real chip on his shoulders, only to be derailed by Metro’s chronic meddling. Suffering from a clear case of ‘buyer’s remorse’, the executive brain trust pruned back the script and paired down the location shoot in Arizona, imprinting the entire movie with its time-honored, stage-bound/back-lot artifice. The opener, as example, so clearly takes place on the St. Louis street, built for 1944’s Judy Garland classic, Meet Me In St. Louis, one sincerely expects a cameo from Garland, in full Esther Smith drag.   

And while Mann could be caustic to a fault, his 15-year tenure of solid film work, left to his own accord by studio big shots, must have seemed a notable calling card for the same courtesy to be extended to him now over at MGM. Alas, denied this authority to perceive the picture on his own terms, Mann abandoned Cimarron, by some accounts, with less than half the movie in the can, departing for Spain and El Cid, which became a mega-hit for the fledgling indie Samuel Bronston organization. Stylistically, it remains relatively easy to spot discrepancies between the footage shot by Mann and his replacement, Charles Walters. The first 40-minutes of Cimarron are more than competent picture-making, as we follow the audacious and sophisticated westerner, Yancey Cravat (Glenn Ford) and his city-bred bride, Sabra (Maria Schell) out west to claim a farm in the first Oklahoma Land Rush. Yancey’s reputation as a man of considerable daring is established early and thereafter intermittently reconfirmed. He is on a first name basis with William Hardy – a.k.a. The Cherokee Kid (Russ Tamblyn) – a notorious outlaw; also, academic journalist, Sam Pegler and his wife (Robert Keith and Aline McMahon) and amused by the hapless sodbusters, Tom and Sarah Wyatt (Arthur O’Connell and Mercedes McCambridge) who, ironically, strike it rich in oil. So much for keeping company with the right kind of kinfolk.

As in 1931, Mann’s recreation of the Land Rush presents the 1960 version of Cimarron with its first major hurdle to overcome in that, what is usually considered the high-water mark of any other major picture, in Cimarron takes place less than twenty-minutes in. What ought to have been any other movie’s rousing climax gets dispatched as an exhilarating first act finale with nothing on the horizon to match it for its sheer pageantry and magnitude. Mann’s depiction of these wildly careening carriages and charging horses is far more devastating. The wagons assail the waiting cameras, frequently to tumble and break apart for maximum effect, the elongated Cinemascope frame exaggerating their full-on advance, cleverly also to mask most – if not all – of the matte paintings and crop lines that piece together this exhibition into one adrenaline-charged flourish of picture-making prowess.  The rest of Cimarron is awkward and unsure of its stature, and, for good reason. Yancey Cravat is neither altruistic nor does he ever accomplish his life’s ambitions. An underdog? Hardly. But an out and out failure at everything he tries…who needs it? Most certainly, Yancey never lives up to the marital promises made to the long-suffering and ever-devoted Sabra on their wedding day, begging the inquiry as to why to town of Osage eventually erects a statue to his memory. Glenn Ford plays Cravat’s inability to truly settle down with a coy sort of embellishment that is neither endearing nor in keeping with Ferber’s novelized depiction. Worse, Cravat is all but written out of the story mid-way – his greatest exploits, depicted off screen and regaled to the audience only via montages or letters sent back to Sabra. This leaves the heavy lifting – and scene-stealing – to Schell’s Sabra. More than amply, she proves she can manage – mostly – without her man. While Yancey is invested in the constructs of his own legend, Sabra holds down the fort with undying perseverance. In the ’31 version, Richard Dix played Cravat as a mysteriously aloof and brooding figure, reunited with Sabra shortly before his death. In Mann’s version, Cravat dies alone and off camera, with only another montage, culminating in a telegram, to announce his passing. Could it be that in their invested pruning to keep the picture’s budget down, Metro’s exec’s emasculated all of the doleful empathy and highlights to be had in this remake?

Since its release, Cimarron has acquired a fairly unflattering reputation as just another big and bloated clunker/junker made at the beginning of the end of Metro’s silver age in the picture-making biz. Yet, what remains on the screen even after MGM had its way with Mann’s masterpiece is still fairly engrossing as pure soap opera. The arc of Sabra’s evolution from doe-eyed innocent to sage old woman, enduring occupational setbacks and the agonies of civilizing a new territory, fuel the narrative with some very good scenes Maria Schell can – and does - carry on her own. Even as she remains devoted to Yancey, Sabra recognizes her husband’s shortcomings; his betrayal with the saloon mistress, Dixie Lee (Anne Baxter), that costs them both their dream as homesteaders on a ranch, the ostracizing of the Wyatts, who accidentally discover oil on the land thus far mismanaged as farmers, the forging of new and more meaningful alliances with fellow journalist, Jesse Rickey (Harry Morgan), and businessman, Sol Levy (David Opatashu). It’s all filler of a kind. As if to rewrite the wrongs of its predecessor, the ’60 Cimarron dilutes its racially loaded and anti-Semitic threads, rather heavy-handed to become an anthem for Civil Rights. 

At odds with Mann’s own film-making acumen – and Ferber’s novel – there is a whole subplot devoted to Yancey’s moralizing conflicts with race-baiting Bob Yountis (Charles McGraw), who deliberately wrecks the wagon of an Indian aspiring to partake in the land rush. Mann shifts the focus to more familiar territory – at least for him – by observing as Yancey damn near chokes Yountis with a wagon wheel. But later on, the vicious and vengeful Yountis avenges himself on the Indian while his family looks on and Yancey does absolutely nothing to prevent the lynching.  While the novel’s Yancey was a lawyer who championed equal rights, his cinematic reincarnation remains little more than a passive observer of social injustice, powerless to withstand – even challenge – the cruelty that motivates it. Ferber’s own passion in bringing America’s racial intolerance to the forefront of her authorship, rife for discussion, is all but quietly expunged from this version of Cimarron. Fair enough, Glenn Ford’s Yancey Cravat copes with social injustice more realistically than Richard Dix did in 1931, boorishly to handle most every situation then at the point of a gun, dispatching with ‘the bad guys’ when he wasn’t busy self-aggrandizing and pontificating at his own political rallies. Alas, Ford’s Cravat is an even more vacuous straw man than his predecessor, contented merely to employ the fallen man’s widow, Ruby Red Feather (Mickie Chouteau) and her children, Arita (Dawn Little Sky), and Ben (Eddie Little Sky) as servants in his home. But Yancey remains toothless, failing in his attempt to get the local school to offer an education to Arita. Sabra’s own prejudices rear themselves some fifteen years later when their son, Cimarron Jr. (interchangeably played by Ted Eccles, Jim Halferty and finally, Buzz Martin) begins a romance with the girl, since blossomed into a young lady of qualities. As nothing about these racial divisions ever gets resolved, the picture’s ‘message’ is made laughably impotent.

Instead, Yancey becomes embroiled a subplot to steer The Cherokee Kid (Russ Tamblyn) away from the negative influences of Wes Jennings (Vic Morrow) a punk gunslinger to mirror the buddy/buddy conflicts of Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid. Alas, the premature dispatch of both Jennings, and Yancey’s own arch nemesis, Yountis, leaves the rest of Cimarron with a sincere dearth of baddies to sustain our interest in what happens next. As such, the picture’s last act unexpectedly morphs into ‘a woman’s picture’ – with Schell’s Sabra picking up the slack in the dramatic reins. There is a wonderful moment of feminine bonding that takes place during Sabra and Sarah Wyatt’s animated childbirth, and a very solid hostility brewing between Sabra and Dixie Lee in which both Schell and her co-star, Anne Baxter distinguish themselves. Schell also has the lion’s share of a dramatic scene with Glenn Ford after Yancey declines a cushy political appointment in Washington to govern the new Oklahoma Territory.  Yet, these moments are overtaken by the rather cheap-jack sets that surround, shot uncharacteristically flat by Robert Surtees. There is no atmosphere here, further marred by a general lack of visual continuity as each moment plays like a vignette disconnected from the whole, instead of part of that connective tissue that ought to have been tightly woven into the very fabric of the plot to advance it. Cimarron may not be an exemplar of the western saga, tricked out in Cinemascope and MetroColor, but it remains strangely compelling in spots to observe, chiefly for the studio’s own short-sightedness, garishly on display, in not carrying the picture to full term. Ambitiously begun, but hard to finish, Cimarron’s reputation as a colossal turkey is overrated. It isn’t exactly a train wreck. On the flip side, it never veers to prominence as one of the all-time greats.

There is better news for those who love the movie as Warner Archive’s (WAC) new to Blu offering has been masterfully handled.  What’s here is a vast improvement over their 2009 DVD. Everything crisps up as it should and the results highlight the superbly staged land rush sequence, with fine details thereafter abounding, especially in close-up. Alas, such monumental clarity also exaggerates the repetitive use of Metro’s cycloramas and matte paintings. These can appear even more artificially pasted on than effortlessly integrated into the backdrop. Matte painter, Matthew Yuricich received no credit for his work here, the special effects touted to long-time effects supervisor, A. Arnold Gillespie, whose career dated all the way back to the studio’s infancy.  Cimarron is one of Gillespie’s last movies. Cimarron is also touted as being originally presented in theaters in 4-track ‘scope’ Westrex stereo. What is on the Blu-ray is a 2.0 DTS derivative, the same option that accompanied the 2009 DVD. If a more robust stereo edit actually exists, it ought to have been included herein. Otherwise, the stereo here makes fairly good use of the charging horses and Franz Waxman’s robust score – particularly, the main title. As before, WAC provides no extemporaneous materials on the making of the movie. Just as well. Cimarron is more of a footnote than an impressive addendum to MGM’s illustrious picture-making history.  Bottom line: WAC has come up with another solid hi-def remastering effort. The movie could still use some work, though!

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

3

VIDEO/AUDIO

4.5

EXTRAS

0