THE SIGN OF THE CROSS: Blu-ray (Paramount, 1932) Kino Lorber
Begun under duress at a moment in Paramount’s history
when both the studio’s positioning within the industry and Cecil B. DeMille’s
place in it were not entirely tenable, 1932’s The Sign of the Cross brought
DeMille back into favor with audiences, if not entirely with the executive
brain trust, who begrudgingly admired his zeal and popularity; also, never to
be embraced by his harshest critics, who thought such flighty respites into
faux antiquity, garish, gauche and gargantuan beyond even the acceptable parameters
of screen spectacle. DeMille, however, was neither particularly interested in
what his bosses thought, nor cared much for the critics, who tried to break
down his lavishly appointed epics to bedrock (as though they could). Audiences
flocked to see this pre-Code Bible-fiction potboiler, not the least for a brief
glimpse of star, Claudette Colbert’s ample bosom and perky nipples, suddenly to
protrude from the froth of asses’ milk. Even by pre-Code standards, The Sign
of the Cross indulges in some fairly racy behavior – a lesbian dance, some
sadomasochistic glimpses of torture, and, oodles of inferences regarding Nero’s
bisexuality. This latter proclivity was undoubtedly exacerbated by Charles
Laughton’s own thinly veiled homosexuality. Diaphanous gowns aside, and the
sight of star, Fredric March being eased from his Roman breastplate during a
sex-charged bacchanal, The Sign of the Cross’s faux piety was well
suited for the times – the Great Depression, having made martyrs of us all, even
as the largely Christian-based populace of the United States, remained most
readily eager to embrace stories in which their faith in the All-Mighty was
being simultaneously tested, yet reaffirmed.
Cecil B. DeMille occupies a curious place in American
film folklore. For although his spectacled visage and attire, carrying a riding
crop and wearing heavy boots, typified our collective impressions of what it
meant to be a film director of Hollywood’s old school, he was – even in his time
– regarded with a sort of quaint contempt. Unable to deny him the moniker as
one of the industry’s and Paramount’s ‘founding fathers’, DeMille’s detractors
went after the movies he made as proof positive of his inability to grow with
the times. From the outset, DeMille favored the Bible-fiction epic, a subgenre
very much in demand, and yield the definitive version of King of Kings (1927),
as well as two outstanding editions of The Ten Commandments (1923, and,
1956). Between these bookends, DeMille made movies in other genres that were
embraced by the public, including the Oscar-winning Best Picture of 1952; The
Greatest Show on Earth. And while Hollywood at large often used words like ‘colossal’
and ‘stupendous’, and, catch slogans - ‘as big as all creation’ -
to capitalize on their production values for movies of otherwise dubious
distinction, in DeMille’s case, the PR fit the product to a tee. Yet, even as
the elephantiasis afflicting his spectacles was undeniably impressive, it was
more the underlying streak of humanity – DeMille’s ability, never to lose sight
of the passion and the glory of the human saga set before these grandiose
plywood and plaster façades – that kept even his worst critics at bay, and the
paying public flocking to the theater wherever his name appeared above the
title.
Arguably, it was only after DeMille died on Jan. 21,
1959, that the pundits came out in his defense, affording him the accolade as a
visionary, a great man, and, most of all, ‘the creator’ of an industry to have
since grown up, grown old and grown weary of an uncertain future closing in all
around them. Indeed, DeMille’s passing marked the real/reel end to Hollywood’s
glory years – officially to put a period to the golden age. In his time,
DeMille was to forge an alliance with the visual artists working on his
pictures. Indeed, he created the title of ‘art director’ expressly for Wilfred
Buckland. Sensitive to achieving a level of authenticity, then as yet unseen on
the screen, DeMille embraced the notion of having ‘concept art’ to illustrate
more clearly the final visualization of his product, applying a painterly
quality of the old masters to his movie screen, thereupon re-creating moving
tableaus from their inspiration. But by 1931, Paramount Pictures – the studio
DeMille had practically built from the ground up – was in a bad way. Mogul,
Adolph Zukor’s obsession to own more real estate than art had resulted in the
acquisition of 300 theaters across the nation at a stifling expense. As
mortgages on these properties were not being met by revenue from the product
being pumped into them by the studio, the added strain of the Great Depression
only widened this chasm. Despite showing a profit of $6 million on their books,
Paramount was steadily sinking into the red. Worse, co-founders, Jesse Lasky
and B.P. Schulberg – two of DeMille’s most ardent supporters - had been ousted
from power in an old-fashioned palace coup. At this juncture, DeMille turned to
the past for inspiration. In 1895, his mother had taken him to see Wilson
Barrett’s play, ‘The Sign of the Cross’, previously filmed in 1914 and,
at least by DeMille’s standards, judged as ‘terrible…even for a Famous
Players picture!’ As early as 1924, DeMille had hoped to make his own
version, appealing to Mary Pickford, who presently owned the rights. Haggling over
price, Pickford eventually sold DeMille the property for a cool $38,000 and
Lasky, then a force, pitched it to Paramount. The studio did not chomp at the
bit.
Lasky was apoplectic and his appeals finally won out.
Zukor agreed to allow DeMille his ‘return’ to Paramount – but for only one
movie, and, even then, with the concession DeMille produce his million-dollar
epic on the relatively paltry sum of $650,000. For his services, DeMille would
receive $14,322, with $9,678 deferred. If it all sounded quite good on paper –
especially owing to the financial hardships afflicting the rest of America
then, the terms were, nevertheless, a real slap in DeMille’s face, particularly
as he was denied the right to bring on board long-time collaborators, Jeanie
Macpherson and editor, Anne Bauchens, and also, was felled by the
micromanagement of Emanuel Cohen – an underling with not one-tenth the
understanding of the picture-making biz. DeMille was granted his choice of art
director - Mitchell Leisen, with whom he had already established a symbiotic
rapport. It all looked promising – on paper… that is, until April 1931 when a
corporate shake-up in Paramount’s front offices forced Lasky and Schulberg out.
Now, Cohen assumed the reigns. And thus, the artistic struggles began. For
kick-starters, Zukor objected to DeMille’s casting of Charles Laughton as Nero.
Indeed, Laughton commanded a salary of $1,250 a week to partake of the
exercise, a figure out grossed by star, Fredric March’s weekly stipend of
$2,100. And although DeMille would win this fight, there was precious little he
could do to get around Cohen’s insistence the picture be made for a lot less
than what DeMille thought it would cost to do it justice.
To the rescue came Leisen, as the defacto art director/costume
designer/assistant director. Leisen told DeMille he could have a lavish
spectacle on a shoestring by applying some clever backstage trickery. As
example, for the burning of Rome, Leisen built a massive balcony in the extreme
foreground on which Nero could pluck his lyre, using SFX matte shots in the
background and lighting and smoke effects on Nero’s face to insinuate a much
grander inferno. Meanwhile, DeMille had been captivated by a newcomer to the
lot – Claudette Colbert whose career, thus far, had been framed playing the coy
ingenue. Transforming Colbert’s screen image, DeMille took great pains molding
Colbert into character (or lack thereof) as the Empress, Poppaea, whose nude
bath in asses’ milk (comprised of real powdered milk for authenticity, only to
curdle under the hot lights of the set) and inference for one of her slinkier
ladies in waiting to strip and accompany her, sent the censors into a minor
tizzy. DeMille, however, had the support
of the censor’s Jason Joy, who warranted The Sign of the Cross’ themes
of ‘religious tolerance’ necessitated a showing of the moral depravity preceding
the retribution to follow it. And so, apart from Joy’s insistence DeMille not shoot
a scene planned between a gorilla and a naked woman tied to a post, DeMille
pretty much had his way.
Despite Zukor’s cost-cutting measures, The Sign of
the Cross gave every illusion to being as grand a spectacle as DeMille could
afford to make; his Roman sets, populated by a grand menagerie of colorfully
attired extras and animals. DeMille
encountered minor opposition along the way, easily remedied by his iron-fisted
will to defy his superiors and simply ‘get on’ with achieving his vision on the
screen. Thus, when the secretary assigned to him, eager to leave early for the
day, locked DeMille out of his office, he had her fired – replaced by Florence
Cole, whom DeMille preferred. When head
cutter, George Arthur threatened to deny DeMille his preference to use Annie
Bauchens over Alexander Hall, DeMille simply made Hall uncomfortable to the
point where he begged Arthur to let him out of his commitment on the picture,
thus allowing Bauchens to enter. To ensure such a tussle would never happen
again, henceforth, DeMille had it written into his contract Bauchens was to
edit all his movies from now on. DeMille even went toe-to-toe with Cohen, who
suggested after a few weeks shooting, that he had intel DeMille was doing a
lousy job, necessitating the picture being either scrapped or remade –
presumably, with someone else at the helm. Undaunted, DeMille insisted he be
allowed to assemble a rough cut of the footage already shot, asking Zukor’s
brother-in-law, Al Kaufman to be the arbitrator of ‘good taste’. Reluctantly,
Cohen agreed – chagrined when Kaufman not only approved of DeMille’s work, but
was, in fact, ecstatic about what he had just seen.
The alliance between DeMille and Mitchell Leisen
proved as formidable as it was effective at keeping the entire production
moving at a breakneck pace; Leisen, blocking scenes on one set while DeMille was
off shooting on another – the men switching back and forth, allowing DeMille to
step into pre-arranged camera set-ups he then either approved wholesale, or
only needed some minor tweaking to complete. For the climatic amphitheater
sequence, throwing the Christians to the lions, Leisen again achieved the
impression of an immaculate vista for the relatively paltry sum of $60,000,
turning mere portions of set into a vast and all-encompassing arena where the martyrs
could be sacrificed for the Quo Vadis-ian styled finale. Alas,
DeMille was to encounter obstinate lions; first, refusing to climb the steps
leading into the arena, and then, rather nonplussed to devour the Christian
carcasses, made of raw, and presumably tempting, lamb meat. Dressing in costume,
the lion’s trainer, Melvin Koontz, tried to engage one of the beasts in a
close-up to which the rather non-compliant animal merely urinated on him,
incurring DeMille’s wrath. Indeed, the production was running out of time and
money and DeMille, even more so, out of patience.
Arguably, the encounter with the lions, to have
created a cost overrun of $694,000, palled to DeMille’s defense against his
detractors. Although the censors had ‘overlooked’ the ‘kootch’ movement in his
lesbian dance, and even turned a blind eye to the Roman bacchanal (teased with
its salacious depictions of pre-arranged bodies, lying together in languid
repose), at a sneak peek preview, audiences roared at Charles Laughton’s
interpretation of Nero as a demonic, yet cherub-esque psychotic. Laughton had
had great fun playing the ill-mannered and emotionally disturbed potentate.
Behind the scenes, the openly gay Laughton even flirted with Fredric March –
making the straight (and strait-laced) actor extremely uncomfortable, especially
when, on more than one occasion, he tried to catch a glimpse of ‘what’ was
under March’s toga. DeMille was outraged, not by Laughton’s cheeky advances
towards his costar, but for having earlier attempted to reign in Laughton’s
performance, hoping to add more menace, but to no avail. In his defense,
Laughton suggested to DeMille the whole point of his performance had been to
elicit chuckles, as to advance the wickedness of Nero’s sinful acts with a sort
of crude comedic undertone. DeMille was unimpressed. “What do you want to
play after this?” he asked Laughton, to which Laughton coolly replied, “You
– Mr. DeMille.” The ice broke and DeMille roared loudly. He had more to
crow about when the New York premiere garnered him the best reviews in a very
long while. “The old master returns to form…” sang the Los Angeles
Times. Variety, the showbiz Bible, was more circumspect, suggesting DeMille was
in for some “two-sided sentiment” – ergo, backlash, for his
audaciousness. And predictably – it happened, with religious groups on the war
path, regarding the more salacious bits of business scattered throughout, as ‘repellent
and nauseating’, even to propose DeMille had ‘cheapened’ Christianity and
‘the cross’.
The Sign of the Cross opens on the
third night of the great inferno in 64 A.D.; the mad Emperor, Nero (Charles Laughton)
jubilantly plucking his lyre. The
Emperor’s loyalist, Tigellinus (Ian Keith) informs of the fire’s rapid spread,
engulfing the city. Yet, this news only seems to delight the sadist, who prays
it will expunge Rome of its Christian influences. Tigellinus advocates for the
public’s demand of a victim to ascribe blame for the inferno. Thus, Nero
skillfully spreads the rumor it was the Christians who torched Rome, thus,
directly to lead to their persecution for a crime they did not commit. Servillius (Clarance Burton), the confidant of
strong man, Strabo (Nat Pendleton), informs Nero he will pay handsomely to
enslave the Christians. Meanwhile, Titus
(Arthur Hohl) arrives in Rome with a message from the Apostle Paul, encouraged
by Favius Fontelas (Harry Beresford) to deliver it at a secret gathering near the
Cestian Bridge. The baker, Tybul (Harold
Healy) learns Titus and Favius have been apprehended by the authorities. In the
meantime, a crowd has gathered to stone two of Strabo’s Christian prisoners.
Instead, a young Christian girl, Mercia (Elissa Landi) attempts to protect the
men. Now, the Prefect of Rome, Marcus Superbus (Fredric March) intervenes.
Immediately smitten with the girl, Marcus thwarts the stoning, setting Mercia
and her cohorts free. Secretly, however, he informs his guards to follow them
to learn all they can about their whereabouts.
As the Empress Poppaea (Claudette Colbert) has her own
venomous and lustful designs on Marcus, she is disturbed to learn from her
servant, Dacia (Vivian Tobin) he has taken an interest in another woman. Tigellinus
is also against Marcus, demanding to know why he has let the Christians go. Meanwhile,
Marcus, having discovered where Mercia lives, now makes his own romantic
overtures towards her. She is resistant – at first – but desires him deeply.
However, Tigellinus cautions, ‘no Christian’ shall escape Nero’s wrath. Servillius
and Strabo threaten Tybul to learn of Mercia’s whereabouts. They are directed
to the home of Favius, where Mercia lives with Stephan (Tommy Conlon); two
outcasts, whose parents were coated with pitch and burned as torches during one
of Nero's orgies. Alas, in arriving at
Tybul’s bakery to collect bread, Stephan is exposed and taken prisoner by
Servillius and Strabo. Determined to spare Mercia a similar fate, Marcus vows
to liberate Stephan from his captors. Under extreme torture, Stephan reveals to
the Romans where the secret Christian meeting is to be held. Arriving too late,
Marcus discovers an unconscious Stephan who, after briefly stirred, also
reveals the location to Marcus. In his endeavor to beat the Romans to the
Cestian Bridge, Marcus inadvertently damages Poppaea’s carriage. Although he
lies to her about the reason for his haste, Poppaea quietly orders her guards
to unearth the identity of the girl who has bewitched the man she also desires
to possess.
Regrettably, Tigellinus and his men begin their
assault on the Christians. Titus and Favius are both killed, with the remaining
survivors exiled to Martian prison.
Marcus orders Mercia to be freed and brought to his house, even as
Stephan is taken away along with the rest. Now, Poppaea questions Marcus on the
integrity of his love for Mercia. He denies it, but she can see he is not
telling her the truth. Marcus withdraws, and Poppaea’s jealousy is stirred. To
gain Nero’s favor, Tigellinus suggests, not only has Marcus protected the most
dangerous of the Christian prisoners from prosecution, but he – Marcus – has
been spellbound as a Christian spy. Nero
promises swift retribution. However, Poppaea, still in love with Marcus, submits
to Nero that his only weakness is love – no sedition. To cure Marcus of this,
Poppaea tells Nero to put the girl to death, but spare Marcus. And thus, we
arrive at the picture’s most daring moment. Unable to convince Mercia of his
love, Marcus sets the lesbian dancer, Ancaria (Joyzelle Joyner) to perform an
experimental seduction. Alas, singing from the imprisoned Christians drowns out
Ancaria’s song. Disgusted in his failure to break Mercia free of her beliefs,
Marcus advocates that her mind has been ‘deformed’ by her faith.
Tigellinus arrives and informs Marcus the girl must
die along with her Christian cohorts. Unable to prevent her immediate exile,
Marcus appeals to Nero. Poppaea lies that Marcus is mad, but either way, Nero
will not be moved towards clemency. Now, Nero institutes the crude ‘games’ to
begin in the arena – the crowds gathering to bear witness to a grotesque
spectacle where all manner of torture is indulged, culminating in the
Christians being fed to the lions. By Poppaea’s word, Mercia and Stephan are
denied this fate until all of the others have gone before them. Only then, is
Stephan led to his death; Mercia, promising to be reunited with him in heaven.
Imploring Mercia to renounce her faith, and thus spare her life to be aligned
with his own, she instead denies Marcus his request, though not his love.
Realizing he too cannot live without her Marcus instead elects to face the
lions with Mercia. The lovers proudly march into the arena together to meet
their fate.
The Sign of the Cross was a
blockbuster for Paramount and a real shot in the arm for DeMille’s career too. The screenplay by Waldemar Young and Sidney
Buchman sticks fairly close to its source material, which bears an uncanny
resemblance to Henryk Sienkiewicz’s Quo Vadis. At Oscar time, only Karl
Struss was nominated for Best Cinematography – DeMille, more directly pleased
that, despite the considerable setbacks faced while making it, and, the
criticism heaped upon it by Christian-based organizations, the general public
embraced it with full-on enthusiasm. To his final hour, DeMille always regarded
The Sign of the Cross as his last great act in that early cycle of
Bible-fiction epics, begun with The Ten Commandments (1923) and The
King of Kings (1927). Insisting on authenticity, DeMille’s use of powdered
cow’s milk to simulate asses’ milk for Poppaea’s bath resulted in a generally
unpleasant experience when the milk curdled. Much of Colbert’s nipple-exposing
bath, as well as Ancaria’s ‘dance’ and several inserts of gladiatorial carnage,
were later expunged from the negative for its 1938 theatrical reissue;
mercifully, to survive this slum prudery and the long interim, finally, to be
reinstated by MCA/Universal (the custodians of all Paramount’s pre-1953
catalog) in 1993.
The Sign of the Cross arrives on
Blu-ray via Kino Lorber’s alliance with Universal Home Video, predictably, derived
from that 1993 restoration with virtually no upgrade made to the 1080p transfer
since. Not as bad as it sounds, because Uni did do some very impressive work
back then – all of it, readily on display here. The overall tonality in the
gray scale is admirable. We get just a hint more information in the frame this
time around, with a tad more crispness to boot; the image, advancing in fine
detail and brightness – marginally. Age-related artifacts are still present,
but never to egregious levels. No edge effects either – so, a generally
faithful and film-like presentation - albeit, one that could have, no doubt,
advanced considerably with a new 4K scan of these ‘restored’ elements. But I
digress. The DTS mono is, of course, at the mercy of its dated sound-recording
technologies, but otherwise, has been wonderfully preserved. Kino has sweetened
the deal with 2 new audio commentaries, the first from author/historian, Mark
A. Vieira, the second by historian, David Del Valle. Both offer fresh and
insightful back story on DeMille and the making of this movie and each is a
welcomed edition in its own way. Very good stuff here. Bottom line: The Sign
of the Cross is DeMille at his most ostentatious/glamorous picture-making.
No self-respecting connoisseur can afford to be without this one on their shelves.
The Blu-ray is solid, if not entirely perfect. Recommended.
FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)
4
VIDEO/AUDIO
3.5
EXTRAS
2
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