THE LADY FROM SHANGHAI: Blu-ray reissue (Columbia, 1947) Kino Lorber
Orson Welles’ career is that of a
vanishing shadow, a great talent snuffed out in its prime and relegated largely
to B-grade performances in movies one can almost as easily forget as belonging
to the canon of a supreme artist. Orson Welles, who shocked a disbelieving
nation into exquisite terror with his authentic radio broadcast of H.G. Wells, War
of the Worlds, who dared incur the ire of omnipotent newspaper magnet,
William Randolph Hearst by created one of cinema’s irrefutable masterworks – Citizen
Kane (1941), to whom free reign was granted and then rather unceremoniously
yanked by the executive brain trust at RKO (the studio undertook to eviscerate
Welles’ other masterpiece – The Magnificent Ambersons (1942) –
re-editing, re-shooting and tacking on an utterly ridiculous ‘happily ever
after’ to thoroughly blunt what had been a dark and harrowing familial saga
of incestuous and self-destructing love. There is no way of getting around it.
The fallout from this devil-may-care enfant terrible of the American cinema was
as epic as it was painful to observe. Still, Hollywood could not ignore,
discount or dismiss Welles’ genius outright. And so, the cannibalization of his
acting talents began. Occasionally, Welles would resurface in a film of quality,
1943’s Jane Eyre and 1949’s The Third Man immediately come to
mind. But these are mere flashes of his overpowering zeitgeist whose
showmanship, for the most part, was restrained into disposable fluff. Over the
next decade, Welles would try to rediscover his lost reputation as an auteur.
It never happened. Despite some plum opportunities in the 1950’s, Welles had
become his own worst enemy, losing interest in projects half begun in earnest
and turning to excessive food and drink to self-medicate his moody temperament.
In 1943, Welles married Columbia’s ultimate cover girl, Rita Hayworth – a
decision that did not sit well with the studio’s autocratic president, Harry
Cohn. Still, if Cohn feared the
influence Welles might exert on his new bride, he was blissfully relieved when
the marriage began to almost immediately deteriorate.
In later years, Welles would
acknowledge his own responsibility in the demise of their sad union. But in
1947 he had more pressing concerns. His out-of-town tryouts for a stage
spectacle of Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days had stalled,
thanks to Welles’ complete lack of pre-planning and funds. In attempting to
shore up his concerns elsewhere, Welles made an impassioned pitch for the
necessary moneys to save his project, and to the one man he neither despised
nor feared - Harry Cohn who, in turn, demanded a picture from Welles as
compensation. Welles, who was standing next to a magazine rack at the time,
turned to a copy of Sherwood King’s lurid thriller, If I Die Before I Wake,
ordering Cohn to get coverage on the property and promising to make it into a
movie. Initially, Cohn liked the idea, so much he decided to cast Hayworth in
the lead. Welles had hoped to shoot the newly rechristened The Lady from
Shanghai (1947) with relative unknown, Barbara Lang. But Hayworth’s
participation necessitated a bigger, glossier production than Welles was
interested in making. Nevertheless, with his check for $55,000 already spent on
costumes and props for the aforementioned failed venture, Welles dove
headstrong into The Lady from Shanghai before he even had the
opportunity to refine his screenplay. Welles incurred Harry Cohn’s wrath yet
again when he elected to bleach and lop off a goodly portion of Rita Hayworth’s
trademarked auburn tresses. To Welles’ mind, the decision was made in service
of the story, to present a new Rita to audiences. Hayworth did not buck this
decision. In fact, she was even pleased with the results. For a brief moment it
looked as though a possible reconciliation to their crumbling marriage was
afoot. Apart from an outbreak of the
flu, sidelining Hayworth at the start and halting production for nearly a
month, the mood on set was amicable to downright jovial. But when the picture
wrapped, Welles and Hayworth mutually agreed to separate, followed by a very
speedy divorce.
Viewed today, The Lady from
Shanghai is yet another of Welles’ fractured masterpieces, exhibiting
flashes of its creator’s magnificent genius, yet without ever achieving or
sustaining the magic from beginning to end. The opening sequence where
Hayworth’s mysterious femme fatale is kidnapped from her Central Park coach by
a trio of twenty-something rape-happy hooligans plays with near lethal and
supremely pedestrian mediocrity. Welles directed this sequence but would later
acknowledge even the thought of it made him cringe. The film’s ultimate thud at
the box office in America led Welles to believe he had directed another
half-baked artistic soufflé. Not until Truman Capote met him years later in
Sicily did Welles realize how influential The Lady from Shanghai had
been, its’ response elsewhere in the world overwhelmingly positive, despite
mixed reviews. In what had become an all too familiar pattern, Cohn elected to
remove The Lady from Shanghai from the Welles’ autocratic control even
before the picture was finished, hacking into the rough cut with all the
decorum of a buzz saw cutting through a snow pea. Lost in this shuffle was an
extended ‘fun house’ sequence. Surviving stills reveal a rather macabre set
personally created by Welles with disembodied arms and legs dangling from the
ceiling, and, a grotesque representation of Hayworth stripped down to skeletal
remains. None of this survived the final edit; a formidable loss, leading
directly into the climactic showdown inside a hall of mirrors.
So too was Welles extremely
displeased with Heinz Roemheld’s underscoring of the picture; begrudgingly
referring to it as ‘Disney’. Indeed, when listening to the movie purely for its
dramatic content one is dumbstruck by the heavy-handedness of Roemheld’s score;
his central theme of ‘Please Don’t Kiss Me’ repeated over and over
again, incongruously punctuating some of the most benign moments in the movie,
as when Hayworth takes a casual dive off a rocky precipice into the ocean.
Here, the music suddenly swells as though to suggest some imminent danger or,
at least, to foreshadow a moment of suspense to follow – a moment that never
actually happens. To better inform the composer of his intentions, Welles had
laid in his own tracks from Columbia’s stock library, suggesting if Roemheld
followed these cues he could not go far wrong in capturing the essential flavor
of the piece. Virtually all of Welles’ creative suggestions were ignored. When
the movie premiered the general consensus was that it ‘cost a million/lost a
million’ and was responsible for ending Welles’ directorial autonomy in
Hollywood.
The reality is The Lady of
Shanghai cost about as much as a standard Columbia release from its time,
just under $2 million. Removed from the hype of being a Welles’ picture, The
Lady from Shanghai yields some extraordinary visual set pieces, many worked
out in the editing room by second unit cinematographer, Rudolph Maté, who made
the most of the exotic locales mostly shot by Charles Lawton Jr. The film is
unusual too in that it represents something of Welles’ second to last great
attempt at creating ‘serious art’ – something he arguably hadn’t considered
since Citizen Kane and would make only one more stab at achieving with Touch
of Evil (1958). That this ‘lady’ fell short of audiences’ expectations
seems to have more to do with what happened after Welles was unceremoniously
deposed from the project, rather than any contribution – or lack thereof - he
might have made to influence its’ negative outcome. Better still, removed from
her emblematic sex goddess image, Rita Hayworth emerged as the undisputed madam
of mystery and intrigue. Reportedly, Welles made Everett Sloane, from his
Mercury Player days and Citizen Kane (herein cast as the conniving
attorney, Arthur Bannister), an elaborate cripple to skirt the fact Sloane,
while eloquent with his diction, was rather clumsy in his mannerisms and
movements. Welles also hired Glenn Anders to play the suicidal George Grisby
because he appreciated the way Anders laughed; a rather sinister chuckle and
sneer all rolled into one. For his own part, Welles adopted an Irish accent
most convincingly; the rather butch persona of his character, roguish grifter,
‘black’ Michael O’Hara, somewhat at odds with Welles’ cherub-esque physical
features. Welles also peppered the
movie’s climactic trial sequence with his general disgust for the law; casting
Erskine Sanford as a thoroughly befuddled and ineffectual judge, and Carl Frank
as the highly manipulative and power-hungry D.A., Galloway.
Yet, it is Rita Hayworth’s Elsa
‘Rosalie’ Bannister that we remember best; an intoxicatingly desperate,
frightened child one moment/unscrupulous, plotting octopus the next. When
Hayworth flashes us a glance or clutches at Welles’ in her dying embrace,
whispering in his ear “You know nothing of wickedness,” she exudes a
malignant sex appeal; corrosive to any man’s soul and thoroughly destructive to
his safety and well-being. Just who else
could have been so impious as to lure this man with the proverbial heart of
gold from his relatively devil-may-care lifestyle and into the midst of these
self-professed sharks, playing the part of the innocent until her nefarious
plan – to rid herself of a loveless marriage – could take hold? It’s Elsa Bannister that feigns quiet fear to
elicit Michael’s empathy. He nobly come to her aid – not once, but twice; first
in the park; then, much later, to rid her of a controlling spouse…or is it, to
frame him for a double murder he never intends to commit?
The Lady from
Shanghai opens with that aforementioned tragically ill-conceived ‘cute meet’ in
Central Park where passerby, Michael O'Hara (Orson Welles) first sees the cool
and sultry Elsa Bannister (Rita Hayworth). It’s a flawed sequence, first for
its utter lack of authenticity; the coach used is a Hansom cab made famous in
England instead of the open back carriages readily seen in Central Park.
There’s really no attempt to replicate either the foliage or fixtures of
Central Park either; the whole sequence shot on a rather obvious back lot
exterior. Even the choice of lamp posts is all wrong. Elsa toys with Michael as
all spider women do, tempting him with hints of her sordid past in Shanghai. He
offers her a cigarette. She puts it in her beaded handbag before they part, the
discarded purse discovered by Michael not long thereafter lying on the ground
near some bushes. It seems three rather clean-cut ruffians have waylaid the
coachman, forcing Michael to come to Elsa’s aid. In short order, he pummels
this nefarious trio senseless before taking hold of the horse’s reigns to drive
Elsa to a nearby parking garage where her car awaits. There, Michael once again
flirts with Elsa, and sees George Grisby (Glenn Anders) and Sydney Broome (Ted
de Corsia); although, as yet both Michael and the audience are unaware of the
significance of this introduction. In point of fact, both men have been sent to
spy on Elsa by their boss/Elsa’s husband, Arthur Bannister (Everett Sloane).
Michael reveals to Elsa that he is
a sailor newly arrived in port after learning she and Arthur have come from
Shanghai to New York, passing through on their way back to San Francisco via
the Panama Canal. Despite his misgivings, for anyone with half a mind can see
this lady is bad, Michael agrees to sign on as an able-bodied seaman and
charter Bannister's yacht. Elsa’s maid, Bessie (Evelyn Ellis) attempts to
forewarn Michael of danger; the yacht mooring briefly to take on Bannister’s
partner – none other than George Grisby. Once again, with rather cool resolve,
Elsa toys with Michael’s affections. He strikes her across the cheek and she
reverts to the unsteadiness of a wounded child, once again arousing his
sympathies and chivalry, and perhaps, other less honorable intensions. Not long
thereafter the yacht moors in Mexico, the mood growing more ominous as Grisby
suggests Michael help him fake his own death. Grisby will pay Michael $5,000 to
pretend to murder him. Without a body as proof Grisby assures Michael that he
will never be convicted of the crime. Blindsided by his lust for Elsa, Michael
decides he can use the money to take Elsa away from Arthur. It’s all perfect,
or rather…the perfect setup. For on the eve of the crime Sydney Broome (Ted de
Corsia) confronts Grisby with his knowledge of the plot afoot and is shot by
Grisby and left for dead. Unaware of the forces conspiring against him, Michael
goes through with Grisby’s plan, seeing him off on a motorboat before firing
Grisby’s gun into the air, thus drawing undue attention to himself from
passersby on the docks. Broome, who is not yet dead, pleads for Elsa’s help,
confiding in her that Grisby intends to murder Arthur. He is, of course, quite
unaware that Elsa is, in fact, working with Grisby.
The film never shows what comes
next, but makes a sizable hint Elsa has put a period to Broome after Michael
hears him dying on the other end of an open phone line, confessing to Grisby’s
setup. But the biggest wrinkle is yet to
come, as Michael rushes to forewarn Bannister of the assassination plot against
him only to discover Grisby’s remains being carried out of Bannister’s office;
the police already in possession of Michael’s signed confession. Despite his protestations, Michael is booked
for Grisby’s murder. However, at trial, Bannister acts as Michael's attorney,
encouraging Michael he can win the case but only if Michael pleads justifiable
homicide. The trial is a superb example of Welles’ narrative ability to tie up
various plot points with clever bits of shock and surprise. There is also
considerable comedy at play – idiotic reactions from the jury and court
observers that turn the proceedings into a proverbial ‘three ring circus.’ Bannister learns of Michael’s affair with
Elsa and plots to throw the case so Michael will hang for a crime he did not
commit. Realizing he cannot escape the death penalty, Michael fakes a suicide
attempt by swallowing a handful of pills curiously left in plain sight. Hurried
into the judge’s chambers while a doctor is summoned to save his life, Michael
instead knocks out the guards assigned to watch over him before making his
break into Chinatown.
Witnessing Michael’s escape through
the window, Elsa pursues him into a downtown Kabuki theater where she reveals
to Michael elements of the case that lead him to suspect her as being Grisby’s
killer. Sure enough, Michael discovers the murder weapon tucked inside her
purse. However, laced with the powerful narcotic he swallowed, Michael passes
out and is taken away by some of Elsa’s Chinese friends before the police
arrive, awakening inside an abandoned funhouse on a boardwalk pier out of
season. Michael realizes Elsa and Grisby
were in on a plot to murder Arthur and frame him for the crime. Broome’s
discovery of their diabolical plan necessitated Grisby killing Broome, just as
Elsa later panicked, murdering Grisby to keep her secret. Now, Michael stumbles
blindly through the funhouse, arriving at a hall of mirrors where Arthur is
waiting to shoot both he and Elsa dead. “Of course, killing you is killing me,”
Arthur bitterly admits before taking dead aim. Elsa removes the pistol from her
handbag and returns his fire, the ricocheting bullets symbolically shattering
all of their false fronts before mortally wounding their true selves. Arthur is
shot in the head, Michael in the arm, and Elsa lies mortally wounded on her
stomach, surrounded by splintered glass. Unable to bring himself to attend this
diabolical vixen who was nearly the death of him, Michael strolls away from the
funhouse, assuming the events that have transpired will surely exonerate him of
any wrong doing.
While Welles imbues his visuals
with an eye for the macabre, The Lady from Shanghai remains an imperfect
B-grade noir thriller at best. Technically, it is proficient film-making on a
very high level, and such a shame the script does not quite live up to the
flashier stylistic elements. If Citizen
Kane unequivocally proved Welles a master craftsman in the visual medium,
then The Lady from Shanghai illustrates how unwieldy his creative fervor
could become if his un-tethered cinematic imagination was allowed to run
rampant. In point of fact, the triple-cross scenario is confusing to follow.
Welles’ reckless indulgences in ‘evolving’ the project as he went along most
certainly contributed to the movie’s occasionally incomprehensible narrative
structure. But The Lady from Shanghai was also submarined by Harry Cohn;
Welles’ 2 ½ hour rough assembly butchered in the re-editing process to a mere
90-minute distillation of what it had once been - or rather, promised to be.
The film was also hastily dumped on the market as the second half of a double
bill one full year after it was actually made. Put bluntly, The Lady from
Shanghai didn’t have a chance. Smelling blood in the water, the critics
went after the movie with hammer and tong, criticizing virtually every aspect
without so much as a nod to its many virtues. The public, unimpressed – or
perhaps even unaware of the movie’s soft release - stayed away in droves. When
the books were finally added up The Lady from Shanghai barely made back
$1.5 million - a commercial flop by most any calculation.
And yet, from a purely artistic
perspective there is a great deal to admire. Even with all the lethal edits in
place The Lady from Shanghai defies outright dismissal as an all-out
failure. The cinematography, as example, is first rate, as are Jean Louis’
costumes and Sturges Carne and Stephen Goosson’s art direction. True –
production value alone is not enough to guarantee a satisfactory entertainment.
But Welles’ screenplay is not quite the overly complex and confusing quagmire
the critics made it out to be. Perhaps, it suffers more from Viola Lawrence’s
uninspired editorial inability to make sense of Welles’ rough cut in her re-editing
process. And what’s here works, if not ideally, then at least on a level well
beyond base superficiality. We are entertained – if slightly confounded - by
the turn of events and elusive nightmarish quality that builds into the movie’s
baffling climax. So too is the cast memorable and given over to some very fine
performances throughout. In the last analysis, The Lady from Shanghai
emerges as imperfect and a disappointment, though utterly tantalizing as an
interrupted and oft’ misinterpreted footnote in the oeuvre of Orson Welles’
directorial career. Welles would have preferred it as his pièce de résistance.
Frankly, so would have we.
Short answer here: if you already
own the U.K. region free Blu-ray of The Lady from Shanghai, there is
precious little reason to double dip for the new Kino Lorber. Transfer quality
is virtually identical to the Indicator – that is to state, it is solid,
gorgeous and reference quality. Grain is accurately reproduced. The grayscale
is uniformly excellent. Age-related artifacts do not exist. For a movie so
savagely butchered during its production and post-production, Sony has managed
to curate and archive an immaculate film element. The 2.0 mono DTS likewise
sounds excellent. Kino Lorber has ported over previous extras, an audio
commentary from Peter Bogdanovich, and his 20-min. ‘discussion’ piece. Shorn
from this effort are the 20-min. ‘appreciation’ from noted actor and Welles’
scholar, Simon Callow, theatrical trailer with Joe Dante’s commentary, a
gallery of 60 images and a ‘limited edition’ essay by film critic, Samm
Deighan. New to this Kino edition are two individual commentaries, the first by
Imogen Sara Smith – who provides some comparative analysis of the various cuts
Columbia made, and also contextualizing the movie as a seminal effort in Hollywood’s
noir output. The other commentary is by Tim Lucas who devotes much of his analysis
to the Sherwood King source material, touting Welles accomplishments on the
picture too. Finally, noted noir specialist/author/critic, Eddie Muller provides
us with nearly 20-minutes of reflection that is generously laid out for our
appreciation. Bottom line: if you are re-buying The Lady from Shanghai,
it’s only for these few added extras. While they are solid, I really wish the
studios in general would get busy releasing more deep catalog that has yet to
see the light of day even once in hi-def, rather than merely re-re-reissuing
catalog that does exist in one form or another, simply to soak the consumer yet
again. Just thoughts. Yours may differ from mine.
FILM RATING (out
of 5 – 5 being the best)
3
VIDEO/AUDIO
5+
EXTRAS
4
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