THE KING AND I: Blu-ray (2oth Century-Fox, 1956) Fox Home Video
In honor of the
Walt Disney Corporation’s most recent public announcement that, after decades
of sitting on their own goldmine of Uncle Walt’s live-action film legacy, as
well as to have since annexed the asset management catalog of the now-defunct
2oth Century-Fox (inexplicably rechristened 2oth Century Studios by Disney
Inc.), Walt’s successors have reached a distribution deal with Grover Crisp and
Sony Home Entertainment (whose home video model is decidedly more progressive
and aggressive), we at Nix Pix have decided to revisit several Fox catalog
releases, decidedly, requiring some immediate love and attention.
In 1982, cable
media mogul, Ted Turner was gearing up for an aggressive push to colorize ‘old’
B&W movies in an effort to make them ‘appeal’ to a wider/younger audience.
The mentality then, was that B&W was passe. In response, the cinema’s
one-time enfant terrible, Orson Welles’ astutely responded with, “Tell Mr.
Turner to keep his goddamn Crayolas away from Citizen Kane!” I feel the
same way about the re-imagining that went on nearly three decades later at Fox
Home Video, marring a goodly number of their classic DeLuxe/Cinemascope product
transitioning to hi-def Blu-ray. There has been much debate about what vintage
DeLuxe color is supposed to look like. And while that debate rages on to this
day, I can tell you sincerely that in the case of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s The
King and I (1956) – a movie to have won its cinematographer, Leon Shamroy the
Oscar for ‘best’ color photography – it looked absolutely nothing like what it
appears herein. I suppose, if I wanted to be petty about such things, I could
also slam whoever is responsible for the current Blu-ray cover art, as their
colorization of actress, Deborah Kerr’s vibrant fuchsia frock where once there
shimmered a muted, though thoroughly stunning, gold-lamé, is absolutely absurd.
But I digress.
Dramatically, at
least, director, Walter Lang’s The King and I remains top-tier Rodgers
and Hammerstein, a magnificently rendered stage to screen adaptation, in no
small way due to Darryl F. Zanuck’s personal supervision and seal of approval
on the project. The film version has everything going for it. And yet, for the
first – and perhaps, only time – we get a perfect counterbalance between its
two star turns in what is essentially a prolonged, unrequited love story built
upon an endearing struggle of wills, a testament to self-restrained loyalty and
friendship, and, a decidedly delicious/occasionally comedic clash of cultures.
The context for the stage version of The King and I had been brought to
R&H’s attention by Gertrude Lawrence, a woman of formidable will, and, will
power to have her way with Broadway’s ‘then’ most celebrated team. And yet, in
casting the part of the King, R&H were to make an unanticipated discovery
in Yul Brynner, who reportedly appeared on stage with his head shaven, toting a
guitar and was, by Richard Rodgers later assessment, “mesmerizing.” Alas,
by the time the film version of The King and I was set to go before the
cameras, Gertie Lawrence was already four years in her grave, having succumbed
to cancer after completing a Saturday matinee performance of The King and I,
and suspecting only that she was suffering from a bout of hepatitis. Yet, even
as the lights of Broadway dimmed to honor her passing, The King and I
was destined for bigger things on the newly expanded Cinemascope screen. While Deborah
Kerr came to the film as something of an R&H neophyte, Yul Brynner’s finely
crafted turn as King Mongkut was the result of his lengthy and seasoned run on
the stage in a defining role that marked him as the Tony-winning toast of
Broadway, and, would justly earn him the Best Actor Academy Award for his
reprise in the film in 1957.
A pause here, to
acknowledge the proverbial elephant in the room. The Siamese (nee Thai peoples)
have never warmed to The King and I. In point of fact, there is probably
no genuinely good reason why they should, as Rodgers and Hammerstein’s
revisionist take on their sovereign liege is sparkling adventurism and
romanticism - a thorough fabrication from an account of a ‘relationship’,
decidedly reshaped by the authorship of the real Anna Leonowens’ on which their
stagecraft is based. Today, depending on the source being consulted, Leonowens’
writing is either regarded as rancid colonialism or worse, a widowed schoolmarm’s
attempts to impose her own self-importance and stiff moral superiority on the
will of a monarch who, in reality, had very decided – and actually, quite progressive
– views on how to improve Siam’s future. At the time of Leonowen’s pilgrimage,
Siam was in a state of grave political upheaval. King Mongkut’s fervent desire to have his many
children educated in the ways of the world thus bode well for the prosperity of
his nation. Of enduring offense to the Siamese is the stagecraft and film’s
portrayal of Mongkut as a generally unenlightened and simplistically stern clod,
who only discovers his inner strength under the expert tutelage of this
foreigner in his midst. They are also not enamored by Leonowen’s inferences of
an unrequited affair of the heart to have taken place between she and the King.
The other great miscalculation
involves Tuptim: a tragic story about one of the King’s many concubines, executed
for her genuine love of another man. This account, largely based on hushed
palace gossip and intrigues, was never actually witnessed by Leonowens who,
nevertheless, did later published an interpretation of what went on as ‘Romance
of the Harem.’ From here, the story was integrated into author, Margaret
Landon’s fictionalized biography on Leonowens whilst she dwelt inside the
palace. In this retelling, Leonowens became the catalyst for the ill-fated affair
between Tuptim and her paramour, Lun Tha. Tuptim’s story, or rather, her
fiction, has since endured, despite Mongkut’s great-granddaughter, Princess
Vudhichalerm, who claims herself as Tuptim’s direct descendent, and, assures us,
not only did her mother live to a ripe old age, but she actually married
Mongkut’s son, Prince Chulalongkorn. Nevertheless, the real Anna Leonowens’
impressions of Mongkut, as a rather imperious and occasionally cruel potentate,
adhering to a policy of sexual slavery to have doomed Tuptim to execution, continues
to fly in the face of the real Mongkut, a Buddhist monk for almost twenty-seven
years before ascending to the throne.
Herein, it would
perhaps be prudent to briefly reconsider a famous Winston Churchill quote. When
asked how he believed history would judge him, Churchill unflinchingly replied,
“History shall be kind…for I intend to write it.” Indeed, fact is oft’
skewed by opinion – also, by the hand, heart and mindset of the person who
authors it. The printed word acquires a ballast with which no oral history can
compete. And thus, when the legend precedes fact, we print and choose to
believe the legend. So, the survivors of history are given to a level of
scholarship that recreates their stories as definitive antiquity, lent, in some
cases, more than a modicum of creative license to embellish, craft and
ultimately, make sense of an imperfect and non-linear past. Reflecting on these
discrepancies is the film’s Anna Leonowens. Deborah Kerr is an appealing, if
historically inaccurate reincarnation, the veritable quintessence of that stoically
ensconced and quaintly recalled British colonial perspective – or rather, the
Americanized reimagining of it. Kerr’s Anna is afforded far too much latitude
over the King’s domestic and foreign affairs. This Anna functions as both Mongkut’s
oracle and as a woman of highborn principles, imbued with a tinge of the feministic
spirit. Kerr’s delivery here tempers the gaucheness of this historically flawed
approach, peppered in her own inimitable, and oft deliciously devious wit. She
is just the sort of woman the real Anna Leonowens would have liked to have been
– a shameless self-promoter – mightily, Margaret Landon’s falsified heroine
imprimatur.
History, of
course, paints a decidedly different portrait for this English governess;
thirty-two at the time she came to Siam in service to its King (and would
remain in his service for the next six years). Although Mongkut regarded
Leonowens as something of a friend, her influence over his political affairs
was minimal. He also charged her as being a “very difficult woman…and more
difficult than generality.” In 1868, the real Leonowens left the court of
Siam for health reasons. After Mongkut died later that same year, Leonowens was
not invited back to Siam by his successor, the heir apparent, Prince
Chulalongkorn, who was a mere fifteen at the time of his ascendancy to the
throne. Taking work as a school teacher in New York, Anna began to pen her
experiences for a popular publication. Undeniably, her reflections became prejudiced,
through inevitably too, diffused through the lens of rose-colored glasses. Two
years later, Leonowens collected these stories into a pair of memoirs. Almost
immediately, they were well-received by the critics and taken at face value.
Interestingly,
when Rodgers and Hammerstein undertook to musicalize Anna’s story, they drew
virtually none of their inspiration from her own ‘historical’ account, but
instead to have based their stagecraft almost entirely on John Cromwell’s 1946
movie, Anna and the King of Siam; atypical 2oth Century-Fox gloss from
the period, with stellar production values and iconic performances by Rex
Harrison, as the King, and Irene Dunne, as Anna. The King and I is
actually quite unique in the Rodgers and Hammerstein canon, in that they did
not chose the property, but were goaded into accepting a commission from
Gertrude Lawrence. Lawrence had been an intercontinental sensation whose legendary
run in Lady in the Dark was widely regarded as the height of chic
sophistication. Purchasing the rights to Anna and the King of Siam,
Lawrence approached Rodgers and Hammerstein to produce a stage version with her
as its’ star. As the legend goes, Rodgers and Hammerstein began The King and
I in earnest, only to discover, much to their chagrin, they knew of no
actor able to play the male protagonist. It was during this impasse that
longtime friend and occasional collaborator, Mary Martin arranged for the duo
to audition several actors, including Yul Brynner, who was then appearing in
the play, Lute Song. Emerging from behind the curtain, Brynner sat
cross-legged before Rodgers and Hammerstein with his guitar in hand. He then
gave the instrument a mighty thwack and let out a primal yelp.
Brynner – who
intuitively radiates savage sexuality – agreed at the behest of the play’s
costume designer, Irene Shariff to shave his head. The results were so
startling and instantly iconic, Brynner would continue to maintain his bald
pate for the rest of his career. To say Rodgers and Hammerstein were inspired
by Brynner’s audition is an understatement. While the first half of their play
undeniably favors Gertrude Lawrence – and her sparring with the King - the last
act is a tour de force for Brynner’s star to outshine the diva. It also draws a
parallel between the burgeoning affections of Anna and Mongkut with the
star-crossed/bittersweet tragedy of Tuptim (played in the movie by Rita Moreno)
and Lun Tha (newcomer, Carlos Rivas). As on stage, the film version of The
King and I is capped off by a stunningly handsome ballet, a Siamese
interpretation of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin. On Broadway,
as in the movie, the pivotal part of Eliza in this story within the story is
played by Yuriko, an Asian dancer, later, at Yul Brynner’s request, to
choreograph, as well as direct a revival of The King and I on Broadway.
In the movie, however, as in the original Broadway show, the ballet was the
work of noted choreographer, Jerome Robbins. After tryouts in New Haven and
Boston, The King and I premiered on Broadway on March 29th, 1951. It was
an immediate and overwhelming success – winning Tony Awards for Best Musical,
Actress (Lawrence), Featured Actor (Brynner), Costume and Scenic Design.
However, after playing for nearly a year and 1,246 performances, Gertrude
Lawrence suddenly fell ill. She finished the Wednesday matinee in September,
1952 and checked into hospital for what she believed would be a brief respite to
recover from jaundice. Instead, doctors informed the actress she was fatally
stricken with liver cancer. That Saturday, Lawrence died at the age of 54,
leaving Brynner to inherit the mantle of quality as the undisputed monarch of
Fox’s movie version.
During the
interim leading up to the filming of The King and I, Rodgers and
Hammerstein were involved in two commercial flops; Me and Juliet (1953)
and Pipe Dream (1955). As a result, it was mutually agreed upon this
dynamic duo would take a brief respite from working together. While Rodgers
continued to be intimately involved in the handling of The King and I
for the big screen, Hammerstein chose to work independently, adapting 1943’s
stage show, Carmen Jones (also produced at Fox). On film, The King
and I became the beneficiary of Darryl F. Zanuck’s meticulous supervision. Screenwriter,
Ernest Lehman was assigned the task of restructuring the play’s content,
deleting several songs and crisping up the play’s dialogue. These alterations
to the play met with both Rodgers and Hammerstein’s approval. Not so much with
Yul Brynner’s, who took a rather instant dislike to both Jerome Robbins and
Walter Lang. Zanuck respected Brynner’s input, as did Lehman. Indeed, Lehman
became something of a lifelong friend. Meanwhile, Zanuck spared no expense on
the construction of two lavish outdoor sets: the first, an authentic recreation
of Siam leading from the boat docks to the palace to chart Anna’s arrival. The
second was pure Hollywood hokum; a palatial garden with a lagoon of fountains.
Ironically, neither of these outdoor sets is seen for more than a few brief
moments on the screen, the latter, serving for the moonlit pas deux between
Rita Moreno and Carols Rivas – ‘We Kissed in a Shadow’.
Immediately
following the lush orchestral strains of the main title, conducted by Fox’s
resident movie composer, Alfred Newman, The King and I opens on a
British merchant ship docking in the port city. An empathetic Captain Orton
(Charles Irwin) questions Anna’s decision to embark on a new life with her
young son, Louis (Rex Thompson) in tow. Anna is determined to make a go of
things in this strange, exotic world. The King’s prime minister, the Kralahome
(Martin Benson), arrives to collect Anna.
Orton forewarns “That man has power…and he can use either for or
against you.” A long tracking shot through Zanuck’s lavish recreation of
Siam immediately follows, complete with muscled kiao bearers, elephants,
washerwomen, market sellers, and live monkeys and parrots, adding nearly
$200,000 to the film’s budget, and, all of it for less than thirty-seconds of
screen time. Anna interrupts Mongkut while he is holding court. The arrival of
Tuptim and Lon Tha from Burma is met with ambiguous pleasure. Lon Tha presents
Mongkut with a scroll from the King of Burma, essentially bestowing Tuptim as a
gift. Anna is shocked by this exchanged, but more perturbed the King seems
unwilling to grant her an immediate audience. Taking matters into her own
hands, Anna confronts Mongkut with a promise he made about supplying her with a
brick residence adjacent the palace where she can bring up Louie as her late
husband would have wanted.
The King insists
he remembers no such promise and instead ushers Anna into a lavish antechamber
where some of his many wives are in attendance. He presents Anna with a parade
of young princes and princesses, including heir apparent, Prince Chulalongkorn
(Patrick Adiarte). The King also introduces Anna to ‘head wife’, Lady Thiang
(Terry Saunders), who rather crudely recites proverbs taught to her by a
missionary. Unable to resist the children’s angelic faces, Anna decides to
stay. However, she is not about to give up on her quest for a house of her own,
instructing her pupils to daily serenade the King with platitudes about ‘home,
sweet home’. This infuriates Mongkut, who is preoccupied with political rumors
suggesting Britain has plans to annex Siam and make it a protectorate state. In
‘A Puzzlement’, the King reminisces how much the world has changed since
his father’s time. “Shall I join with other nations in alliance? If allies
are weak, am I not best alone? If allies are strong with power to protect me,
might they not protect me out of all I own?” In tandem, the King is heavily
invested in modernizing Siam, dedicated to learning and understanding all he
can about Christian principles and the Bible.
Lady Thiang
explains to Anna how Tuptim is unhappy in the palace. Tuptim then confides she
is desperately in love with Lon Tha, the man who brought her to Siam. Anna
becomes instrumental in reuniting these lovers. At Lady Thiang’s behest, Anna
also begins to make ‘suggestions’ to Mongkut that aid in his deliberations over
what is to be done to stave off the inevitable British annexation of Siam. With
Anna’s guidance, the King decides to give a grand party in honor of the
arriving British dignitaries; Sir John Hay (Alan Mowbray) and Sir Edward Ramsey
(Geoffrey Toone). The implication Sir Edward was once very much in love with
Anna, and continues to harbor affections for her now causes Mongkut to become
mildly jealous. After all, he too has begun to see Anna’s value as more than
just his paid school teacher. Escorting Anna into the grand dining hall,
Mongkut hosts his lavish dinner party, Anna guiding the conversation to the
King’s strengths and Mongkut taking her lead to express his own innate
intelligence and wit. Ramsey and Hay share in a deep admiration for the King
and his regard for the British Empire. But they are even more impressed with
the play Tuptim has arranged for the night’s entertainment - the ‘Small
House of Uncle Thomas’. Alas, Mongkut is not convinced of its motives,
particularly when ‘the king’ in its fictional narrative, Simon ‘of’ Legree,
is drowned during its climax, allowing the lovers, Eva and George their
happiness; a rather transparent parallel of Tuptim and Lon Tha’s passion for
one another.
At play’s end,
Tuptim has escaped. However the King, more contented than anything else at
having thwarted a palace coup by gaining Britain as an ally, now devotes his
time and energy to an intellectual discussion with Anna on love. This backfires
when Anna suggests monogamy with ‘Shall We Dance’. Unable to set aside
his feelings for Anna any longer, Mongkut engages Anna in a spirited whirl
around the dance floor. Their mutually-felt elation is nevertheless denied with
news from the Kralahome that Tuptim has been recaptured, but that Lon Thau, in
his escape, has since drowned. Tuptim is brought before Mongkut, who attempts
to make an example of her treason by whipping her in Anna’s presence. Anna
pleads with Mongkut to reconsider, declaring “You are a barbarian!” Infuriated, Mongkut prepares to exact his
revenge. Alas, compassion has softened his heart. At the last possible moment, Mongkut
hurls his whip across the room, retreating to his library for consolation.
Believing Anna’s influences have weakened the King’s ability to govern, the
Kralahome demands Anna’s immediate return to England.
While Anna waits
the next boat from England she is approached by Lady Thiang on the eve of her
departure. Lady Thiang informs Anna the King has fallen gravely ill in her
absence. He is dying. Unable to comprehend this, Anna decides to see for
herself what has become of the man whom she so obviously admires, and even more
secretly, has come to love. She discovers the King on his death bed in the
library. His final wish is to surround himself with these books of knowledge.
The King pleads for Anna to remain in Siam and continue her tutelage of his
children, particularly Prince Chulalongkorn who, barely fifteen, is
ill-equipped to assume the responsibilities as Siam’s next ruler and will
undoubtedly require Anna’s gentle guidance to persevere. Reluctantly, Anna
complies. Mongkut bestows his royal ring on the Prince, declaring him the new
monarch of Siam. As Prince Chulalongkorn begins to make proclamations for the
future of Siam, Mongkut quietly expires. His passing is witnessed only by the
Kralahome and Anna, both of whom grieve in silence as the future of Siam hangs in
the balance.
In spite of all
its factual inaccuracies, The King and I remains a perfectly realized
entertainment. Darryl F. Zanuck, a storyteller at heart, perhaps more than any
other mogul from his time, intuitively understood the power of a good yarn. In
Rodgers and Hammerstein, Zanuck is cribbing from the absolute best, and, with
Ernest Lehman as his scribe in charge of this adaptation, he is guaranteed a
superior product. Zanuck would also ensure the integrity of The King and I’s
visuals by photographing it in Cinemascope 55 – an 8-perf anamorphic squeezed,
widescreen process, nearly four times the size of the traditional 35mm
Cinemascope negative and, in hindsight, something of a precursor to Todd A-O
and 70mm. Even as Zanuck had rushed to debut Cinemascope in 1954, he was
acutely aware of its shortcomings: that, in magnification, traditional
Cinemascope produced objectionable amplification of film grain and more softly
focused image quality, thanks to its crude lenses. Cinemascope 55 was therefore
a considerable upgrade in presentation quality. Alas, the ‘55’ system proved
problematic in projection (basically, because most theaters were unwilling to
retool again and again to keep up with the ever-evolving widescreen
revolutions), necessitating reduction printing the 8-perf negative down to
traditional 4-perf ‘scope’ for The King and I’s general release.
In the late
1990’s Fox began the meticulous process to restore The King and I and Carousel,
the only two movies actually photographed in Cinemascope 55. To this end, Fox engineered
special equipment to scan and transfer 55’s vastly superior image to more
traditional 70mm film stock. So, what we are seeing on Fox’s Blu-ray is the
direct result of this higher resolution scan. The King and I on Blu-ray
exports an impressive amount of image clarity and fine detail. Alas, it is all
for not as something is remiss with the color mastering employed herein. Far
too many ‘scope’ transfers from this particular vintage in Fox Home Video’s history
continue to suffer from a teal/blue push. The results are so egregious here that
virtually all true whites adopt a robin egg bluish cast, simultaneously to mute
true reds, oranges and purples into an oft muddy and always dull mid-register
of undistinguished hues. There is little here to deny The King and I
does not look anything like it should on Blu-ray. The color palette is faulty -
period. Anna’s silver-stripped dress during the ‘Getting to Know You’
number is now robin egg blue; ditto for the whites of her eyes and teeth during
‘Shall We Dance’. Yul Brynner’s burgundy silk robes have turned a ruddy brown,
while Anna’s white gown now glows an unhealthy shade of teal.
The DTS 5.1
audio is remarkably solid, delivering the necessary kick to Alfred Newman’s
rich orchestrations and enveloping during the R&H songs – although
Brynner’s brief vocal interruption during ‘Shall We Dance’ remains
awkwardly strident. Extras are all ported over from Fox’s 2005 DVD and an old
laserdisc from 1996. The laserdisc included an ‘interactive’ feature hosted by
Nick Redman with interviews from surviving cast members as well as the children
of Rodgers and Hammerstein. These snippets have been clumsily divided into
several featurettes; on occasion, with Redman’s audio excised from the intros. At
best, it’s a half-hearted attempt to preserve Redman’s contributions. The whole
thing ought to have been pieced back together as one comprehensive ‘making of’
documentary. This easily could have been done. We also get an audio commentary
and Fox’s ‘music box’ sing-a-long feature. Bottom line: of all the R&H
catalog currently available on home video, The King and I is the one
deserving of far better than what it has currently received in hi-def. Will we
ever see it properly restored to its original brilliance? Here's to
hoping. Bottom line: for now – pass, and
be glad that you did.
FILM RATING (out
of 5 – 5 being the best)
5+
VIDEO/AUDIO
1.5
EXTRAS
2.5
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