The Wolf Man (1941) - A Long-Winded Essay and Appreciation
Oct 1, 2017 10:01:00 GMT
Nalkarj, taylorfirst1, and 3 more like this
Post by Doghouse6 on Oct 1, 2017 10:01:00 GMT
Watched a bit of The Wolf Man last evening on Svengoolie (in a beautifully clean and crisp HD broadcast copy almost as good as the Blu-ray, incidentally). I love all the "Universal Horrors" - grew up on them - but this is the one from which I get the most enjoyment and rewards.
A prestigious and sterling cast: Claude Rains, bringing every bit of his considerable authority and commitment to the intelligent and sympathetic but rigid and imperious Sir John Talbot; Ralph Bellamy, all business as Captain Montford, representing the local constabulary; Warren William, so often colorfully caddish in WB pictures of the '30s, delivering an uncharacteristically low-key and subtle performance as the thoughtful Dr. Lloyd; Maria Ouspenskaya as the enigmatic and now-iconic gypsy, Maleva; Bela Lugosi in a restrained yet intense cameo as Maleva's lycanthropy-inflicted fortune-teller son; the lovely Evelyn Ankers, going from stand-offish to coquettish to desperate as Gwen, a local merchant's daughter; Patrick Knowles as her intuitive fiance Frank, Talbot estate gameskeeper; Lon Chaney Jr. embodying mischievous self-confidence deteriorating into soul-crushing anguish as Larry Talbot, the wayward son returning to the family home and finding his way into tragedy.
Along with those are reliable and familiar character players such as Fay Helm as the ill-fated Jenny Williams, Doris Lloyd as her bitter and vengeful mother, J.M. Kerrigan as Gwen's antique-dealer father Conliffe, Forrester Harvey as Montford's skittish assistant Twiddle and Harry Stubbs as Reverand Norman, who is rewarded with one of the sometimes subversive screenplay's most irony-laden lines: "Fighting against superstition is as difficult as fighting against Satan himself."
Top-notch production values: elegant and moody cinematography and lighting imparting both emotion and visual opulence that skillfully maximizes even the most economical of sets (such as the fog-shrouded woods in which much of the action takes place); a stirring and atmospheric music score; deft editing and pacing; an overall look of polish that seems impossible on a considerably-under-$200k budget, even in 1941.
But beyond all these attributes is the film's deep thematic richness which, for my money, surpasses any of Universal's other classics of the genre.
More than anything, it presents a portrait of alienation, both personal and social, that functions on multiple levels. Larry, youngest son of the landed Talbot gentry, has returned to his ancestral home after 18 years in America, a stranger in his own land, with the added burden of patriarchal estrangement to be overcome. But neither that estrangement nor unfamiliarity mitigate the automatic assumptions of class distinction visited upon Larry from both ends of the social spectrum. "He's still Lawrence Talbot," Frank warns Gwen when he senses Larry's attraction to her, about which Gwen accurately summarizes, "And I'm the daughter of Conliffe the antique dealer, is that it?"
At the other end of that spectrum is Sir John, full of egalitarian kindness when describing the townsfolk to newly-arrived Larry - "They're good people...they're your people" - but defiantly retreating behind what Dr. Lloyd calls "the prestige of the family name" when Larry tries to explain to his father that he's the murderer they're all hunting for: "You're Lawrence Talbot. This is Talbot Castle. You believe those men can come in here and take you out?"
The ultimate thematic expression of this alienation is, of course, Larry's tortured realization that he, having been bitten while trying to save Jenny from what he assumed was, in his words, "a plain, ordinary wolf," has now become a killer animal the townspeople presume to be responsible for both Jenny's death and that of Richardson, the local grave digger (and Larry's first victim). And there is also Bela, the fortune-teller clubbed to death by Larry when he was attacking Jenny in werewolf form. "Strange there were no murders here before Lawrence Talbot arrived," says Jenny's suspicious mother, Mrs. Williams.
The film then, in a wordless and beautifully-realized scene, expresses this alienation in its ultimate cinematic form. Larry and Sir John (who had told Larry earlier at home, "Belief in the hereafter is a very healthy counterbalance to all the conflicting doubts Man is plagued with these days") arrive at Sunday church service. As the parishioners take their seats, Larry hangs back at the rear, and only the church organ is heard on the soundtrack as the camera then slowly tracks down the center aisle and the worshipers turn, row by row in their pews, to stare at Larry in mute suspicion and accusation.
At the one place in town where he, the outsider, might have hoped to find even temporary acceptance and escape from the judgments of his fellow man, Larry is confronted only by their silent yet damning ostracization, and beats a hasty and desolate retreat. It's a very powerful scene that crystallizes in purely visual yet cinematically economical terms all of the aspects - both worldly and supernatural - of the theme that the film has been weaving together.
For those who demand nothing more of it, The Wolf Man delivers solidly on its promises in the way of thrills and atmosphere, but director George Waggner's execution of Curt Siodmak's literate script offers depths readily accessible to any viewers wishing to plumb them. If they're easily overlooked, that's due only to the film's brisk 70-minute running time, which might be my only criticism. But with ingenious thriftiness that never hints at austerity, much is packed into those 70 minutes.
A prestigious and sterling cast: Claude Rains, bringing every bit of his considerable authority and commitment to the intelligent and sympathetic but rigid and imperious Sir John Talbot; Ralph Bellamy, all business as Captain Montford, representing the local constabulary; Warren William, so often colorfully caddish in WB pictures of the '30s, delivering an uncharacteristically low-key and subtle performance as the thoughtful Dr. Lloyd; Maria Ouspenskaya as the enigmatic and now-iconic gypsy, Maleva; Bela Lugosi in a restrained yet intense cameo as Maleva's lycanthropy-inflicted fortune-teller son; the lovely Evelyn Ankers, going from stand-offish to coquettish to desperate as Gwen, a local merchant's daughter; Patrick Knowles as her intuitive fiance Frank, Talbot estate gameskeeper; Lon Chaney Jr. embodying mischievous self-confidence deteriorating into soul-crushing anguish as Larry Talbot, the wayward son returning to the family home and finding his way into tragedy.
Along with those are reliable and familiar character players such as Fay Helm as the ill-fated Jenny Williams, Doris Lloyd as her bitter and vengeful mother, J.M. Kerrigan as Gwen's antique-dealer father Conliffe, Forrester Harvey as Montford's skittish assistant Twiddle and Harry Stubbs as Reverand Norman, who is rewarded with one of the sometimes subversive screenplay's most irony-laden lines: "Fighting against superstition is as difficult as fighting against Satan himself."
Top-notch production values: elegant and moody cinematography and lighting imparting both emotion and visual opulence that skillfully maximizes even the most economical of sets (such as the fog-shrouded woods in which much of the action takes place); a stirring and atmospheric music score; deft editing and pacing; an overall look of polish that seems impossible on a considerably-under-$200k budget, even in 1941.
But beyond all these attributes is the film's deep thematic richness which, for my money, surpasses any of Universal's other classics of the genre.
More than anything, it presents a portrait of alienation, both personal and social, that functions on multiple levels. Larry, youngest son of the landed Talbot gentry, has returned to his ancestral home after 18 years in America, a stranger in his own land, with the added burden of patriarchal estrangement to be overcome. But neither that estrangement nor unfamiliarity mitigate the automatic assumptions of class distinction visited upon Larry from both ends of the social spectrum. "He's still Lawrence Talbot," Frank warns Gwen when he senses Larry's attraction to her, about which Gwen accurately summarizes, "And I'm the daughter of Conliffe the antique dealer, is that it?"
At the other end of that spectrum is Sir John, full of egalitarian kindness when describing the townsfolk to newly-arrived Larry - "They're good people...they're your people" - but defiantly retreating behind what Dr. Lloyd calls "the prestige of the family name" when Larry tries to explain to his father that he's the murderer they're all hunting for: "You're Lawrence Talbot. This is Talbot Castle. You believe those men can come in here and take you out?"
The ultimate thematic expression of this alienation is, of course, Larry's tortured realization that he, having been bitten while trying to save Jenny from what he assumed was, in his words, "a plain, ordinary wolf," has now become a killer animal the townspeople presume to be responsible for both Jenny's death and that of Richardson, the local grave digger (and Larry's first victim). And there is also Bela, the fortune-teller clubbed to death by Larry when he was attacking Jenny in werewolf form. "Strange there were no murders here before Lawrence Talbot arrived," says Jenny's suspicious mother, Mrs. Williams.
The film then, in a wordless and beautifully-realized scene, expresses this alienation in its ultimate cinematic form. Larry and Sir John (who had told Larry earlier at home, "Belief in the hereafter is a very healthy counterbalance to all the conflicting doubts Man is plagued with these days") arrive at Sunday church service. As the parishioners take their seats, Larry hangs back at the rear, and only the church organ is heard on the soundtrack as the camera then slowly tracks down the center aisle and the worshipers turn, row by row in their pews, to stare at Larry in mute suspicion and accusation.
At the one place in town where he, the outsider, might have hoped to find even temporary acceptance and escape from the judgments of his fellow man, Larry is confronted only by their silent yet damning ostracization, and beats a hasty and desolate retreat. It's a very powerful scene that crystallizes in purely visual yet cinematically economical terms all of the aspects - both worldly and supernatural - of the theme that the film has been weaving together.
For those who demand nothing more of it, The Wolf Man delivers solidly on its promises in the way of thrills and atmosphere, but director George Waggner's execution of Curt Siodmak's literate script offers depths readily accessible to any viewers wishing to plumb them. If they're easily overlooked, that's due only to the film's brisk 70-minute running time, which might be my only criticism. But with ingenious thriftiness that never hints at austerity, much is packed into those 70 minutes.
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