From pbs.org: George Gershwin was born in Brooklyn in 1898, the second of four children from a close-knit immigrant family. He began his musical career as a song-plugger on Tin Pan Alley, but was soon writing his own pieces. Gershwin's first published song, "When You Want ‘Em, You Can't Get ‘Em," demonstrated innovative new techniques, but only earned him five dollars. Soon after, however, he met a young lyricist named Irving Ceaser. Together they composed a number of songs including "Swanee," which sold more than a million copies. In the same year as "Swanee," Gershwin collaborated with Arthur L. Jackson and Buddy De Sylva on his first complete Broadway musical, "La, La Lucille". Over the course of the next four years, Gershwin wrote forty-five songs; among them were "Somebody Loves Me" and "Stairway to Paradise," as well as a twenty-five-minute opera, "Blue Monday." Composed in five days, the piece contained many musical clichés, but it also offered hints of developments to come.  In 1924, George collaborated with his brother, lyricist Ira Gershwin, on a musical comedy "Lady Be Good". It included such standards as "Fascinating Rhythm" and "The Man I Love." It was the beginning of a partnership that would continue for the rest of the composer's life. Together they wrote many more successful musicals including "Oh Kay!" and "Funny Face", staring Fred Astaire and his sister Adele. While continuing to compose popular music for the stage, Gershwin began to lead a double life, trying to make his mark as a serious composer.  When he was 25 years old, his jazz-influenced "Rhapsody in Blue" premiered in New York's Aeolian Hall at the concert, "An Experiment in Music." The audience included Jascha Heifitz, Fritz Kreisler, Leopold Stokowski, Serge Rachmaninov, and Igor Stravinsky. Gershwin followed this success with his orchestral work "Piano Concerto in F, Rhapsody No. 2" and "An American in Paris". Serious music critics were often at a loss as to where to place Gershwin's classical music in the standard repertoire. Some dismissed his work as banal and tiresome, but it always found favor with the general public.  In the early thirties, Gershwin experimented with some new ideas in Broadway musicals. "Strike Up The Band", "Let ‘Em Eat Cake", and "Of Thee I Sing", were innovative works dealing with social issues of the time. "Of Thee I Sing" was a major hit and the first comedy ever to win the Pulitzer Prize. In 1935 he presented a folk opera "Porgy and Bess" in Boston with only moderate success. Now recognized as one of the seminal works of American opera, it included such memorable songs as "It Ain't Necessarily So," "I Loves You, Porgy," and "Summertime."  In 1937, after many successes on Broadway, the brothers decided go to Hollywood. Again they teamed up with Fred Astaire, who was now paired with Ginger Rogers. They made the musical film, "Shall We Dance", which included such hits as "Let's Call the Whole Thing Off" and "They Can't Take That Away From Me." Soon after came "A Damsel in Distress", in which Astaire appeared with Joan Fontaine. After becoming ill while working on a film, he had plans to return to New York to work on writing serious music. He planned a string quartet, a ballet and another opera, but these pieces were never written. At the age of 38, he died of a brain tumor. Today he remains one of America's most beloved popular musicians.

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• Auntie Mame
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#1: monkey impressions.

This ALWAYS works.

If you don't believe me, try coming up with another variant on the VERB / BODILY FLUID / PORTION OF ANATOMY schema that isn't utterly gross or ludicrous. The least offensive one I can manage is BLOW THE SICK OFF MY SHOULDER.

So director Norman Foster and the film's gaggle of writers (one for nearly each word of the title) are clearly onto something. Although I think they miss a trick by not having any of the characters in the film actually SAY THE TITLE. Whenever anybody SAYS THE TITLE in a film, either Fiona or I, if we're watching at home, generally cry, "He SAID THE TITLE!"

(I think it dates back to an anecdote about FACE / OFF. Nick Cassavetes was improvising in a scene with Nicholas Cage, and Cage said "I wanna take his face... off." Cassavetes freaked. "He said the title!" he thought to himself. "I can't let him get away with that! I'm gonna say the title too!" So he comes back with, "You wanna take his face...off?" and then they go on like that for like an hour until John Woo gets tired and has them start shooting at stuff. Or something.)

Anyhow, there's a bit where Burt Lancaster, playing a war-troubled yank adrift in Hollywood's version of London, punches an artificial fertiliser salesman by the name of Widgery and then, fleeing the scene with Joan Fontaine, punches a copper. Well, what could be simpler than to have big Burt, when hauled before the judge, plead, "But your honour, I didn't mean to hit him, I was just trying to get him to KISS THE BLOOD OFF MY HANDS." It could work.

But Burt, being less imaginative perhaps than myself, an award-winning filmmaker, doesn't come up with any convincing excuses of this kind, and is sentenced to a flogging. At this point we wondered about the film's jurisprudential accuracy. Did they practice flogging in post-war Britain? I mean, as a legal sentence? I Googled the words "History of English flogging" but the stuff that came up wasn't really very educational, so I'll forget the research and go with my gut instinct: no they bloody didn't. Somebody just wanted to shoot a gothic s&m scene with Burt. Which is fine.

For all its fogbound atmos, the film struck me as quite French in a way, rather than being American or British -- it has the doomed romantic feeling of the pre-war poetic realists, very close to film noir already. It can't quite end as perfectly as it might because it's trapped between the commercial dislike of unhappy endings (nearly ALL great noirs have unhappy endings, and it was a very popular genre, so why does anybody worry?) and the Production Code's insistence that crime must not pay. So it has to contrive a vaguely unsatisfactory hopeful ending, in other words it hedges its bets all over the place.

But it's a pleasure to watch Norman Foster's stuff, with its Wellesian dutch tilts (Foster directed JOURNEY INTO FEAR with Welles at R.K.O.) and chiaroscuro flourishes. Foster is a considerable noirist in his own right -- his MR. MOTO films are glossy, shadowy and hugely fun, and he would carry his canted angles with him right onto the '60s Batman show. The film is as lopsided as those angles, with an odd structure and shaky character motivation at times, but it's affecting because Big Burt is such a lovable lunk, Joan Fontaine always does nervous and troubled extremely well, and despite what nearly everybody has said about this film, I think actually make a great onscreen couple. My theory -- IMDb reviewers notice that something isn't working in this film -- it's the script! -- and ascribe the fault to the unusual screen pairing. But that pairing is one of the film's strengths. This is exactly why asking your audience for advice can be dangerous. They're pretty brilliant at feeling when something's wrong, but they're not trained at identifying what it is. I, of course, being an award-winning film-maker, get it every time. That's probably why I'm unemployed.

Anyway, the French poetic realist thing -- Robert Newton, playing a black marketeer called Harry, is not a bit like Harry Lime, but as he insinuates himself into the protags' lives and practically insists they murder him, just by being so damn evil all the time, he is very much like classic murderee Jules Berry in LE JOUR SE LEVE, I think. "You were born to be murdered," Trevor Howard tells Joseph Cotton in THE THIRD MAN, and it's true of Newton in a different way. He pushes his luck, see. You can't leer like that while Joan Fontaine's around and not expect Burt Lancaster to completely kill you.

Wait a minute, here's one:

FLICK THE MUCOUS OFF MY NIPPLES.

Yes. I'd definitely watch that.

Imagine my surprise when I ventured on to Pop Candy this evening before leaving work to discover that Ellen Page, who essentially played the same sarcastic young female character in Smart People, has been cast as Jane Eyre for a BBC Films production of all things!  Whitney, who loves Page, can't even see her in this role.  Seriously, what are they thinking over there at BBC Films?  Jane Eyre doesn't have a sarcastic bone in her body.  Do they have any expectation that Page can pull off 'mousy' or, more importantly, sincere?

I can't say that I've ever seen a film or TV adaptation of Jane Eyre, but look at what is already out there.  What reason could there possibly be to cast Ellen Page in this role?  There is a 1944 version that stars Orson Welles, Joan Fontaine, and Elizabeth Taylor.  A&E produced a television starring Samantha Morton as Jane.  Who could really be more perfect than that?

I have no idea what really makes the film business tick.  I'm sure that I've misspent many an entertainment dollar in my life and am reaping this as my reward.  I would rather be struck blind like Mr. Rochester than even watch the trailer.

Los fantasmas existen. Pues, ¿de qué otra forma podemos llamar a esas personas que aún muertas dejan una huella indeleble?

Alfred Hitchcock debía tener muy presente esta idea cuando filmó Rebeca(1940), adaptación cinematográfica de la novela homónima de Daphne du Maurier. Después de una charla con el productor David O’ Selznick, artífice de éxitos como Lo que el viento se llevó, Hitchcock suplió con este proyecto la idea de rodar un filme sobre el hundimiento del Titanic.

El cineasta inglés se adentró en las profundidades de la novela de du Maurier y sacó a relucir todo su trasfondo poético y tortuoso. La historia no puede comenzar de forma más sencilla: un hombre acaudalado, Max de Winter (Laurence Olivier) se enamora de una muchacha en Francia (Joan Fontaine), se casan y se van a vivir al castillo de Manderley. Pero desde el momento que el personaje de Fontaine atraviesa los muros de la edificación, Rebeca, la mujer muerta de Max de Winter se convierte en la verdadera protagonista de la historia.

Rebeca es un fantasma, una sombra corpórea. Está presente en las conversaciones de los criados y los allegados de Max, en los muros de la fortaleza, en las habitaciones del castillo. Es la dueña y señora de Manderley, a pesar de no seguir con vida. La señora Danvers, de rostro hierático y expresión estática, es la fiel custodia del recuerdo de Rebeca.

La presencia de Rebeca es tan absorbente que incluso su nombre anula al de la esposa de Max de Winter. Joan Fontaine no puede pensar más que en la inigualable belleza y elegancia de Rebeca, la sublime Rebeca. No puede evitar pensar que su esposo no es su esposo, sino el marido de una muerta.

Es curioso que un personaje ya sin vida alcance tal profundidad psicológica, lo que advertimos todavía más al conocer su verdadero carácter. Rebeca no era la amante esposa de Max de Winter, sino su torturadora. No era la perfecta señora de Manderley, sino la esposa infiel casada por conveniencia.

Solo cuando Joan Fontaine descubre la verdad, cuando se conocen las verdaderas causas de la muerte de Rebeca, y sobre todo, cuando Manderley es pasto de las llamas, Rebeca desaparece. Ella no existió mientras Max de Winter y su esposa estaban en Francia, y dejó de existir cuando su fiel sirvienta se dejó morir, cuando Manderley se quemó.

Alfred Hitchcock, Vanity Fair cover, March 2008

For Vanity Fair's 14th annual Hollywood Issue they took 21 of the finest actors working today, plus 4 of Vanity Fair's best photographers to recreate some of the most iconic images of film.

Read the rest of this article to see the Vanity Fair version side by side with the original Hitchcock image.

Click on the name of the film to find out more via imdb.com, click on the image to see a larger version, or the actors name below the image to go to the page on the Vanity Fair website.

All images remain the copyright of either Vanity Fair, the photograhers or the Movie Studio that produced the original film.

In the good old days of Classic Hollywood, famous actors and actresses lending their name to products wasn't a big deal. If anything, it was the standard. Unlike today's actors who go overseas to do commercials because they don't want you to know they're doing them, you could flip through any popular magazine from the 40's and see Barbara Stanwyck recommending Chesterfield cigarettes to her friends and fans. Imagine her doing that in today's PC age! She'd be hit with lawsuit after lawsuit by fans who claimed that she encouraged them to smoke and since they're dying of cancer, she should foot their bills. Complete and total madness.

One more interesting thing I've noticed is that in the majority of the cigarette ads, there's also a promotional line for whatever movie they're appearing in at the time. So of course, it begs the question--were these stars really smoking Chesterfields, or were they just sold out to the company by their home studio or agent? Look at Claudette Colbert--she's practically Chesterfield's poster girl, appearing in no less than 4 ads during a span of 6 years! Either agent must have been getting good money from the Chesterfield people or Claudette really loved her smokes.

And of course, look how glamorous they look while smoking and drinking! Honestly, I haven't smoked in about...ten years and I could kill someone from a cigarette right now. For some reason, I'm thinking if I lit up a Chesterfield, I'd somehow look like Rita Hayworth. Yeah, if I had a face lift maybe. And even that's pretty suspect.

But on a personal note, my mother told me that my grandfather's favorite brand of smokes were Chesterfields and he lived well into his 90's, the miserable old coot.

Enjoy!

Chesterfield ads (click on thumbnail for larger version):

Rosalind Russell, Ethel Merman, Tyrone Power, Rita Hayworth

Virgina Mayo, Jane Wyman

Beer (click on thumbnail for larger version):

Edward G. Robinson and wife, Arthur Kennedy, Dan Duryea

Smirnoff Vodka and Jim Beam (click on thumbnail for larger version):

Joan Fontaine and Collier Young, Tony Randall, Harpo Marx, Robert Wagner and Bette Davis

For those of who abstain from vice - Cola and Gum! (click on thumbnail for larger version)

Barbara Stanwyck, Joan Crawford for RC COLA (she's rolling over in her grave), Van Heflin

Note: I collected all these ads over the years off ebay, where you can find many of them for sale. The only thing I did was straighten them out and color correct them

*According to this article, that advertisement of Joseph Cotten is supposed to be aimed at the 1950's gay market. Uh, I really didn't get that. I just thought there was two Joseph Cotten's in one ad. I wonder if he would have posed if he knew that. Hmmmm.

My Roch-cha-cha gal-pal Jill and I scour the worlds of entertainment, politics, and VIPs to create our 2008 Death Watch Lists. The complete lists are below:

Jill's (the Gothic Ghoul) list:
1. Billy Graham (1918)
2. Estelle Getty (1923)
3. Charlton Heston (1924)
4. Suzanne Pleshette (1937-2008)
5. Farrah Fawcett (1947)
6. Rose Marie (1923)
7. Mickey Rooney (1920)
8. Prince Phillip (1921)
9. Margaret Thatcher (1925)
10. Joan Fontaine (1917)
11. Andy Rooney (1919)
12. Boy George (1961) (Jill's 2008 Trainwreck Awardee)

Joe's List:
1. Annette Funicello (1942)
2. Olivia de Havilland (1916)
3. Dolores Hope (1909)
4. Gore Vidal (1925)
5. Ed McMahon (1923)
6. Doris Day (1924)
7. Elizabeth Taylor (1932)
8. Britney Spears (1981) (Joe's 2008 Trainwreck Awardee)
9. Carol Channing (1921)
10. Peter O'Toole (1932)
11. Arethra Franklin (1942)
12. Kirk Cameron (1970) (Joe's 2008 Bert Convey Honoree)

Incidental music:
Siouxsie & the Banshees - Voodoo Dolly

Listener's discretion advised.
Length: 10:33

Gracias a esta película, las chaquetas "Cardigan", prenda que vestía la protagonista, pasaron a llamarse popularmente "Rebecas".

Reparto principal:
Joan Fontaine ... Lisa Berndle
Louis Jourdan ... Stefan Brand
Mady Christians ... Frau Berndle
Marcel Journet ... Johann Stauffer
Art Smith ... John

Fotografía:
Franz Planer

Música original:
Daniele Amfitheatrof

Montaje:
Ted J. Kent

Palabras clave:
Adult Situations, Austria Hungary, Based On Novel, Deliberate, Downbeat, Drama, Duel, Flashback Sequence, High on Emotion, Letter, Love, Melancholy, Melodrama, Mother Daughter Relationship, Music, Mute, Obsession, Period Film, Pianist, piano, Platonic Love, Pregnancy, Remake, romance, Romantic Betrayal, Romantic Drama, Schoolgirl Crush, Self-Destructive Romance, Somber, Staircase, Stylized, tragic-love, unrequited, Unrequited Love, Vienna Austria, Voyeurism

Ou: Senta que lá vem história.

Foi no final da década de 80 que descobri Jane Eyre, numa sessão da madrugada na TV Cultura. Em preto-e-branco na sala escura, os olhos do Conde Edward Rochester me assombravam e não consegui sossegar enquanto não descobri mais sobre ele. Que era Orson Welles eu sabia, mas a Internet ainda não existia pra essas bandas. Era o tempo, ainda, dos catálogos da Ediouro; foi ali que encontrei o livro de Charlotte Brontë [com essa mesma capa] que viria a ser o meu livro favorito de todos os tempos éva.

Muitos anos depois, assisti outra versão de Jane Eyre, mas não me marcou como a primeira vez. A história depende muito da interpretação dos dois atores principais e [acho que já comentei isso uma ou duas vezes no PdUBT antes] a dupla Charlotte Gainsbourg/John Hurt não me ganhou.

Os planos pra reler o livro no original já estavam feitos no ano passado, quando miguxo me enviou a lista dos concorrentes para o Golden Globe e vi uma atriz concorrendo na categoria de minisséries ou filme feito para a tv na temporada 2006/7 por... Jane Eyre!

Só se ouviu um cataploft.

Graças à Fernanda e à Tati, que me fizeram insistir pela terceira vez no cadastro do IsLife depois de não ter conseguido em duas, encontrei os quatro episódios da minissérie da BBC pra baixar [nunca vou agradecê-las o bastante por isto!].

Assisti neste final-de-semana.

Preparei coração e mente para evitar comparações com a versão de 1944 mas, depois de 15 minutos, não dava pra disfarçar mais: a maioria das seqüências era copiada plano-a-plano! Podia pensar que fosse natural, afinal não dá pra inventar muito quando se trata de adaptar o mesmíssimo livro. Daí vem a cena em que Jane criança encontra-se com Mr. Brocklehurst e a semelhança me deixa sem fôlego, com o enquadramento das personagens idêntico: Mr. Brocklehurst visto de baixo pra cima e Jane, de cima para baixo, tanto no filme quanto na minissérie.

Era a senha pra começar a comparar sem culpa! E, visto que o Jane Eyre de Orson Welles é um dos meus filmes top favoritos, foi até um ponto a favor pra minissérie, uai. [Pequena observação pessoal: eu tenho uma bronca contra atrizes bicudas. Me incomodam, não pergunte o motivo, Calista Flockhart, Elizabeth Mitchell, Claire Forlane... até a Evangeline Lilly mirrita. Quando vi a Ruth Wilson já criei barreira logo de cara. Ou de bico, quem sabe.]

Não gostei das crianças atuais, mais mecânicas e estridentes que as de 44. Tá certo que, em 44, uma delas era *a* Elizabeth Taylor, o que torna a comparação injusta. Também achei estranho terem colocado uma adolescente pra fazer a Adéle; a garotinha de 44 era tão encantadora e... francesa! Na escalação das crianças, 44 venceu 06 pra mim.

Talvez por contar com um elenco mirim tão mais fraco, o arco que mostra a infância de Jane foi menos desenvolvido na minissérie. Eu não sei se isso prejudicou a compreensão do caráter da personagem por parte de quem viu a história pela primeira vez; alguns comentários no site oficial criticaram muito o ritmo acelerado dos dois primeiros episódios, mas a maioria foi feita por quem também já conhecia o livro.

Até a metade do terceiro episódio ia tudo meio paripasso, filme e série, com uma que outra cena adicional e fotografia linda. A minissérie abriu mão da sutileza em duas seqüências que, no filme, foram filmadas de forma a não chocar a audiência da época, usando artifícios muito elegantes e que não deixavam dúvidas sobre o que tinha acontecido. Agora não necessitamos mais tanto prurido; ainda assim achei de uma crueza que destoou do tom.

Da metade do terceiro episódio até uns 3/4 do último não teve comparação: é um arco que foi cortado da adaptação de Aldous Huxley em 44, que transformou o clérigo St. John Rivers [que Jane conheceu pós-Thornfield] no médico Dr. John Rivers de Lowood, a instituição para onde Jane foi encaminhada pela Tia Reed.

Nos últimos 15 ou 20 minutos do quarto episódio, aí sim, foi a redenção. A conclusão da minissérie me derreteu mais que a do filme. A essa altura eu já tinha esquecido o bico da Ruth Wilson e o fato de que Toby Stephens é bonito demais para seu próprio bem ser Mr. Rochester. Acho que o fato desses minutos finais terem sido mais fiéis ao livro ajudou muito, passada a primeira estranheza de não ser narrado em primeira pessoa.

Pra quem gosta de romances de época [especificamente os vitorianos], recomendo a série com entusiasmo. E o livro. E o filme. Quanto à indicação pro Golden Globe, não sei se Ruth Wilson leva o prêmio porque não vi as outras concorrentes nas respectivas séries mas, intimamente, sinto que não haverá outra Jane Eyre tão perfeita quanto Joan Fontaine. Quanto ao Mr. Rochester perfeito, bem... Ainda espero este.
:o)

"something abt this number just makes me incredibly happy. as well as a beautiful arrangement of a great song (the first!), it's the FACES"

Reminds me of Kubrick's nice line about the last shot of THE SHINING: "Every face around Jack is an archetype of the period."

Boy, if we could actually reincarnate in a Fred Astaire movie, just by freezing to death in a maze, who among us would have the courage to resist? It's a very real problem.

Mr. K goes on:

I propose to run a SERIES of such posts, with scenes nominated by YOU, the Shadowplayers, all you wonderful people out there in the dark! Send me links or just describe the scene you have in mind and I'll try to get ahold of it (and Chris, no porn).

If, as David Lynch believes, we could solve all the world's problems by getting the square root of the Earth's population to transcendentally meditate at the same time -- "And bango!" -- then imagine what we could achieve if all the readers of this blog, the many millions, clicked on Fred Astaire at the same time. Let's unroll some euphoria!

I'll go next, to keep the ball rolling, but please, EVERYBODY, give me your thoughts.

(Oh, the film clip is from DAMSEL IN DISTRESS, directed by George Stevens -- whom BK still doesn't accept as a Great American Filmmaker, despite loving Stevens' Astaire films -- and it's based on a story by the sublime P.G. Wodehouse, and features Joan Fontaine and Burns and Allen.)

The film does amble along in the first hour, but the pace picks up. Based on Francis Iles' novel, Before the Fact, with some substantial changes to preserve Cary Grant's romantic hero image.

Joan Fontaine won an Oscar for Best Actress but many critics feel that it was because she did not win the Oscar for another outstanding performance for Rebecca, the previous year. (Hitchcock's first American directed feature)

(Foto de Daquella Manera, con algunos derechos reservados)

Sugiere algún amigo de este blog que todos, aún los más críticos, somos hijos del colonialismo cultural. A veces sin darnos cuenta, como cuando nos ponemos la americana o la rebeca. ¿Por qué no la chaqueta o el jersey de punto abierto, que era lo que en realidad se echaba encima la malograda esposa invisible del acaudalado señor De Winter? Entre la descripción de Daphne du Maurier, el suspense de Hitchcock y en encanto bobalicón de Joan Fontaine nos lo colaron impunemente. El caso es que ardió Manderley y las chicas españolas no volvieron a cubrir sus hombros con la chaquetita de punto, sino con la rebeca. Colonialismo inocente ese, por cierto. Más ofende que nos haya conquistado el sandwich cuando el conde de Sandwich lo que en realidad se inventó para aplacar la gazuza de sus cacerías era algo tan conocido por estos pagos como el bocadillo. Será que comiendo esa palabra, aunque se engorde igual, se parece más fino.

El Duende, tan puntilloso él generalmente, fustiga las modas importadas innecesariamente. Pero si uno mira atrás se da cuenta de que todo, desde el lenguaje hasta los hábitos de vida se han impregnado siempre de costumbres extrañas. Y no siempre para mal, ni mucho menos. En SU primera empresa, el Duende trabajaba aún los sábados por la mañana. En el lenguaje popular, el sábado libre se decía sábado inglés. Algo bueno pues aprendimos de la pérfida Albión, como desde la derrota de la Armada Invencible denominábamos a la Gran Bretaña.

Bueno para la decoración o malo para nuestros bosques, contra lo que ya no vale oponerse es contra el árbol de Navidad. No tiene nada que ver con raíz cristiana de la pascua que nos contaron de niños. Pero desde Navidades blancas -primero la famosísima canción de Irving Berlin y luego la película que protagonizaron Bing Crosby y Dany Kaye- su encanto parece irresistible. Tan incrustado está en nuestra cultura doméstica, que a una maestra contumaz cristiana le oyó el Duende entronizarlo en la natividad que describe san Marcos para que sus alumnos no lo vieran como un simple adorno caprichoso. Según ella, y probablemente para santificar la tradición pagana, del árbol sacó san José la madera para hacerle la cuna Jesús. Difícil que lo encontrara en los aledaños de Belén, pero si non é vero é miracolosamente trovato...

Le magnetiza al Duende el otoño porque pinta éste el crepúsculo de la vida vegetal en colores maravillosos. Viene de ver en los bosques asturianos y leoneses cuadros naturales que serían impagables si se subastaran en Sothebys. Desde la misma ventana del cuarto donde escribe se divisa un Madrid otoñal parapetado tras los ocres, amarillos, rojizos y verdes de distintas tonalidades que le ofrecen chopos, plátanos, liquidámbares, pinos, cipreses, cedros, olmos y cianamomos de un parque que espera plácidamente la caída de la hoja.

Llegará el invierno con sus barbas blancas y sólo permanecerán vestidos los de hoja perenne. Algunos de ellos, como el perfumado naranjo y el bravo madroño, con la propina excepcional de un fruto que pronto será de vivos colores. Está muy bien que hoy reproduzcamos en plástico el tannembaun o el christmas tree, porque así no deforestamos y, pese a ello, nos sentimos como en un cuento de Dickens. Pero el naranjo y el madroño no necesitan en esta época ni un adorno, porque se llenan de bolas rojas o naranjas y se ponen preciosos. Podíamos habernos fijado en ellos antes para que los copiaran los chinos. Así, en lugar de ser colonizados por la estética del norte, podríamos sorprender a todo el mundo con la gracia natural que tienen en España nuestros auténticos árboles de Navidad.

Hay varias notas llamativas en la biografía de Joan Fontaine. Por ejemplo, que fue la única intérprete, tanto femenina como masculina, en aparecer en una película del Gran Alfred Hitchcock que consiguió llevarse un Oscar. Fue en 1941, por Sospecha. El año anterior, Rebeca, también de Hitchcock, le había valido su primera candidatura, que repetiría en el 43 con The Constant Nymph. El final de los 30 y los 40 fueron sus mejores años. Ya en los 50 comenzaría su declive. También llaman la atención en su currículum sus cuatro matrimonios, con sus respectivos divorcios, o sus dos abortos. Según las malas lenguas de Hollywood, Joan Fontaine tenía una doble cara: la que ofrecía en pantalla, con papeles de timorata, pudorosa y bastante sosa, y la de su vida real, promiscua y libertina.

Sea como fuere, aquí nos quedamos con sus papeles en las películas de Hitchcok o en Carta de una desconocida; con la huella que dejó en el celuloide más dorado.

Like Rebecca, Suspicion remains English in setting and spirit; and, again, its central character is a sheltered girl. A late child who has been carefully brought up, Lina McLaidlaw avoids potential spinsterhood by impetuously marrying against her parents’ wishes John Aysgarth, a playboy and ne’er-do-well. After an extensive continental honeymoon, Lina learns that Johnny’s cousin and employer, from whose firm he has embezzled funds to pay gambling debts, has discharged him and that now he will go to prison unless he pays back the money. She confides to Johnny nothing she has found out. Soon, she grows suspicious that her spouse has killed a friend with whom he had entered into a doubtful business arrangement and, having failed to get the money he needs that way, now he is planning to murder her to collect on her life insurance.

Suspicion is based on Francis Iles’s—Anthony Berkeley’s—novel Before the Fact. The "fact" to which the title refers is the disillusioned girl’s imminent poisoning by her spouse—in effect, her suicide by proxy. The girl in Rebecca wrongly suspects her husband of not loving her; in Suspicion, the girl may be right. This film turns the screw, then, by premising wifely anxiety that is completely justified. (Why else do both films, and so close together, and with the same actress, Joan Fontaine, in the lead?) All this changed during the shooting, though. The original ending, the wife’s murder by her husband, was replaced once the studio, RKO, decided that the actor playing the latter, Cary Grant, was too popular to turn out to be a killer. In a hastily contrived (but thrilling) new finish stressing the rewards of marital complicity and communication, Lina realizes that her suspiciousness has been without basis and, accepting a share of responsibility for the troubled union, pleads for reconciliation. And why not? For indeed the novel itself unfolds in the first person from the wife’s vantage; even there, then, the possibility exists that the wife is foolishly suspecting her spouse. The story ends with her anticipating her death that night; but, after we close the back cover of the book, as it were, we certainly can imagine her waking up the next morning absolutely unharmed. (Indeed, the author may even be stressing this possibility as a way for the reader to get out of the box of the subjectivity that the first-person narration imposes.) Therefore, the film’s revised ending may be taken, happily, at face value. Or did Hitchcock, piqued at studio interference, devise an utterly ambiguous final shot—Johnny slowly uncoils his arm around Lina as they drive off—that subversively hints the husband’s murderousness without the studio’s detecting it?

Containing such contradictions and cross-purposes, Suspicion ought to be incoherent; yet it is nothing of the sort. The reason for this is obvious. Regardless of whether John Aysgarth is or is not out to murder his wife, a critical underlying theme remains intact: the exacting need of love to remain love, by retaining either its true character or, at least, the illusion of this. Either ending—Lina’s self-sacrifice to her husband’s murderous intent; Lina’s great humility in the face of his exoneration—makes the same point: that Lina Aysgarth is willing to go to all necessary ends for the sake of her Johnny and her love for him.

Helping to make Suspicion so incredibly appealing, moreover, is its wistful, gently melancholy air—an expression of love’s tender fragility, even transience, and, in defiance of this, the sublimation of Lina’s desire to hold onto each whisper and echo of her Johnny’s love, which she feels is evaporating. All this helps to make Suspicion an unusually delicate film for Hitchcock. Another contributor to the outstanding result is the elusive, shadowy texture of Harry Stradling’s black-and-white cinematography, with its lovely variations on the visual theme of the girl’s entrapment in a spiderweb of suspicion. Nor can one praise too highly the fascinating, delightful script by Samson Raphaelson, Joan Harrison and Alma Reville, Hitchcock’s endlessly helpful spouse.

But to Hitchcock, of course, goes the highest praise; despite challenges, he has made one of his most poignant films---and one that towards the end gives the heart a terrific jump.

Except for Grant, whose role the subjectivism accorded the role of the wife may have made unchartable, all the acting in this film is splendid: Nigel Bruce as Johnny’s friend, May Whitty as Lina’s sympathetic mother, Cedric Hardwicke as Lina’s military father, Auriol Lee as a lesbian friend of the Aysgarths who writes murder mysteries. As Lina, Fontaine won an Oscar; in Oscar's lead acting categories her performance is nearly in the same exalted league as Laurence Olivier’s Hamlet (Olivier, 1948), Simone Signoret’s Alice in Room at the Top (Jack Clayton, 1959), and Daniel Day-Lewis’s Christy Brown in My Left Foot (Jim Sheridan, 1989). (Fontaine also won year-end prizes from the New York Film Critics Circle and the National Board of Review.) Her acting is brilliant—crisp, richly textured, emotionally vibrant and, finally, heart-piercing. And something more: she brings neurotic complexity, formerly reserved in Hollywood for “bad girls” and female villains, to a role reflecting the positive and the decent. Countless American film actresses thus remain in her debt.

Let me add this personal note: Joan Fontaine was the first film actress to capture my heart, and she is still among my favorites.