Orpheus in the Underworld--Cocteau style

In about a week, I have plans to see the acclaimed musical Hadestown for the first time. I understand that that version of the ancient Greek myth of Orpheus, Eurydice, and Hades is set in an early 20th-century alternative New Orleans universe. Which brings me to Orpheus (in French, Orphée, 1950), another "modern" interpretation of the legend, from the creative mind of mid-century French auteur Jean Cocteau. Perfect timing, I thought, to explore this film and contribute this post for the CMBA's 2024 Fall Blogathon on movies related to the afterlife. Go here for all the links to members' posts for the blogathon. 

Click on the above image for more posts from CMBA bloggers.

So I expect all my readers are familiar to at least some degree with the legend of Orpheus; his mythical origins are unclear, but he was believed to be a musician and poet, whose association with the gods of ancient Greece made him famous, and his most famous exploit is his unsuccessful bid to raise his wife, Eurydice, from the dead after bargaining with Hades in the underworld. 

Like the mythical Orpheus, Cocteau was a true Renaissance man - poet, painter, playwright, and of course, filmmaker. He was famously formally outside of the European Surrealists of the 1920s, but produced work that was certainly surreal (small "s"). In that decade, Cocteau began to be fascinated by tales of classical mythology, prompted by the recent and untimely death of his poet protégé Raymond Radiguet, and helped along by a growing opium habit. His play, Orpheus, was produced in Paris in 1926, and it is this work on which his later film is very loosely based. Cocteau apparently identified very much as Orpheus, a supreme artist wrestling with life, love, and death, and was eager to deliver his own, partially autobiographical interpretation. He approached the theme three times in film; Orpheus is the middle film in his "Orphic Trilogy."

Jean Cocteau: the artist as a young man

Having yet to experience Cocteau's art (cinematic or otherwise), I only knew to expect a surreal and/or avant-garde film with Orpheus. While I enjoy some movies that use absurd, disturbing, or non-linear narratives (David Lynch, anyone?) I can't say I'm a fan; I get impatient with obvious attempts (as I see them) to confuse the audience. So I was pleasantly surprised that Orpheus, while it has a healthy helping of strangeness, kept me entertained with a largely linear narrative, and the supernatural elements were more intriguing than creepy. (I cannot say the same for the two other films in the "Orphic Trilogy," The Blood of a Poet (1932) and Testament of Orpheus (1960), but more about those later.) Cocteau's genius lies in how he weaves this classic tale into a tapestry of dreamlike imagery and poetic symbolism. Spoilers ahead!

The film starts out in a crowded cafe in postwar Paris, where young poets and artists engage in lively conversation, with a guitarist adding a musical backdrop. We meet Orpheus, who observes the activity from a distance, talking with his editor about the fact that his poetry isn't appreciated anymore and that a newer generation seems to be getting all the attention. As played by Jean Marais, Cocteau's one-time partner, this Orpheus seems like a preppy young stud, fitting into, rather than outside, mainstream society of the early 1950s.

In the middle of that conversation, a Rolls Royce pulls up, and an elegantly dressed woman (Maria Casares) and a young man get out, the youth obviously drunk. Orpheus watches with disgust, as he learns this is one of the new poets he has been complaining about, Cégeste (Édouard Dermithe). Due to Cégeste's drunkenness and carelessness, a brawl erupts and engulfs the entire place.

About the time the police arrive, two motorcyclists come along and run over Cégeste, leaving him unconscious and bleeding in the street. The elegant woman, who we learn is "The Princess," also herself a poet, insists her chauffeur put Cégeste in the car, and then demands Orpheus go with them as a "witness." Obviously, this woman is used to getting her way.

"Get in the car!," the Princess tells Orpheus.

The car rushes off but instead of heading to the hospital, they drive into what looks like a cloud bank and arrive after dark at a dilapidated mansion. Orpheus, of course, is confused by all this and is rebuffed in his attempt to get answers. He's even more concerned when he discovers Cégeste has died in the car from his injuries. 

Driving into the mysterious night.

Befuddled, he follows the Princess and her chauffeur, Heurtebise (François Périer) into the dark mansion. And then the fun really starts. The Princess seemingly brings Cégeste back to life, telling Orpheus that she is "his death." The two sit for a conversation, and it becomes clear that Orpheus is intrigued by her, and also by strange transmissions of nonsensical statements that emanate from both the room radio and the car radio. (At this point I wondered if Eurydice would ever appear.)

Suddenly, without any further explanation, the Princess/Death heads with the two motorcyclists (apparently her assassins for hire) through a mirror into another dimension. Orpheus tries but cannot follow her.

Where did they go??

Meanwhile, we finally meet Eurydice (Marie Déa), who is beside herself because her husband has not come home since the day before. She is comforted by her friend Aglaonice (Juliette Greco). 

Eventually, Orpheus wakes up on a deserted country road and is picked up by Heurtebise, who, without explaining how they both got there, offers to drive him home. And because Heurtebise has to wait  until his mistress tracks him down for his next assignment, Orpheus gladly offers hospitality at his and Eurydice's home. His motives are more than just altruistic though, because he has rediscovered his poetic mojo from the strange radio transmission and wants to spend as much time as he can listening to the radio.

The radio says, "The bird sings with its fingers." Whatever does 
that mean??

So now we learn that all might not be well in the marriage of Orpheus and Eurydice. She hasn't yet told him about her pregnancy, while he snips at her and leaves her alone when he sits in the Rolls Royce all day listening to the transmissions. This leaves an opening for Heurtebise, who finds himself attracted to Eurydice. They begin a tentative friendship, and Heurtebise tries, somewhat clumsily, to hide the fact that he is from the afterlife.

"I mean I almost committed suicide!"

Antiquity breaks through in the strange poetry emanating
from the radio of the Rolls Royce.

In the midst of all this, the Princess makes another ominous appearance and stands at Orpheus and Eurydice's bedside as they are sleeping, seemingly unsure of how to proceed. 

Maria Casares as the Princess/Death
(from https://grossrider.tumblr.com/post/29321036701?)

The next day, poor Eurydice is run over by the two motorcyclists who previously ran down Cégeste. Heurtebise carries the unconscious woman into the house, places her on the bed, and warns Orpheus that his wife is dying. Orpheus, initially blowing off the warning, finally goes to her bedside after it is too late. He is remorseful and despondent. 

Now here is where the familiar legend kicks in, sort of. Eurydice is whisked off to the underworld, and Heurtebise allows Orpheus to follow. Once there Eurydice is reanimated to a zombie-like state, and a trial begins with solemn-looking men who act as judges. At this trial, it is revealed that Princess/Death disobeyed her orders to take Orpheus, and out of jealousy, took Eurydice instead. She admits her love for Orpheus. At the same time, Heurtebise admits his love for Eurydice. 

The Trial

After these discussions are finished, the judges force both Princess/Death and Heurtebise to sign a paper, and the scene cuts to a romantic interlude between the Princess and Orpheus, who says he'd rather stay there with her than return to his life with Eurydice.

The poet in love with death

The judges return with the verdict that the Princess ("Orpheus's death") and Heurtebise are released on bail, Orpheus is set free, and Eurydice can return under the condition that Orpheus never looks at her. And unlike the legend, where this edict is to last only during the journey from the afterlife to Earth, in our story the edict is permanent. So Orpheus and Eurydice return home to an uncomfortable existence, where they don't seem to be very careful about not looking at one another, and Heurtebise accompanies them to help them deal with this awkward arrangement. At this point, these scenes of Orpheus not trying not to look are presented like an absurd comedy, almost slapstick. Of course the inevitable happens...Orpheus glimpses the face of Eurydice in a mirror (!) and she disappears.

Immediately after, Orpheus confronts an angry group of fans staking out his home demanding to know where Cégeste is. The confrontation gets ugly, and Orpheus is shot with a gun he is given by Heurtebise. Then, of course, as dead, he is transported once again to the afterlife. Once he meets the Princess again, they declare their love. But then, the Princess demands he obey her every word even if he doesn't understand; he promises. Ominously the narrator breaks in with the line, "The death of a poet requires a sacrifice to render him immortal." The Princess then demands Heurtebise and Cégeste suffocate Orpheus, allowing time to be reversed and Heurtebise to walk Orpheus back to his life on earth. He and Eurydice have a joyful reunion, neither retaining any memory of what has happened. Orpheus now seems delighted with impending fatherhood and his poetic longings are put on hold. The last shot of the film shows Princess/Death and Heurtebise led away by the motorcyclists of death, no doubt their defiance condemning them to an unpleasant fate.

So, what to think of this? Clearly, Cocteau is having a bit of fun, using the legend as a jumping-off point for commentary on the tug-of-war between domestic tranquility and artistic pursuits, the value that poets add to the world, and the fleeting nature of fame. I do read the "happy ending" as a bit ironic, not to be interpreted in the classic Hollywood sense. No doubt all of these elements he experienced in his own fascinating career. It also reflects his own deeply personal vision, connecting threads from his work over decades. We know this because at the very least, Cocteau's characters Heurtebise and Cégeste, not found in the original legend, are names of angels in poems he wrote decades earlier. As I mentioned, he had approached the legend of Orpheus in his 1926 play, and touched on "mirror transport" to the afterlife in his first film, and the first one in the Orphic Trilogy, The Blood of a Poet. 

At the time he made Orpheus, Cocteau was receding somewhat in the fast-moving world of French cinema, with the emergence of the New Wave with Truffaut, Godard, Varda, and others. In fact, he was turned down by producers and funded the project on his own, meaning that his cast and crew worked for deferred payment. He was unable to secure his first choices for the role of the Princess, Greta Garbo or Marlene Dietrich. Yet the film was a critical success, and so much of the film technique influenced later filmmakers such as reverse action in Christopher Nolan's Inception and mirrors as portals to other worlds as in Terry Gilliam's The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus. Truffaut himself was so taken with Cocteau's work that he donated the profits of The 400 Blows to help finance Cocteau's final film, Testament of Orpheus. 

In her film essay for Turner Classic Movies, (tcm.com), Margarita Landazuri said this about the film and I agree with her: "Whatever the film's meaning - and that's a subject film theorists have debated endlessly -- Orpheus is totally accessible to ordinary filmgoers, who find its story compelling, its visuals ravishing, and its writing witty."

I can't leave this topic without a few words about the other two films in the trilogy. The Blood of a Poet explores the inner life of an artist through a series of dreamlike, surreal sequences over less than one hour running time. There is no consistent narrative, and strange and symbolic worlds dissolve one into another that defy easy explanation. The film is filled with striking camera special effects. 

Mirrors in The Blood of a Poet also are gateways to alternative worlds.

Testament of Orpheus, Cocteau's last film, also presents a narrative with limited cohesion and plays with both time and space. In many ways it reminded me of The Saragossa Manuscript (Wojciech Has, 1965; I wrote about that one here) with its absurd juxtaposition of images, alterations of space-time as the protagonist journeys through unknown parts, black and white filmography, and a mournful classical soundtrack. It's quite an autobiographical epic, with Cocteau himself starring. Through his encounter with characters (and actors) from his earlier films, he reflects on a long life of poetry and art. Interestingly, Cocteau at the 34-minute mark of Testament, describes what a "film" is: "a petrifying fountain of thought...a film revives lifeless deeds. A film permits one to give the appearance of reality to that which is unreal." It seems that, to Cocteau, a film is a visual representation of a poem, which cannot always be understood. 

Cocteau, with death mask, confronts the "actor who played Cégeste"
in Testament of Orpheus

Ultimately, all three films are about the journeys of artists into magical realms, including various representations of the afterlife, which can be both dreamlike and nightmarish, and all three perhaps reflect on the magic of cinema itself. There is so much more that can be, and has been, said about these films, so for those who want more, I recommend reading this insightful essay in the New Ohio Review.

With Cocteau's conception of the Orpheus legend now imprinted on my mind, I expect that when I see Hadestown next week, I'll be comparing it to that one instead of the traditional legend. 

Once again, don't forget to check out more posts about the afterlife in cinema here!

My 5 favorite Powell & Pressburger films

In honor of the recent release of Martin Scorcese's documentary Made in England: The Films of Powell and Pressburger, which I saw recently at the cinema, I present my five favorite (so far) films from this legendary filmmaking team, counting down from #5 to my #1.

First, for those not familiar with Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, they were a director/writer team who flourished as independent British filmmakers in the mid-20th century with a wide-ranging filmography and consistent innovation. They hired the best actors and crews working at the time, and thanks to the efforts of Scorcese's Film Foundation, many of their films have been restored to their original brilliance. Many are on DVD and streaming platforms, and some can be seen in your local independent cinema.

Michael Powell (left) and Emeric Pressburger in consultation (image
from Criterion.com)

#5: The Red Shoes (1948): Arguably the best-known of Powell & Pressburger collaborations, it has it all: music, dance, high drama, art vs. life, life imitating art, incredible technicolor, and gorgeous settings. A bonus is the film debut of the luminous dancer Moira Shearer. Watch the original trailer here: 

#4: A Matter of Life and Death (1946): I recently had the opportunity to see this on the big screen, and it was a blast. I had seen it earlier on the small screen, but the black and white scenes in the bureaucratic afterlife were so stunningly rendered, which only really "popped" in the cinema. I also found Roger Livesey to be a complete delight in his secondary but critical role as the doctor who defends our hero. And Marius Goring, who was the serious composer in love with Moira Shearer in The Red Shoes, here is fantastic as a petulant French 18th-century angel who failed to transport David Niven to the hereafter. Spoiler: It has a feel-good ending. 

Residents of the afterlife are summoned to witness a trial.

Watch the trailer for the recent 4K restoration below.

#3: I Know Where I'm Going! (1945): This might be the most overtly romantic film in my list, with a love story unfolding against all odds. It's full of quirky characters, witty humor, and a forbidding Scottish highland coast, but the brilliance of leads Wendy Hiller and Roger Livesey make this so much more than your typical romantic drama. Seeing a restoration of this one last November at the British Film Institute was a highlight of my trip to the UK. A trailer is below.

#2: The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943): Approaching this film, I asked, "Who is Colonel Blimp?" Turns out he was a famous cartoon character in England (created by cartoonist David Low) who represented a satirized "old-school" authoritarian British officer. The protagonist of the film is not named "Colonel Blimp" but was inspired by him. Yet as scripted by Pressburger and played by Roger Livesey, he is an imperfect but eminently likeable character who we accompany through 40+ years of his life and loves over the film's near 3-hour running time. Along the way we meet his one-time nemesis, and later friend, a German officer portrayed by Anton Walbrook, and three pivotal female characters all portrayed by Deborah Kerr. There could be so much said about this film, so I'll leave you with just two words: watch it.

Roger Livesey and Deborah Kerr in The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp

At the end of the movie I may or may not have exclaimed it was the best movie I'd ever seen, a true masterpiece. In that, Scorcese would agree with me. And then came...

#1: A Canterbury Tale (1944): My love for this film came as a complete surprise, as I hadn't even heard of it before I watched it for my "50 Years of Film in 50 Weeks" blog series. I delighted in the quirkiness, the wartime realism blended with overtones of medieval mysticism, yearnings that are partially satisfied but others left to the future...all with the trademark breathtaking shots and humanistic themes that run through most of the Powell & Pressburger oeuvre. Read my blog post here for a deeper dive into the film, its production, and my reflections. I cannot argue with writer Xan Brooks, who confessed in an article in The Guardian, "A Canterbury Tale may be the most loving and tender film about England ever made." 

Sheila Sim and Eric Portman in A Canterbury Tale

Which is your favorite of the Powell and Pressburger films? Please leave a comment.

Postscript: After I watched the Scorcese documentary, I realized that I have yet to see most of Powell & Pressburger's later work. Here are films that intrigue me and that I plan to see soon:

• The Tales of Hoffman (1951): The complete opera by Offenbach on cinema, with Moira Shearer appearing as the famous dancing doll, Olympia. Of course, the actual singing was dubbed in by opera singers.
• Gone to Earth (1950): Scorcese had good things to say about this one, a co-production with David Selznick, especially Jennifer Jones' (Mrs. Selznick's) performance, but the film was not a commercial success.
• Peeping Tom (1960): This horror film was Michael Powell without Pressburger, and it was so controversial and almost universally panned at the time that Powell's career was over. The film has since been reappraised and is seen as Powell's last masterpiece.

Before The Ten Commandments: Approaching Cecil B. DeMille's Samson and Delilah and The Greatest Show on Earth

This post is my contribution to the Classic Movie Blog Association's blogathon "Screen Debuts and Last Hurrahs." Go here for links to all the posts from the best classic film bloggers you'll ever meet!

He probably didn't know it, but in the late 1940s Cecil B. DeMille was beginning his last act as a Hollywood director, perhaps the most powerful one the relatively new industry had ever known. He had completed the founding of what was to become Paramount Studios; had shepherded the industry from films done in pantomime to those with recorded sound and speech; had moved to MGM and then back to Paramount; had ended a nine-year run as the host of the Lux Radio Theater, where so many stars reprised their movies for listening audiences; and was revered, and sometimes reviled, for his epic, imaginative, audience-pleasing movies. 

 (Left: A young DeMille in the silent era, with his directing "uniform" that he stuck to throughout his career. Right: DeMille in the 1940s)

In the mid-1950s DeMille pulled out all the stops on his last completed film, and perhaps his most famous, The Ten Commandments, which was a remake of a film he made in the silent era. He had his first serious heart attack just as the Israelites were escaping Egypt in grand fashion, and his health went precipitously downhill until his death in 1959, at the age of 77. 

Inspired by Scott Eyman's excellent biography, Empire of Dreams: The Epic Life of Cecil B. DeMille, I decided to fill in some of my viewing gaps in his filmography, especially the two films immediately preceding The Ten Commandments. (Thank you, ABC-TV, for airing that one every spring!) In contrast, both Samson and Delilah (1949) and The Greatest Show on Earth (1952) had no such TV presence when I was growing up, despite their being "big" films, one even an Academy Award Best Picture winner. So I watched them. Read on for my take on these films and an attempt to put them in the context of DeMille's final years as a director. 

Behind the Scenes: The Making of Samson and Delilah (1949)

Samson came after ten years of films about Americana for DeMille. He had been particularly discouraged by the failure of his previous picture Unconquered, and he took a bit of solace in returning to the genre that yielded his favorite film, King of Kings, the epic tale of the gospels from 1927. Apparently, DeMille sold Paramount executives on the commercial potential of the Samson and Delilah story by showing them a painting of a strong man in a loincloth with a scantily clad beauty. The casting process for Samson and Delilah brought together a fascinating mix of talent. In addition to the exotic Hedy Lamarr (who beat out Jean Simmons) and Victor Mature (who was chosen over Burt Lancaster because DeMille liked him in Kiss of Death) in the leads, Henry Wilcoxen, a close friend of DeMille, was cast, as were Angela Lansbury, George Sanders, and DeMille's longtime mistress Julia Faye. It was also the first substantial part for the young Russ Tamblyn, 14 years old at the time of filming.

DeMille (with visor) on the set with Lamarr and Mature

During production, DeMille had the opportunity to reminisce about his early career, now decades behind him. Biographer Eyman highlights how DeMille attended the opening of a bank on the site (the corner of Selma and Vine) of the former silent-era studio he ran with Jesse Lasky. Also attending were silent luminaries Theda Bara, Ramon Navarro, Mack Sennett, and Francis X. Bushman, among others. DeMille said, "I was in doubt (in those days) that there would be a bank in Hollywood!" 

Young Russ Tamblyn (upper right) played the future king Saul as 
a youth in a substantial supporting role. DeMille bullied him
at times on the set, leaving him with some unpleasant memories.

Samson and Delilah dramatizes most of the complete biblical tale (from Judges) of ultra-strong Samson (from the tribe of Dan) who gets mixed up with the Philistine overlord heathens because he falls in love with two different Philistine women. Delilah ultimately is his undoing, but that liaison doesn't prevent him from destroying the Philistines with one last show of supernatural strength, thus cementing his place in Hebrew scriptures and popular legend. Of course, screenwriters Jesse Lasky, Jr. and Fredric M. Frank took some liberties with the story, some based on the novel on which the tale was expanded (Samson the Nazirite by Vladimir Jabotinsky) to flesh out the final script to DeMille's specifications. For example, the character of Semadar, Samson's first Philistine love, is shown to be Delilah's older sister, an assertion nowhere supported in scripture.   

Mature wrestles a stuffed lion. DeMille was perturbed with
Mature's lack of wanting to fight an actual lion(!), so 
a great deal of editing was done using a stunt double who
apparently had no such compunctions.

To this viewer, the dramatic acting and commanding presence of the cast compensated for the rather stilted script, resulting in an overall enjoyable movie. DeMille's opening narration, a trademark of his films, set the tone, while Victor Young's score added a rich, exotic tone to the narrative. The theme of freedom from bondage, once again foreshadowing The Ten Commandments, underscored the film's dramatic arc. The film's love triangles (Senadar--Samson--Delilah and Samson--Delilah--Saran) offer evidence of DeMille's penchant for ratcheting up the biblical sex angle on full display later in The Ten Commandments.

The impressive (although clearly artificial) sets brought to mind a fascinating piece of cinema history that I hadn't known before reading DeMille's bio: after the filming in 1923 of the first The Ten Commandments, the entire outdoor set was destroyed and buried in the dunes in central California and was only found and excavated starting in the 1980s. Read more here.

A few additional observations are provided in the screenshot captions below.

"No man leaves Delilah!" Hedy Lamarr and Mature make a beautiful
couple, each bringing appropriate exoticism and intensity.

George Sanders is strong here as Samson's nemesis, the Philistine emperor, the Saran.
Very few films don't benefit from his presence.

Samson topples the temple -- a DeMille-worthy
heart-stopping finale.

DeMille's attention to detail: look at Sanders in the lower middle
of this shot; he's the only one noticing something might
be amiss with blind Samson leaning against the temple pillars.

Angela Lansbury (as the Philistine Semadar) did not have enough screen
time, IMO. Here she is with Mature (left) and Wilcoxen.

Samson and Delilah was a great success, making back over three times its $3 million budget. It won Oscars for costumes (the great Edith Head), art direction (Hans Dreier), and was nominated for score (Victor Young), special effects, and cinematography.

The Greatest Show on Earth (1952): The Circus meets the movies

After Samson & Delilah, DeMille found himself in a protracted battle with the Directors Guild of America (DGA), wanting them to institute a "loyalty oath" during the peak of the blacklist era. DeMille, a conservative, was ultimately deposed from the Board of the DGA, after a series of contentious meetings that biographer Eyman describes in great detail. Yet, he hung on to his career despite a lukewarm response from critics to Samson and Delilah and much of his sound-era filmography. In the 1950s, DeMille benefited from a wave of critical reappraisal from France. In the Cahiers du Cinema, Jacque Doniol-Valcroze wrote in 1951: 

"The man has his faults...but it appears to me that his outstanding quality, spanning the whole length of an abundant career, is an almost total unity of style, a constant fidelity to one perspective, and a conception of history of the plastic arts and literature, a conception he did not originate on the screen but of which he was perhaps the most important and talented popularizer."  

It seems that the DeMille we appreciate in 2024, the DeMille of legend, was beginning to take shape.

DeMille's next film, The Greatest Show on Earth (in 1952, sandwiched between Samson and The Ten Commandments), allowed him to explore contemporary themes of entertainment and human drama within the vibrant, chaotic setting of the circus in contemporary America. 

Opening credits for The Greatest Show on Earth

DeMille was fascinated with the circus, and even during the production of Samson and Delilah he spent days visiting the Ringling Bros. operation, observing the behind-the-scenes workings of the circus, and knew he could make a picture to do it justice. Paramount went into negotiations with the Ringling Co. to establish a partnership for the film, in exchange for upfront payments and royalties over 20 years. And he created a star of Charlton Heston by casting him in the lead role of Brad Braden, the circus manager. Henry Wilcoxen, promoted to associate producer, suggested him, but DeMille's first reaction, after seeing Heston in Dark City, was that he was too dour. He changed his mind when Heston happened to drive by DeMille's office and waved in an apparently charming, light-hearted way. He got the job without a screen test.

The making of The Greatest Show on Earth was itself a spectacular endeavor. In addition to Heston, several other stars signed up for important roles: Betty Hutton; Cornel Wilde; James Stewart in one of his oddest roles as a clown hiding a dark secret; Gloria Grahame; and Dorothy Lamour, who must have been past her starring days as her role was quite small. Julia Faye and Henry Wilcoxen again appeared. The film also included cameos from Paramount stars like Bob Hope and Bing Crosby, adding a touch of Hollywood glamor. Most scenes were filmed on location traveling with the circus.

In a film not dealing overtly with religious matters, unless one believes that
running a circus is akin to leading a congregation, DeMille managed
a nod to religious sensibilities: in an early scene a priest, with a contingent of altar
boys, sprinkles holy water on the circus train as it sets off for its new 
performance season.

DeMille's opening narration immediately immerses the audience in the world he meticulously crafted. DeMille stepped in several more times for narration between acts of the film. Victor Young's score once again provided a lush musical backdrop, enhancing the film's emotional and dramatic impact. The film offered authentic behind-the-scenes views of circus production and gave the audience plenty of time to enjoy a variety of circus acts (trapeze! parades! clowns! songs!) and animals of all kinds: elephants, lions, hippos, chimps, giraffes...adding to its authentic feel. 

However, not everything in the film worked perfectly for me. Betty Hutton, while energetic, came off as a bit too perky and brash, and I found the love interest narrative between her character and those of Heston and Wilde (another triangle!) tiresome and confusing. She seemed to be in love with whoever was more vulnerable in any given moment and flitted back and forth with little provocation. And neither Heston nor Wilde seemed to do more than condescend to her. Additionally, Lawrence Tierney's appearance in an underdeveloped gangster plot felt like it was cut in from another film entirely. I captured further observations in the screenshots below.

DeMille's attention to detail extended to the crowd scenes, where people were
constantly eating ice cream or cotton candy, making me wonder if DeMille
was purposely in cahoots with cinema management to boost concession sales!

James Stewart as "Buttons the Clown" and Betty Hutton have a heart-to-heart 
talk in one of the film's quieter moments. I found Stewart to be very good, 
as his basic decency and darker sides were both used to good effect. I couldn't,
however, get past the incongruity of watching Stewart in a DeMille move.

Lawrence Tierney (right) is up to no good. I never
understood why this plot line was shoe-horned into
the movie, other than to catalyze a spectacular train wreck near the movie's end.

Charlton Heston (left) giving veterinary advice to chimp trainers(!) The first
few minutes of the movie featured Heston's character going around to various
trainers telling them what medicine to give to their animals. I couldn't 
help but wonder if his "helpfulness" got annoying after a while. I suppose
this was meant to showcase his intimate involvement with all parts of the 
circus he ran, and his care for the performers.

As expected, The Greatest Show on Earth was another success for DeMille and Paramount. This one finally won DeMille his Best Picture Oscar, if perhaps it was a "lifetime achievement" type of award. A legendary director of another generation, Steven Spielberg, said that seeing this film in a cinema as a child was the "greatest thing that ever happened to him;" he recreated this time in his life in his film The Fabelmans (see this link for Spielberg talking about that experience).

Cornel Wilde, as the womanizing French trapeze artist "The Great Sebastian,"
 makes his grand entrance in a convertible with traffic police in hot pursuit. Wilde's athletic
physique is convincing as a trapeze artist, but apparently Wilde was afraid of 
heights and DeMille was frustrated with him (not unlike Mature in Samson).

This Post's "Last Hurrah"

Watching and reading about these films, I'm convinced that Samson and Delilah and The Greatest Show on Earth are fitting examples of DeMille's mature cinematic style, which he had perfected at this time in his career (and would reach its apex in The Ten Commandments, the final film he directed). I enjoyed Samson and Delilah more, but will concede that both films are entertaining, no doubt even more on the big screen. DeMille was obviously a complicated and controversial figure, both during his lifetime and today, but due to his drive, artistic vision, and perseverance, his place as one of Hollywood's greatest filmmakers is secure.

Once again, this post is contributed to the CMBA's blogathon "Screen Debuts and Last Hurrahs". Go here for links to all the posts.