Star Quality: Orson Welles’ Romantic Hero in “Jane Eyre”

Interviewed in his later years, Orson Welles once said that he had made a career mistake early on — he should have set out to become a movie star, which would have given him more clout to make his own projects. He was right; he should have. And he could have, too, with his thrillingly romantic Edward Rochester in the 1943 production of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre as a springboard.

Seeing (and especially hearing) Welles, it’s difficult to even imagine any other star of the era, British or American, as Rochester. Gable, Fonda, Bogart, Stewart? Well, no. Leslie Howard or Laurence Olivier? Too lightweight, physically, that is. Flynn or Power? Can we imagine either one describing himself as “ugly as sin”? I don’t think so. (Tracy might have done it: he could do practically anything.)

For lovers of the original novel, Mr Rochester’s overwhelming presence in the film is sort of a problem; the informal, open hearted voice that is Jane herself — the story is told in a completely convincing first person — makes turning her into a film heroine rather difficult. As readers, we come to love Jane through her voice, which is unique; but when you see the events of the story on film, instead of having Jane tell you about them, some of the book’s remarkable intimacy, so advanced for its 1847 publication year, is lost.

On the other hand, Edward Rochester’s enormous presence is enhanced; he sweeps through Jane’s world like a huge storm cloud, flashing with lightning and roaring with thunder (ably assisted by a romantic score by his radio colleague Bernard Herrmann). And Jane is thrilled by this, not the least bit frightened. However meek and self effacing she may seem on the surface, we know Jane to be passionate, intelligent, and quite self-confident. In fact, the roller coaster ride that Mr Rochester’s presence provides is just what Jane, whose life has been so confined, is looking for. She’s not put off by the drama; she wants the drama. Mr.Rochester as written demands a bravura performance; he’s a bravura sort of person.

As a novel, Jane Eyre is pretty evenly balanced; the whole first half is all about Jane and her upbringing as an unwanted, penniless orphan. The film sketches this in concisely and very effectively, with fine performances by the very young Peggy Ann Garner as Jane and the very young Elizabeth Taylor as her doomed friend Helen. The film, though, is far more interested in the second half of the novel, which begins when Jane strikes out on her own and gets a job as a governess to a little French girl, played by the incredibly talented Margaret O’Brien, accent and all.

She finds herself housed in an enormous mansion owned by the wealthy but eccentric Mr. Rochester. She settles very comfortably, establishing a routine with her charge, Adele. Weeks go by and there’s still no sign of her employer, though she is told, enticingly, that he is moody and unpredictable because he has secret sorrows..

One evening, walking over the moors at twilight (as Bronte heroines are wont to do), Jane barely escapes being trampled when a galloping rider misses seeing her in the mist; his horse stumbles and he is thrown. Instead of cowering, fainting, or having the vapors like many Victorian ladies, Jane insists on seeing that he is physically able to remount before she will leave. He questions her brusquely, and then rides off, followed by his beautiful great dane, Pilot. Obviously, this is Mr. Rochester.

An interesting production note; throughout the story, much is made of Jane’s being small, plain, and unobtrusive. Obviously, nothing could make Joan Fontaine plain. But the art direction, set design, and props are photographed to make Fontaine’s Jane look smaller. Thornfield, Rochester’s house, is enormous; the library could be a throne room. All are designed to contrast with Jane’s modest size. Welles’ height and powerful voice are used the same way, emphasizing her slightness and quiet, and his costumes, with boots, swirling caped overcoat or flared frock coat, increase his size. Several times Jane and Rochester are seen full figure, side by side; Welles towers over Fontaine, and makes her seem like the tiny, elfin creature she’s so often described as.

What Mr. Rochester instantly brings to both the novel and the film — and to Jane herself — is glamor. Welles’ makeup is as good as it was going to get, with only a slight enhancement to his nose, he seems to be at his slimmest, and importantly, he moves like a strong, active man (an illusion, but who cares?). And that voice! Welles had of course played Edward Rochester in a version of the novel adapted and directed by himself, on his radio anthology program, the Mercury Theater of the Air. He had already delved into the character, and perfectly understood how Rochester’s abrupt decisions, pride, and self-will would appeal deeply to a young woman whose future could be charitably described as a life of drudgery. He knew how to use his incredible voice to express the instant rapport and growing sense of intimacy between Jane and Rochester. Jane is utterly entranced by him, and again Welles uses his glorious voice to beguile and fascinate her, at the same time showing Rochester’s struggle with the terrible temptation she presents. And all of Jane’s powers of observation are now turned on him; Rochester’s character is the subject of the second half of the novel. Every look, every gesture, and every word is closely watched and pondered. So Welles had plenty to work with; he is consistently dramatic, in fact self-dramatizing. That’s what Charlotte Bronte wanted, and that’s what her Jane Eyre wanted.

Generations of readers have liked him, too. Mr. Rochester is endlessly entertaining, and, beyond his stormy exits and entrances and impassioned speeches, he also displays a deeply sardonic sense of humor. My favorite lines of his, addressed to Jane, “You may not know enough about young ladies of fashion. They may not admire my person, but they dote upon my purse,” are perfectly delivered. These words refer to the wealthy and fashionable guests he invites, apparently on a whim, for a house party. It’s never clear whether he does this to make Jane jealous, or merely to distract himself. It does lead Jane to reveal her feelings, and for Rochester to reveal his.

Of course, this is more than a romance; it’s a thriller, and a terrible secret will be revealed. But personally I have always felt that Mr. Rochester’s awful secret in the attic is a sort of McGuffin, as director Alfred Hitchcock termed the object around which a plot revolves; it almost doesn’t matter what it is. The scary noises at night, the mysterious locked doors, the apparent attempts on Rochester’s life, these are incomprehensible and frightening, but no clear explanation is ever given. I don’t mean that we don’t find out who she is — Mr.Rochester’s hopelessly insane wife — but Charlotte Bronte could have found out and told us much more about the diagnosis and treatment of insane persons if she had wanted to. I think she didn’t really care about the realities of such a situation. Grace Poole’s patient is a symbol more than a character. The same goes here in the movie; Rochester’s situation is abstractly horrible, and there is obviously something more personal involved than generalized malice between him and her, but we never see the unfortunate attic dweller. or see her interact with anyone; we never find out what she wants or why. Jane never does either.

It is enough that learning Rochester’s secret irresistibly drives Jane away from Thornfield and the man she loves, ending up at her cold and empty childhood home, where those who were cruel to her have gotten their just desserts.

This illustrates one true flaw in this film version — it’s too short. Two high-level screenwriters, Aldous Huxley and Welles’ production partner on stage and radio, John Houseman, assisted by director Robert Stevenson, couldn’t think of a way to squeeze in Jane’s other suitor or her discoveries about her family, which are pivotal plot points in the novel. In the end, it’s important that Jane does have somewhere to go. She has a choice; she is not stuck with Rochester because he was the only one who ever wanted her; in fact, eventually she is quite happy to tease him about it (in the book there’s a surprising amount of canoodling). But in this film we don’t see her options.

In any case, after some months pass, Jane has a powerful feeling that something has happened to Rochester, and finds that she cannot rest without returning to Thornfield. When she does, she discovers that disaster has indeed struck, and that Rochester has in a way paid for his crime. Welles is wonderful in this scene; the wounded master of the burned out mansion is still imperious, still willful, still the man Jane wanted so much.

It’s a nice touch that when she enters the room, although Rochester can’t see her, Pilot trots right up to Jane to be petted. When Jane is finally in his arms, Welles uses his beautiful hands to touch her hands, her hair, and her face. He tries to resist for a moment, but then seizes her in a powerful embrace for a passionate kiss, the kiss of two people who have been longing for each other for months.

Welles was one of the most sensational figures in popular culture at this time; he had left his mark on the New York stage, nationwide radio (we always underestimate the importance of radio), and film. I think it’s quite plausible that he could have built a major film career as a star. With this film, he showed that he could carry a picture. It’s entirely fair that Welles gets top billing; he undeniably has the most to do, and provides the thunder, the lightening, and in the end the blazing sunrise.

The Patent Leather Kid (1927): Warner Bros. Ragamuffin Hero Is Born

The Patent Leather Kid was a hugely successful, patriotic, romantic adventure movie with Richard Barthelmess, one of the greatest stars of the silent era in the title role. Despite his early success portraying country boys in Tol’able David and Way Down East, Barthelmess was born and raised in New York, and knew the city from high to low. The character called the Patent Leather Kid began life as a Hell’s Kitchen street urchin, battling his way to a boxing  championship (welterweight, probably — Barthelmess was 5’7″ max). The Kid is cocky, conceited. and arrogant — and he’s the model for many future Warner Bros. heroes. His nickname derives from his glossy, slicked back black hair, of which he’s very proud, taking care that it’s always neat.

The first title card says simply “1917” and the camera moves on to a nostalgic (in 1927, when Prohibition still reigned) shot of a bartender skillfully filling a fistful of  beer steins. The story opens with Curley Callahan, a pretty, perky night club dancer, attending the Kid’s latest bout with a date. You can tell the date is stuffy and not her type because because the title describes him as being “from Fifth Avenue,” he’s got a little mustache, and he’s wearing a Homburg  hat. 

The Kid, supremely confident, enters the boxing ring wearing an elaborate black and white robe, chewing gum and laughing at the spectators’ catcalls. Seated at ringside near his corner, Curley enjoys herself by hurling wisecracks and abuse at him with the rest of the crowd.

“Hey, Beautiful!” she yells. “You’re gonna get yer face lifted!”

This continues as the fight begins, though she can’t help being  impressed by the Kids’s skill (and his looks). He hears her jibes, grins jauntily and turns back to his rival. It’s too bad this print of the film  is so awful; photographed by Arthur Edeson, the fight scenes are very well done.

Barthelmess must have trained seriously, and he was in the best shape of his life. Anyway, the Kid settles the bout in short  order, barely breathing hard, and smiles triumphantly at Curley. Their eyes meet for a long moment. As he leaves the ring, he leans down and says, “I want to see you outside.”

Curley convinces her date to wait by the gate to see the fighters come out. Clad in a shiny black leather coat, the KId walks straight up to her and they look into each others’ eyes again. Curley’s date tries to interfere.

“Who’s the john?” the Kid asks dismissively, wholly unconcerned that the guy is about a foot taller than he is.

Fortunately, a fracas breaks out in the crowd, and the Kid and Curley slip away from her escort. The Kid sees her home in his fancy car. When they stop to kiss on the stoop of her building, the Kid says,

Molly O’Day as Curley

“From now on, you’re my girl.”

“I’ll tell the world,” Curley replies (I always imagine she pronounces it “woild.” She’s that kind of girl.) 

Don’t these characters seem familiar? The ambitious boy and girl from “the neighborhood”? The street-smart, wisecracking pug? The forthright girl who gives as good as she gets? They could be — and would be — played by James Cagney and John Garfield, Ann Sheridan and Joan Blondell. This movie was a big success, a major production with expansive sets, location filming, and hundreds of extras. The script was adapted from a popular novel by journalist and writer Rupert Hughes (which is well worth seeking out, by the way). and Warner  Bros/First National paid close attention how and why it worked. These character prototypes were the foundation for Warner Bros. success as “the people’s studio” throughout the 1930s.

We see Curley and the Kid’s relationship evolve. He’s training hard for his next bout, and Curley makes a visit to gym, much to his manager’s disgust. The manager tends to agree with Rocky’s Mickey, played by Burgess Meredith, who said sourly,”Women weaken legs.” Puffy, the Kid’s chain smoking corner man, and Molasses, his sparring partner, take it philosophically. But Curley isn’t one to take smart remarks lying down, and she and the manager get into a slanging match, standing on either side of the Kid and shouting abuse at each other. The Kid, exasperated and deafened, strikes out with both gloved hands and knocks both of them out. He picks Curley up and carries her into the next room.

In an extremely sexy scene, the Kid sits and watches as Curley comes to. Then, with a serious face, he lays down the law. But as he attempts to be stern, she traces a finger along his muscular shoulder, bared by his training singlet. In a few moments his resistance goes up in smoke and they end up kissing passionately.

Momentous newspaper headlines start to scream — the Lusitania is sunk and the United States enters World War 1. But the Kid is completely uninterested,  just annoyed because the boxing news is pushed to the back pages. He’s been giving all his attention to his career for so long that he can’t give his attention to anything else. Soon flags and martial music are everywhere, and every other guy is in uniform.

Much to the Kid’s disgust, Curley willingly dances with any service members in the audience at  her club, including her former escort, “the john.”

The tension between them increases until they break up over it. The Kid becomes so distracted that he loses his next march. Nothing worse could happen to him.

Then he is drafted.

Next follows a very clever set piece, which I think connected with the audience and accounted in part for this movie’s popularity. The film was long enough to be shown with an intermission. The last scene in the first half is of the draftees arriving at boot camp; you see a crowd of young men milling around, still  in plain clothes, uncertain where to go or what to do.

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The second half opens with these same men in uniform, marching down a road in France, cheered on by admiring French villagers. Their ranks are orderly, their footsteps in unison, their helmets at a jaunty angle, their weapons shouldered with professional ease. They cross a bridge and wheel in perfect formation, wait for the order, and stand at ease. In 1927, no more needed to be said; the men in the audience knew how the hapless recruits had been formed into an effective fighting force, and it really resonated with an entire generation.

The Kid and his friend Puffy are still together in the same outfit. Puffy takes army life in stride, but the Kid is jumpy and tense. We see, though the Kid doesn’t, that Curley is there, too, running a rest and recreation center for the boys. Puffy spots her and lets the Kid know; unfortunately, her old beau, the stuck up “John.” is there, too. In fact, he’s the Kid’s commanding officer. The Kid furiously accuses her of coming to France just to be with her former beau. He starts a fight with some random guys, and he’s arrested and sent to the guardhouse. Fortunately — or unfortunately — a very big battle is anticipated, and the guardhouse prisoners are returned to their units.

This enormous battle scene was filmed in Washington State of all places, with the U.S. Army Camp Lewis, near Olympia, used as the setting for the soldiers basic training. A thousand soldiers from this camp, and others who were in the area for training maneuvers, as well as National Guardsmen from the area, were employed as extras. These included the Seventh Cavalry and the Fourth Infantry. Some of these men were in fact veterans, and some reported being disturbed by the realistic battle effects.

They are bombarded by tanks and artillery; the ground is torn up, strung with barbed wire, and riddled with trenches half filled with water and other substances best left unexamined. The Kid is terrified. He doesn’t understand this kind of fighting, and every minute threatens irreparable damage to the perfect body he worked all his life to achieve. Luckily Puffy is by his side, and knows how to encourage him. Settling down for the night in a dark, muddy trench, they lie down together in a rather touching scene, and catch some sleep until the day grows light enough for the fighting to resume.

The unit is ordered to take control of a key village but the Germans have established a machine gun nest atop a church tower, and can pick off successive waves of  troops. The ground is piled high with bodies.

Puffy proposes that they take out the machine gun nest, but seeing the Kid’s fear, he announces that he’ll go himself. When the Kid pulls himself together enough to go after him despite his terror,  Puffy is gone. After a frantic search, Puffy’s bullet riddled body slides back into the trench where the Kid has taken cover. He manages to speak a few words, but soon enough Puffy dies in the Kid’s arms.

In a burst of fury, the Kid forgets his fear and storms the tower. This occurs so often in fiction — I wonder, did it ever happen in real life? I think perhaps it did. Turning the pain of loss into anger, even if dangerous, might make it easier to bear. In any case, the Kid crawls through a field of bodies to try to take the tower’s forces out with a bag of grenades. He climbs the wrecked building hand over hand until he reaches a suitable height; then he hurls grenades through the broken windows into the site of the machine gun nest. He climbs partway down and stops to hurl the rest of the grenades into the lower floors held by German soldiers.

But the Kid accomplishes his mission at a cost, for as the building starts to crash down he is trapped by two enormous wooden beams. When he manages to struggle free, he falls two stories to the muddy ground.

Next we see the field hospital where Curley is working to prepare the incoming wounded for doctors examinations. Her first task is to clean the awful, gory mud from their faces and uniforms. (This hideous mixture of blood, dirt, water, and indescribable liquids that were the inevitable result of dead bodies being left where they fell for days and even weeks was one of the strongest memories returning veterans were tormented by.) Now, this is a famous scene in the book, and justifiably so, for author Rupert Hughes describes what a WW1 battlefield hospital was really like. Many, if not most people would have read it. Even then, in 1927, before any Production Code, this could not be recreated on film, because it described a scene of overwhelming horror, with piles of amputated limbs, corpses stacked in corners, and walls splashed with blood to shoulder height, all set to the screams and moans of the wounded. It is a stunningly written passage. The film makes do with showing stacks of mud-covered men on stretchers. You can easily imagine their cries of agony. The next stretcher is brought in and the nurses and orderlies cut the soldier’s gore soaked uniform from his inert body with practiced efficiency.

As Curley starts to wash the thick, bloody mud from the patient, she gradually recognizes the Kid, unconcious and apparently paralyzed. After one look, the triage doctor decides his case is hopeless and moves on to the next one. Curley begs for the Kid to be given a chance, and eventually the doctors agree to do what they can.

We next see the Kid sitting in a wheelchair, in uniform. Curley is with him. Apparently the war is over, and some ceremony is about to be performed before the soldiers are sent home.

A doctor has just told them that his paralysis is permanent; Curley says, “Don’t worry, honey; when we get home I’ll make enough money for both of us.”

Naturally, the Kid takes offense at that.

“Say, do I look like the kind of guy who’d let a dame keep him?”

Curley isn’t about to take this kind of backtalk,

“What makes you so hot? Put up you mitts if you don’t like it!”

Apparently neither one of them has lost their spunk; you can see them growing old together, trading barbs that thinly veil their mutual devotion.

She pushes his chair outside so they can witness the flag-raising ceremony. He says to Curley, “Salute for me, baby!”

She does so. And lo and behold, the emotion of the moment somehow enables the Kid to struggle to his feet, too.

Not only does this film provide a template for Warner Bros. successes throughout the 1930s, a whole swath of the plot was dropped into another great WW1 movie, The Fighting 69th, where James Cagney’s brash neighborhood wise guy finds himself terrified of modern weaponry until pushed into action by danger to his friends. And the basic elements would turn up again and again.

Barthelmess was nominated for an Academy Award for this along with another film released the same year, The Noose, which was how the Academy did things at first.

This film is available through various copyright-free film outlets. Unfortunately, as can be seen by the screenshots above, the circulating print is in terrible condition. It’s really too bad, as the great set-piece battle scenes were reputedly superb. It is rumored that there is one good print in the Library of Congress, but nothing is available for everyday viewers, which is really a shame. The book by Rupert Hughes was a huge best-seller, and so is not difficult to find at antique book sources. It is well worth reading, as it gives a first-hand and un-glorified look at America’s experience of World War 1.

A Neglected Classic Western: Three Godfathers, 1936

The 1936 version of Three Godfathers, which was based on a  1911 story by the popular and prolific Western writer Peter B. Kyne, is a forgotten classic. The 1949 version, directed by John Ford and starring John Wayne, is far better known; but frankly I feel that this version is actually superior in many ways.

This rarely shown film is not actually pre-code, but it might as well be; it’s more than gritty, and appears downright grim compared to 1949’s shiny Technicolor re=make. But it has the advantage of being truthful rather than sentimental. It’s realistic right from the start; Bob, Chester Morris’s slick bank-robber, is far more ruthless that Wayne’s roughly similar character. Lewis Stone, as Doc, an educated man who has fallen from a background of privilege to the life of an outlaw, has a deeply sardonic view of the situation, with underpinnings of shame and melancholy (this character has totally disappeared from the remake).

Lewis Stone as Doc

The third member of the gang, if you can call it that, is Gus, an illiterate petty criminal. played by the superb Walter Brennan. The fourth outlaw is known only as Pedro (Joseph Marievsky).As the story opens Bob is leading the others to his hometown, where he hasn’t visited in years, with the intention of robbing the bank. They successfully do just that, but in their escape Doc is wounded and Pedro killed.
The survivors make their way to a waterhole Bob knows of, but the water has become poisoned. And there they find a dead man, and a covered wagon containing the man’s wife, near death herself, and her newborn baby. And now we see what makes this such an unusual and compelling Western — the rest of the story is simply about the outlaws’ choices. The young mother dies, and the three lawless, violent men must choose whether or not to let her helpless infant die, too. And at first Bob insists that that’s exactly what they’ll do. The rest of the movie is the stark working out of this moral dilemma.
Everyone who is interested in Westerns and in how social questions are faced in films of different eras should check this version out — not to mention fans of Chester Morris, Lewis Stone, and Walter Brennan, fine actors all, and all of them playing roles that are out of the ordinary.

Walter Brennan, Lewis Stone, and Chester Morris