Tag Archives: Claude Rains

Bette Davis and James Stephenson in ‘The Letter’

The Letter:  Original Poster

The Letter: Original Poster

“The Letter” (Warner Bros. 1940) is a truly fine picture, with several impeccable performances, especially by Bette Davis, who is at her best, and James Stephenson, a wonderful British actor with a vulpine countenance, who matches her performance brilliantly.

Bette Davis, James Stephenson:   'I don't want you to tell me anything but what is necessary to save your neck.'

Bette Davis, James Stephenson:
‘I don’t want you to tell me anything but what is necessary to save your neck.’

James Stephenson is worthy of special mention.  He came to acting late in life — he made his first picture when he was 48 — and died of a heart attack at the age of 52.  Like Claude Rains, he was often cast as suave villains, and like Rains, he tended to dominate any scene he appeared in.  William Wyler was so impressed with the authority of Stephenson’s screen presence that he fought hard to cast him in the important role of Howard Joyce, over the studio’s strong objections.  Once you’ve seen Stephenson as Joyce, it’s hard to imagine another actor bringing so much gravitas and pathos to the part.  Claude Rains himself might not have been quite so ideal, as he was rather too arresting a personality for the role.  Stephenson manages the almost impossible feat of playing an ordinary, plain-spoken, humorless man of high principles — without being dull or priggish.  (Alan Rickman manages the same trick in “Sense and Sensibility.”)  When he agrees to bend his own integrity to save the skin of a client, Stephenson, neither expressing his inner turmoil in words, nor telegraphing it with theatrical grimaces, conveys that the ethical shortcut he has taken on his client’s behalf has destroyed his own self-respect, and very possibly, ruined his life . . . and he knows it.  It’s a quiet performance, and is in no way showy, but it’s as remarkable a characterization as I’ve ever seen on film.  The picture belongs to Bette Davis, first, last and always, but the support she gets from James Stephenson is beyond all reckoning:  his performance makes her greatness possible.  Had he lived longer, he might well have become one of the greatest actors of the Studio Era in Hollywood.  So three cheers for James Stephenson . . . a penny for the old guy.

One of the Greats.

One of the Greats.

W. Somerset Maugham, who wrote the original story, is unquestionably my favorite second-rate author (I like John O’Hara as much or better than Maugham, but aside from the rubbish he wrote at the end of his career and a few mid-career missteps, I don’t consider him second-rate).  “The Letter” is one of Maugham’s best known short stories, but I think it’s far from his best work.  (“Mackintosh” and “The Book Bag,” both of which take place in the same part of the world, are the two I’d recommend as his best.)  The picture is far better than the story (except for the tacked on ending demanded by the Hays Office), in great part because Bette Davis actually makes the protagonist believably human, rather than Maugham’s enigmatic monster.  It is possibly the best performance Davis ever gave.  She’s wonderful in many other pictures, but this is the one that makes the most of her talent and technique.  (To be sure, “All About Eve” is also one of her best, but she’s so much like Margo Channing, that the demands on her interpretative skills were not nearly so great — nor was she called upon to do an accent.)

The opening sequence is a marvel of story-telling efficiency:  it’s made up of a pair of lengthy tracking shots, a nearly invisible wipe and a few cuts, which establish that we are on Rubber Plantation in Singapore.  It opens with the full moon:

Moon over Singapore

Moon over Singapore.

Then it cuts to shots that establish the exotic location — a rubber plantation in Singapore, where a crime is about to be committed  . . .

The Scene of the Crime

The Scene of the Crime.

. . . there’s a cut to liquid rubber dripping into buckets (all this time, Max Steiner’s ersatz Oriental music is toodling away, to reinforce the sense of the Mysterious East) . . . The camera pans down the length of a rubber tree, then begins, without a cut, to traverse the property in a remarkable, long tracking shot . . .

The Letter Shot 03

Rubber dripping from tree to bucket.

. . . we see the main house, where the plantation’s manager, Robert Crosbie (Herbert Marshall), lives with his wife, Leslie (Bette Davis).  The camera continues to travel . . .

The Crosbies' residence

The Crosbies’ residence.

. . . to the thatched, open warren where the Malaysian workers live.  One of them plays tune on a pipe, others sit up and gamble, others are asleep in their hammocks . . .   All is quiet.

The Coolies' hut.

A Malaysian musician and his comrades.

Suddenly we hear a report from a revolver.  A cockatoo in the foreground flies away in terror.  The camera glides — in no big hurry:  it’s a hot, muggy night — over to the main house.  There’s another report; a man, holding his belly, staggers out of the house onto the veranda, with a woman just behind him.  She fires a second shot.

Second gunshot, first sight of Bette Davis as Leslie Crosbie.

Second gunshot, first sight of Bette Davis as Leslie Crosbie.

Now we see that the woman is Bette Davis with a smoking gun in her hand.  She shoots again.  The camera cuts to sleeping dogs as they jump up.  Another cut to the Malaysians as they awaken and begin to make a hubbub.  The dogs begin to bark.  Cut back to the house, where the man staggers down the veranda steps and falls to the ground . . .

The man staggers and falls after the third gunshot.

The man staggers and falls after the third gunshot.

Once the man is down, Davis proceeds to empty the last three chambers into his back.

'And o'er [her] countenance, no shadow passed, nor motion . . . '

‘And o’er [her] countenance, no shadow passed, nor motion . . . ‘

When the gun is empty, she looks at the dead man and quietly drops the gun.

The end of the affair.

The End of the Affair.

More hubbub from the Malaysians, barking dogs, the moon goes behind a cloud, then comes out again.  Davis turns to look at it . . .

Full Moon and Empty Arms.

Full Moon and Empty Arms.

The “Head Boy” on the plantation runs up and looks at the dead man.  He cries in alarm, “That’s Mr Hammond!”

The Letter Thats Mr Hammond

Tetsu Komai as Head Boy: ‘That’s Mr Hammond!”

He looks at the empty revolver that she has dropped on the front step.

The murder weapon.

The murder weapon.

“Come inside,” Davis says without emotion and goes back into the house.

That’s the end of the first sequence — running time is approximately two minutes and forty seconds.  I can’t think of another picture that opens more impressively or conveys more information so smoothly and efficiently.

Davis as the murderess, Leslie Crosbie.

Scarlet Woman:  Davis as the murderess, Leslie Crosbie.

Color photography could not have improved this wonderful picture.  It is a shame, however, that there’s no way the audience can know that Leslie Crosbie was dressed in scarlet when she emptied one chamber into Geoff Hammond’s belly and five into his back.

In the following scenes, we learn from Leslie that she shot the blighter in self-defense:  he showed up at the house while her husband was away and tried to rape her.  Nobody doubts the truthfulness of her account, but her attorney, Howard Joyce (the remarkable James Stephenson) tells her that a man has been killed, and this is still a civilized country, so she must be imprisoned until the trial.  There is no doubt that she will be acquitted.

Stephenson, Davis, Herbert Marshall, Bruce Lester. Joyce:  'Well, you see, you're by the way of being under arrest now.' Leslie:  'Shall I be . . . imprisoned?'

Stephenson, Davis, Herbert Marshall, Bruce Lester.
Joyce: ‘I think you’re by way of being under arrest now.’
Leslie: ‘Shall I be . . . imprisoned?’

The entire picture is full of remarkably skillful writing, acting, directing and editing.  But one scene in particular deserves special attention:  it’s right in the middle of the picture — the interview between Leslie and Joyce, her lawyer.  It’s shot in a small room, with the door closed.  The scene lasts somewhere between seven and eight minutes.  The first four minutes of that scene are played in one continuous take; after that, aside from a few inserted close-ups, the rest of the scene is played in long takes, and always with both actors in the frame.  No editor had a hand in creating the timing and tension in that exchange — and a lot goes on in that scene:  there are many shifts in tempo and emotional states.  Nor is the camera static:  it moves around a lot — beautifully, never calls attention to itself, but just enough so that we’re always shown what we need to see — and all in that confined space.  Davis and Stephenson go at it hammer and tongs.  I consider that scene to be one of the high points of movie acting.  It’s not merely that the two actors are so excellently matched and so skillful, but Wyler lets them get on with it, and doesn’t rely on a lot of ping-pong match close-ups — the sort of hackwork that Vincent Sherman so often resorted to.

Davis, Stephenson.  "Strange that a man can live with a woman for ten years and not know the first thing about her.'

Davis, Stephenson. “Strange . . . that a man can live with a woman for ten years and not know the first thing about her.’

I could watch that picture every night for months on end and not get tired of it.  Except for Steiner’s intrusive score, I think it’s very nearly perfect, not excluding the skulking racist cartoon slant-eyed devils, which are of course deplorable, but so perfectly of their time, and so faithful to Maugham’s own mixture of fascination with, condescension of, and occasional revulsion to the peoples of the Mysterious East.

Mr Skeffington

Claude Rains as Mr Skeffington:  The patience of Job.

Claude Rains as Mr Skeffington: The patience of Job.

Why isn’t “Mr Skeffington” a better picture than it is?  Why is it one of the least satisfactory Bette Davis/Claude Rains pairings?  Davis was particularly fond of “Mr Skeffington.” It’s hard to tell why.  Her performance is a tour de force, as is Claude Rains’, so perhaps that was enough for her.  It’s enough for me, too, to a limited extent.  Yet, I can’t help disliking the picture for many reasons, the most important being that it could so easily have been so much better than it is.  The picture is a mess:  the story is interesting, individual scenes work well enough, and there are several fine performances. But it lacks the narrative momentum that was a hallmark of Warner Bros. pictures of that era — even the lousy ones.  At two and a half hours long, it’s almost a full hour longer than the average Warner Bros. picture of the mid-40s, but after sitting through it a number of times, I realize now that it’s not the running time that’s to blame:  it’s the direction by Vincent Sherman.

Judging from numerous Sherman interviews, and from the commentary tracks he did for DVD releases of his pictures, he was a thoroughly decent, hard-working, conscientious man.  According to him, Claude Rains not only liked working with him, but saw him socially at least twice a month.  That’s evidence enough for me to accept that he was in no way a martinet or an egomaniac, and that his colleagues respected and liked him.  But it’s not enough to make him a director worthy of Rains and Davis.

Sherman seems most to blame for what’s wrong with “Mr Skeffington.”  The suspicions I’ve long had about why the picture doesn’t work better are confirmed by the commentary track he supplied for the DVD.  When a scene doesn’t quite work, he’s honest about it — as, for instance, the scene after the society belle, Fanny Trellis (Davis), marries Wall Street magnate, Job Skeffington (Rains), for his money.  (On the DVD, it’s Chapter 10.)  Job is richer than Fanny (she and her deadbeat brother, Trippy, have run through the family fortune), but he’s from a poor background.  Fanny has social standing and breeding, but she lacks soul and heart . . . and the capacity to love.

Bette Davis, Claude Rains: Wedding Bell Blues

Bette Davis, Claude Rains: Wedding Bell Blues

On their wedding night, they take a boat ride round Manhattan; there’s a trio of musicians (violin, accordion, guitar) who stroll the deck; when they encounter a pair of newlyweds, they stop and serenade them.  Eventually, the strolling players cross the path of Skeffington and his new bride, take a brief look, shake their heads and move on.  On the commentary track, Sherman laments that the scene doesn’t quite work.  In a significant way, he’s right; in a significant way, he’s wrong.  He’s not specific about what he thinks is amiss, but he clearly believes that it’s either the actors or the writers or a combination of both that keep the scene from making its point.  He’s dead wrong:  the acting is meticulous, intelligent, heartbreaking, and in every way superb.  It could not be more brilliantly performed.  But the staging is terrible, and it makes the scene’s underlying purpose far too obvious.  Points are made with tools that sharpen, not with blunt objects.

So what’s wrong with it?  Sherman relies almost entirely on close-ups — the bluntest object in a director’s toolkit:  it allows us to see only one face at a time and severely impairs the sense of human, spontaneous interaction.  Here we have a scene performed by two consummate actors and Sherman denies them the opportunity to act the scene together, and to let us see the sparks fly.  Mind you, they’re both terrific:  their individual reactions are specific, interesting and well-performed.  It is clear that Fanny doesn’t love Job; it is clear that Job loves Fanny.  But we need to see them in the SAME shot to get the full sense of the poignancy of their mésalliance.  It’s yet another case of a director who underestimates the potency of great acting.  Claude Rains and Bette Davis together don’t need their performances to be spliced together in a cutting room:  put the camera in the right place and let them go at it.  This entire scene could have been done in a single shot and the effect would have been devastating.  As it is, the acting is so exceptional that even Sherman and his editor couldn’t entirely wreck it.  When I consider how William Wyler or John Huston would have staged and cut that scene, I can’t help resenting Vincent Sherman’s lack of imagination and sensitivity.

Here is the dialogue from that scene, accompanied by stills.  The cinematographer was Ernie Haller, who did his usual beautiful work.  But as you can see by these stills, the whole scene is done in close-ups rather than two shots.  The acting and writing in this scene are wonderful, in every way beyond reproach.  The individual shots are gorgeous.  But it’s a ping-pong match rather than an unhappy love mis-match.

Job:  [to deckhand, asking about the musicians] What’s going on?

Deckhand:  Oh, that’s Tony, Joe and Luigi serenading a couple just got married over in Joisey.  They go looking for them!

That's Tony, Joe and Luigi . . .

That’s Tony, Joe and Luigi . . .

[Musicians strike up “Here Comes the Bride.”]

Job:  How do they tell?

Deckhand:  I dunno, but they do.  You know, they ain’t messed up on a couple in over ten years.  Can ya beat dat?

[Skeffington returns to Fanny.]

Fanny:  Job . . . Could you tell they’d just been married?

Member of Wedding Party:  He’s a very lucky boy. [Happy couple stare into each other’s eyes]

Yer a very lucky boy!

He’s a very lucky boy!

Job:  I think I could.  The way she’s looking at him, you couldn’t miss it.

Fanny:  I see what you mean.  The way I’m looking at you.

I see what you mean.  The way I'm looking at you.

I see what you mean. The way I’m looking at you.

Job:  No.  Your look is cordial, not connubial.  I’ve married you, Fanny, but I haven’t won you.

No.  Your look is cordial.

No. Your look is cordial, not connubial.

Fanny:  [Shocked] Job!

Job:  No.  So far, I’ve merely taken you away from the others. . . .

So far, I've merely taken you away from the others.

So far, I’ve merely taken you away from the others.

Do you think that night two months ago, when I broke into your dinner party, do you think that was the first time I’d seen you?  No. . . .

Do you think that was the first time I'd seen you?  No.

Do you think that was the first time I’d seen you? No.

. . . I’d seen you many times before that.  Dining at Sherry’s, dancing at the Waldorf . . .  You never noticed me.  When I saw you in your home, on the night I came to see Trippy, you looked very beautiful . . . very unattainable.  That’s why I commissioned Howard Vanya to paint your portrait . . . At least I’d have that . . .

Fanny:  [Cheerfully] Well, now you have both!  The portrait and me.

Well, now you have both!

Well, now you have both!

Job:  What you mean is I own both.  It isn’t quite the same thing.

Fanny:  Do you know why I came to your office that day to sell you bazaar tickets?  Because I made up my mind, even then, that I was going to marry you.

Job:  [Nervous but hopeful] Why?

Fanny:  Because you’re good and kind, and your eyes are special . . . in a St. Bernard sort of way. . .

In a St. Bernard kind of way . . .

. . . in a St. Bernard sort of way . . .

And although I’ve never really seen you smile, I always have the feeling that you’re laughing at me.  And I find that attractive.  Besides the fact you’re very rich . . .

Besides the fact you're very rich . . .

Besides the fact you’re very rich . . .

Would you like to kiss me?

[There’s a long pause as Fanny goes through the ordeal of unpinning her veil and putting it up.  Skeffington looks on, as Tennyson put it, “His eyes full of that life-long hunger.”  Finally they kiss; she opens her eyes wide, mid-kiss and looks off into the distance, as if distracted.  Absently, she pushes a curl back into place.  Then she pulls away, gently.] 

Prelude to a Kiss.

Prelude to a Kiss.

This shot reminds me of Shakespeare's Sonnet 93: 'Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place.'

This shot reminds me of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 93: ‘Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place.’

Fanny:  [Brightly]  We’re about to be serenaded.

We're about to be serenaded.

We’re about to be serenaded.

[The musicians pause briefly, shake their heads and move along.]   This, apparently, wasn’t broad or bald enough to satisfy Sherman, who on the commentary track complains that the scene isn’t clear enough.  Jesus.  Just reading the dialogue and looking at the stills makes it more than clear enough, as far as I’m concerned.  Rains and Davis make the underlying problem even clearer:  we need no musicians shaking their heads scornfully to tell us this is not a match made in heaven.  But Vincent Sherman disagrees.  If he had it to do over again, I suppose he’d add a title card to explain what we’d just seen.

The newlyweds fail the acid test.

The newlyweds fail the acid test.

Ah, I haven’t the heart to go on with this analysis.  It’s too upsetting.  The acting is of such a high calibre, and the foolish direction is appalling.  Vincent Sherman, as I mentioned in an earlier post, is the same dude who thought  Miriam Hopkins stole “Old Acquaintance” from Bette Davis . . . I rest my case.

The Brothers Epstein, who wrote “Casablanca,” wrote “Mr Skeffington.”  There’s a lot of good dialogue in the picture, but one must put up with the incompetent direction to take it all in. Perhaps this is an exaggeration, but as far as I can remember I’ve never made it all the way through in a single sitting.  Every fifteen minutes or so, I throw up my hands and walk out of the room . . . as I am doing at this very moment.