Susan H. Gives Great Phone
In the velvet and steel world of the 1961 film version of Fannie Hurst’s BACK STREET, strong women rule in a weak man’s world; controlling life and death and spiritual resurrections.
And, in the pantheon of great ladies of the cinema, no one—at least in my opinion—gives more kabuki on a telephone receiver than Susan Hayward. After a brilliant run with the great Douglas Sirk on three classics, MAGNIFICENT OBSESSION, ALL THIS AND HEAVEN TOO and IMITATION OF LIFE, producer Ross Hunter made his unsubtle decision to film Fannie Hurst’s popular novel. The two previous film adaptations had been popular favorites. This 1960 version is much, much more exploitative than its two predecessors. Wild in its period fashion sense and thick with the aroma of too much—the kind of 1960s gilded good taste that wreaks of a roomful of stale bouquets. And it works brilliantly! Most startlingly and unexpectedly in its resonant depiction of domestic violence and the effect it has on John Gavin’s character’s eldest son played by child actor Robert Eyer. The young man is heartbreakingly simple and honest in his response to both his adulterous dad and alcoholic mom.
SPOILER ALERT:
Close to the end of the film, we witness a harrowing scene in a hotel suite bathroom between Mr. Gavin and his wife played by the always great Vera Miles. I’d like to think that Miles and Gavin became fast friends during their partnering roles in Hitchcock’s PSYCHO. Their physical moves in this scene is a sight to behold—think Leigh and Brando in STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE. There’s such palpable danger in the way she writhes and strikes; slicing through her husband like steel, it would be a hard scene to shoot more than once.
And, in the film’s final moments...Well, you’ll just have to see for yourself. I’ve seen this film at least ten times now, most recently with a friend only two months ago. Any friend I’ve shown this to, inevitably and bewilderingly (at least to them) becomes a ball of wax before the credits crawl. It’s hard not to be swept away by the film’s total lack of irony. Mr. Hunter must have tired of Sirk’s thinly veiled satire and sock punches directed at American capitalism. Instead he chose to produce at his gayest extreme. The truest sense of camp is evidenced everywhere. Its too-transparent gloss and hyper-artificiality score deliriously. And, as I mentioned, Susan’s telephone hysterics are a wonder. Never strident, but always poised and oddly contained—she delivers at an almost operatic level.
And finally—sitting alone in her villa by the ocean among the detritus of her accumulated wealth and fame celebrity—a door tentatively opens and the challenge of a loaded new beginning makes itself apparent. She chooses to welcome it with the kind of gallant, adopted stoicism that makes this kind of all-too-apparent melodrama so blissfully moving. In spite of all its trappings—we’re trapped! We’re inexplicably stunned and surprised that we’ve been baited by this all too sweet scent of artificiality, and that it’s invaded and inhabited our own reality.
