"Cult Movies-No. 2" By Danny Peary A Dell Trade Paperback Excert: Pages, 111-114

The year 1947 was a peculiar year for movies. Particularly for lead actors. James Mason in Odd Man Out, Robert Mitchum in Out of the Past, Lawrence Tierney in Born to Kill, Henry Fonda in The Fugitive, and Gregory Peck in Duel in the Sun all lay dead or dying at the end of films. Charlie Chaplin, of all people, played a murderer bound for the gallows_in Monsieur Verdoux. And romantic idol Tyrone Power played a geek.

Actually, Power's Stan Carlisle, his memorable character in Nightmare Alley, the grimmest of forties melodramas, is a geek for only one day, taking up but a few minutes of screen time. We never even see him perform his repugnant carnival act, in which he bites the heads off live chickens and proba?bly performs unmentionable sidelights. But Carlisle's role in the rest of the film-he is an opportunistic, woman-using, blasphemous cad-was already enough to startle and repulse many of Power's fans. Power, arguably Hollywood's most handsome star, had become 20th's most popular actor by playing heroes not heels. In such image-making films as The Black Swan (1942), The Mark of Zorro (1940), and even Jesse James (1939), in which he was more a Robin Hood figure than an outlaw, he'd been the justice-seeking champion of the common people. But here he was trying to con them, take their money, and make fools of them. When Power had romanced lovely Linda Darnell in numerous films, he had been a touch brash, but he'd also been sincere, tender, and faithful-the ideal dream lover for Power's female admirers. But as Stan Carlisle, charmer with a Cheshire grin, he se?duces every woman who can help him get ahead in the world, and tosses them aside once he can no longer exploit them. The glorious swashbuckler had become a cheap, two-timing swindler. Always quite serious about his acting, Power had been disappointed in the previous roles given him at 20th, so he persuaded studio head Darryl F. Zanuck to give him the chance to play the despicable Stan Carlisle, hoping that such a role would open up new avenues for him. Unfortunately, perhaps Power's best film (it was his personal favorite) be?came one of his few flops at the box office.

In the 1940s, when film noir came into vogue and the darker frame became a haven for evil, corruptive forces, melodramas dropped the comical mix they'd had in the past and became blatantly pessimistic. But no picture of the era projected such a corrosive atmosphere as Nightmare Alley. Such nastiness and cynicism wouldn't appear elsewhere until Billy Wilder's Sunset Boulevard (1950) and The Big Carnival (1951). And such sleaziness wouldn't appear in another A picture for more than twenty years. For it's just as sleazy in the haunts of the successful and superrich as it is around carnival sideshows and in flea-infested hotel rooms. The mis?erable world we see mirrors the country's postwar malaise. The sorry people in this world are deeply depressed; lonely (Zeena lost her man, Mrs. Peabody her daughter, Ezra Grindle his lover, Carlisle his dog Chip); devoid of spirit; alcoholic; so desperate for entertainment that they'll pay to see carnival freaks and mind readers; has-beens or never-will-bes; poor with no hope of getting money or rich with no good use for the money; jealous and suspicious of their neighbors; and convinced that they've gotten a rotten deal in life. They're all vulnerable to any smooth-talking Pied Piper who offers them salvation. It's a sad world, where anyone (even Carlisle) who opens up to another person will invariably be taken advantage of and deprived of whatever is meaningful to him (money, pride, love). It's an awful world, where even the person who seems to be the most insensitive (Carlisle) meets and is crushed by someone who is worse (Lilith).

In Time (November 3, 1947) James Agee wrote:

Nightmare Alley would be unbearably brutal for general audiences if it were played for all the humor, cynicism and malign social observation that are implicit in it. It would be unbearably mawkish if it were played too solemnly. Scripter Jules Furthman and director Edmund Goulding have steered a middle course, now and then crudely but on the whole with tact, skill and power. They have seldom forgotten that the original novel they were adapting is essentially intelligent trash; and they have never forgotten that on the screen pretty exciting things can be made of trash.

Nightmare Alley has been criticized in various quarters for veering away from the most shocking (tasteless) aspects of William Lindsay Gresham's no-holds-barred novel, sweeten?ing the story, and opting for a "Hollywood ending," in which Molly's love (her face in the last scene has a heavenly glow) saves Carlisle's soul. Seymour Peck of PM complained, "Censorship being what it is, Fox couldn't have projected the full terror of Gresham's book. They are even, you might say, afraid to try." But considering that Nightmare Alley was made way back in 1947, by a major studio, as an A picture to star its top romantic lead, it's really quite amazing how daring it is. How many other pictures of the time had geeks, dipsomaniacs, premarital sex in which the woman doesn't become pregnant (there's a quick scene of Carlisle dressing after making love to Molly), and discussion of God?

The powerful script by Jules Furthman mixes the rise-and?fall promise of the same year's John Garfield boxing film, Body and Soul (1947), and thirties gangster movies, with the still-controversial alcoholism premise of The Lost Weekend (1945). (Plus it delves into psychiatry, then a gimmicky, controversial film subject.) Furthman, one of Hollywood's most celebrated screenwriters, seems also to have borrowed from Josef von Sternberg's Blonde Venus (1932), which he scripted. In that film, Marlene Dietrich, unfairly tossed out of her home by husband Herbert Marshall, degenerates from top nightclub performer to cheapest whore. She thinks her drop into purgatory is deserved-just as Carlisle thinks he is meant to be a geek. She, like Power's character, loses every?thing including her dignity. Blonde Venus has a wonderful ("Hollywood") ending in which Marshall takes Dietrich back?just as Molly welcomes Carlisle into her arms. Significantly, Dietrich is shown to be a loving wife and a loving mother to cute Dickie Moore at the beginning of Blonde Venus, some?one who only turns to a sinful life through an unfortunate set of circumstances. In other rise-and-fall films as well, the formula calls for the characters who will end up leading an immoral life to be shown sypathetically at the beginning. Nightmare Alley may compromise in some instances, but Furthman was brave in one way in particular: from the beginning Stan is a louse. That he spent his youth in an orphanage (where he was beaten black and blue) and a reform school, and that he once had a dog named Chip, does nothing to make us think kindly of him. He gives alcoholic Pete a bottle so he can pump him for information (accidentally killing him in the process); seduces Zeena so he can learn her mind-reading code and then two-times her; seduces naive Molly with no intention of marrying her. The nicest thing he does is bring Molly a Coke. Carlisle thinks of the people who come to the carnival as "yokels," chumps he can use as stepping stones (he also sees Pete, Zeena, Molly, Mrs. Peabody, and Ezra Grindle in this way) on his rise to "the top of the world." He predates Andy Griffith's folksy hoodwinker who wins over our nation in A Face in the Crowd (1957-only no one rescues Griffith from his descent into oblivion. Like Griffith, Carlisle comes to believe in his superiority and, mistakenly, his greatness (justifying in his own mind his defrauding the public); and in his immortality. Because he attempts to be a god, his fall brings him to the low point in human existence.

It is to Power's credit as an actor that when he plays the scene in which Carlisle proves that he truly loves Molly-his emotional good-bye to her at the train station, when he gives her all his money and kiss after heartfelt kiss-Carlisle is instantly so likable and sincere that we forgive him his past trespasses. It's important that we have this reaction or we'd not be willing to accept Carlisle's being saved from a life of geekdom a few minutes later. Power's performance is out?standing as he moves from gum-chewing, soda-drinking, T-shirted hot shot to cigarette-smoking, boozing, sharply?dressed conniver, to mad-eyed, drunken geek. It was a rare role for Power in that it is cerebral rather than physical. Gone is the boyishness that marked his early films. Instead we find a hardened cynical world-beater (paying back the world for his horrible upbringing). I can't imagine the younger Power having played such a chancy, bitter role. Or the fellow who was Zorro playing that hotel room scene in which newlyweds Carlisle and Molly worry about their future. When Molly offers to do Zeena's mind-reading code with him, Carlisle is suddenly ecstatic, and poor Molly is relieved he no longer seems sorry about their shotgun wedding. In my favorite moment in the film, Carlisle's head turns away from Molly and his eyes look into the bright future; he smiles victori?ously like a used car dealer who just thought of a surefire way to sell a lemon, and says, "I'm only sorry that I didn't think of it earlier." At this moment, Power makes you shiver.

Nightmare Alley is filled with other outstanding per?formances, from leads Joan Blondell (always underrated), Coleen Gray (a cross between Linda Darnell and Terry Moore, and one of my favorite minor stars), and particularly Helen Walker, whose final scene is dynamic (who would have expected such a vile, cold-blooded characterization from her?), to the supporting performers Taylor Holmes, Julia Dean (the kindly, demented old lady in 1944's Curse of the Cat People), and Ian Keith, who does a turn that reminds us he was a Shakespearean actor. The solid acting was to be suspected considering that Edmund Goulding was at the helm. Fine performances had been the hallmark of this often-overlooked director's career, which included such films as Grand Hotel (1932), Dark Victory (1939), The Old Maid (1939), The Great Lie (1941), The Constant Nymph (1943), Claudia (1943), and The Razor's Edge (1946), in which Power played a true mystic. But what is surprising about Nightmare Alley is how Goulding, working closely with cameraman Lee Garmes, turned the picture into an exercise in style. The noir photography is stunning, turning what is essentially a strong drama into a frightening horror film. All the sets, including the carnival and Grindle's cathedrallike garden are eerie and claustrophobic. Even Lilith's office has patterned shadows on the wall, mak?ing it just as uninviting as one of the hotel rooms where single-source lighting is employed. I was surprised to read that an enormous carnival was set up on ten acres of ground, because the way the film is shot made me suspect that all outdoor scenes were filmed on a huge soundstage. As the film's title would suggest, those scenes at the carnival have a surreal, nightmarish quality-it seems as if a character would have as much difficulty leaving the midway as he would escaping the hall of mirrors. It seems as if there are no exits-which is why I assumed the carnival tents were set up indoors. The carnival set seems even smaller, even more claustrophobic, because of the way the camera is employed. At one point, when Carlisle is following Pete around at night, the mobile camera winds its way around the curtain or side bar of a carnival platform, and twists downward around some stairs to find the actors behind the platform, as if it were a cobra slithering its way down a tree. Very little space is used. Interestingly, Goulding includes many shots of Carlisle's back. He is either sneaking away (i.e., from suspi?cion in Pete's death) or is in the midst of plotting some sneaky scam. We can't trust him. But these repeated shots also build up our realization that he is vulnerable. More important, they give us the impression that Carlisle (who when seated looks as if he could be praying) is, in his subconscious, suffering from guilt, self-hatred, and embarrass?ment. These are feelings he thinks he must hide. Carlisle would like to be tough and amoral-it would make things so much easier-but, alas, he has a conscience.

Mention should be made of how well Goulding uses music. In Kings of the Bs (Dutton, 1975), Clive T. Miller writes:

Perhaps most exciting of all is Cyril Mockridge's outstanding but unobtrusive music score, full of activity and eerie discomfort, with occasional undertones of terror. The music is used sparingly, at strategic points, and then as much ironically as dramatically. Notice the adept intimations of Stan's doom (mixed with the terrifying echo of the geek's screams); the ironic romanticism [violins play] when Stan resorts to the final words for getting Molly to go along with the Grindle ruse, the attestation of his love for her and utter reliance upon her; the drama and high irony when Grindle views the apparition and proclaims his own objectiveness (and the organ, playing beneath the words, swells).

Miller calls Nightmare Alley the "quintessential B movie spoiled by an A production." However, I believe that its continuing popularity is due to its uneasy mixture of A production values and B plot elements. And surely, this film wasn't spoiled. It truly stands out among Hollywood melodramas. It's too bad Nightmare Alley didn't do better with fans; then Tyrone Power might have tried something similar to Detour (1946) or some other sleazy B film, instead of returning quickly to respectability after only one gallant attempt to shake his hero image.