THREE JEKYLLS, THREE HYDES

New Zealand Listener, Volume 6, Issue 140, 27 February 1942, Page 14

THREE JEKYLLS, THREE HYDES

Screen Career of a Classic

HE screen career of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde could provide an interesting case-his-tory for a social historian of the future (or even of the present). In the various methods used to present Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic story in film form he would find a record of the growing sophistication of the cinema and its audiences. There have been at least three film versions (and possibly more) -one in 1920, starring John Barrymore; one in 1932, starring Frederic March; and now, in 1942, the Dr. Jekyll to end all Hydes, with Spencer Tracy as the luckless Harley Street physician who dabbled with the Unknown, thereby bringing upon himself a much worse fate than that of merely defying the B.M.A. Our social historian would find that, whereas the first film of those mentioned was almost wholly content to play upon the simple emotion of horror, the second, though still chiefly concerned to make us shudder, was also interested in making us think, while the third (the version just released) has gone almost exclu-

sively psychological. With his attendant complexes, neuroses, repressions, and inhibitions, Freud is now enthroned in place of Hecate. Even the theatre advertisements inform us that " the most fascinating film in years has got the whole

town examining its ‘sub-conscious.’" So, presumably, does this twentieth century grow up! * * % ‘THis new Dr. Jekyll is a most pretentious piece of work, befitting the traditional lavishness of M.G.M., an all-star cast, and the direction of Victor (Gone With the Wind) Fleming — but give me the more straightforward, 1932vintage version every time. March is the man for me, not Tracy. And this is not, I think, just a case of rosiness in retrospect, of remembered pleasures being sweeter than those just savoured. I am aware (though it is so long since I read it that my memory is open to correction) that Stevenson conceived his original tale less as a lurid shocker than as a parable of degeneration on the spiritual plane; but I shall still argue that, through the simple medium of the screen, the piece is best played for its sheer physical horror. Do we get horror here? Not, I submit, as we should. When the daring doctor swigs the fizzy brew which will bring out all the worst in him and transform him into the vile Mr. Hyde, we are treated to a most impressive display of montage shots and camera tricks which are supposed to symbolise all the frightful Freudian things that are happening to his soul (or maybe it’s his subconscious). Here’s a lily, and that’s for purity, but it gets swamped in primeval mud; and then the pure manifestation of the lily-like Lana Turner (who plays Dr. Jekyli’s innocent fiancée) is obscured by his lustful vision of Ingrid Bergman as the desirable barmaid (they both looked equally desirable to me). But hold, what is this-a lion rampant? And that, my dears, is to symbolise the Beast in Man. What now — is this an hourglass that I see before me? In case you don’t know, it’s supposed to represent Dr. Jekyll’s frustration. And here he is in a chariot whipping along a couple of scantily-clothed dames where the horses should be: and now you realise that he’s a sadist at heart. Finally, a whole welter of lilies, lions, luscious lasses, and mud. Well, I don’t know. It is interesting enough the first time, but apt to be boring as an encore. And of course it’s the whole point of the

story that Dr. Jekyll can’t let well alone; he has to go on swigging down his devil’s brew until at last his evil self gets the upper hand without scientific encouragement. And nearly every time it happens we get the full Freudian cycle and Victor Fleming’s ever-so-clever camera-work. Now Mr. March, he just gave us gasps and groans and throat-clutching writhings; and being a simple soul, I found them much more terrifying. And while I’m at it, let me say that I couldn’t get much of a kick out of Mr. Tracy in make-up addressing long discourses on sin to his other self in the mirror, nor hearing him cackling fiendish "hee, hee, hees" in the best style of the Old-Time Theaytre. * * = N their wisdom M.G.M. have decided that the purposes of publicity and the box-office can best be served by withholding the horrific spectacle of Spencer Tracy as Mr. Hyde until you have actually paid for your seat. Consequently, on their posters and "still" photographs only the benign countenance of Dr. Spencer Jekyll will be found. Nevertheless I am able (I might say at enormous trouble and expense, but actually it is by courtesy of Time) to present on this page the portraits of the three screen Hydes; and I do so because — though the’ reproduction is by no means perfect-I think they illustrate my point about horror taking a back seat to psychology. There’s John Barrymore looking like a cross between the Hunchback of Notre Dame and a toadstool; there’s Frederic March looking like an anthropoid ape; and there’s Spencer Tracy looking like — well, not unlike Spencer Tracy. His metamorphosis is more mental than physical; and while I take off my hat to the director and cameramen who have enabled him to change so miraculously before our very eyes, I couldn’t help wondering, for instance, why the barmaid didn’t immediately recognise her beloved doctor in the monster who was tormenting her. * Re * PEAKING of the barmaid, it was interesting to find that Ingrid Bergman, who hitherto has mostly played pure, (Continued on next page)

DR..JEKYLL. AND. MR. HYDE (Continued from previous page)

simple-minded maidens, had been given this picturesque part, whereas Lana Turner, who has specialised in being somewhat of a lass, had landed the role of Dr. Jekyll’s lily-souled fiancée. Interesting but not regrettable; for quite the best bit of acting in the film is Miss Bergman’s portrayal of the unfortunate girl whose physical allure plays such havoc with Dr. Jekyll’s libido, with the result that she finds herself in the clutches of the bestial Mr. Hyde. Miriam Hopkins did this part with Frederic. March, but here at least I prefer the new love to the old. Miss Bergman, in fact, is so attractive that one can hardly blame Dr. Jekyll for being tempted-or for having succumbed, for that matter. Anyway, isn’t the whole moral -a moral which has been a godsend to many a parson in search of a sermon — a trifle onesided? Poor Dr. Jekyll deservedly comes to grief for allowing his evil nature to get out in the daylight and go on the loose, but apart from one good scene at a dinner party when the presumptuous doctor arouses the indignation of a bunch of smug, strait-laced Victorians by the mere suggestion that they are all occasionally capable of naughty thoughts, there isn’t much criticism of the social hypocrisy which is as much responsible for producing Mr. Hyde as Dr. Jekyll’s chemicals. And it might even be argued that if Dr. Jekyll hadn’t been so deucedly high-minded when he said good-night to his little barmaid that first time, none of the subsequent trouble would have arisen. But then, of course, there’d have been no story for Stevenson to write or Hollywood to make three pictures about-though there would still have been plenty of material for sermons! * * Ea OWEVER, let me not myself be led astray by psychology from my argument that in a morality play like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the accent should be plainly on such simple emotions as fear and horror. Quite possibly you'll disagree with that, in which case you'll likely enjoy the film more than I did. Or you may think that there’s quite enough horror as it is. I must admit that, from the gasps and giggles all around me in the audience, a good many people were apparently having their money’s worth of sensations — particularly two sweet young things in the row just behind. So obviously were they impressed by all this evidence of latent wickedness in the male sex that I could hardly forbear to creep up behind them in the crowd as we went out and say " Boo, look out, I’m Mr. Hyde!" The inspiration of many a nightmare and many a sermon, "Dr, Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" was itself the product of a nightmare. The story goes that in 1886 R. L. Stevenson was very sick with tuberculosis and awoke one night from a particularly bad dream. "I was dreaming a fine bogy tale," he told his wife, and there and then he began sketching out the plot of Jekyll and Hyde. His dream took him only as far as the transformation scene, but within three days, despite his illness, Stevenson had finished the first draft of the story. Within three days more the whole novel was completed-a phenomenal average of 10,000 words a day. It was a best-seller from the moment of publication, became a classic of the stage, and subsequently a popular subject with Hollywood film producers.