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The overture announces the transmutation, Renaissance engraving to theatrical tableau to cinematic frame. "On, lusty gentlemen!" Verona, MGM like Lubitsch's "Paris, Paramount," an Italianate luxuriance for the middle-aged take on adolescent ardor. Norma Shearer's Juliet is introduced feeding a doe like a Disney princess, Leslie Howard's Romeo ponders life amid sheep and ruins, an accelerated version of the forlorn philosopher from The Petrified Forest. Their infatuated glances at the Capulet feast throw off the choreography of an Agnes de Mille dance, Tybalt (Basil Rathbone) seethes from the sidelines while Mercutio (John Barrymore) breezes through masks and jibes. "My only love sprung from my only hate," a realization that dims the screen as torches are put out one by one down a corridor. The balcony scene abounds in nocturnal silver, the elephantine set calls for a ladder. "Does thou not laugh?" "No, coz, I rather weep." An Irving Thalberg film seconded by George Cukor, thus the tug between glazed prestige and quicksilver earthiness. Barrymore plays on the high wire, rolling the r's on "prick," goosing Edna May Oliver's vaudeville Nurse, lingering on the bloodstain on his tights after a duel. Rapid dissolves (starry sky, flowing stream, garden at sunrise) state the consummation, Juliet's contemplation of the Friar's elixir in her darkened chamber is an extended, tremulous take from medium shot to close-up and back. Welles in Othello revises the procession to the crypt, Dreyer in Ordet recalls life returning to the hands of the white-swathed lass. "These violent delights have violent ends," with consequences for Carné and Olivier. With Reginald Denny, C. Aubrey Smith, Andy Devine, Henry Kolker, Ralph Forbes, Violet Kemble-Cooper, and Robert Warwick. In black and white.
--- Fernando F. Croce |