Now back to Marsinah’s father,
currently being dragged into the Wazir’s palace. And what an eyesore of Mysore
it is! Supposedly gouged out of the side
of a mountain, the interior’s a cacophony of mismatched shades, each
combination heading in the direction of clinical depression. I think they’re
going for a look of sinister luxury. But the Metro art department seems to have
consulted blueprints from some Roger Corman drive-in quickie. They’ve spent
more money than Corman – but to equally downmarket effect. Jagged walls are
constructed from what looks like papier mache and vulcanized rubber. You can
almost smell the unpleasant shades of bruise-purple and charcoal spewed all
over them. Wooden props have been given
a quick once over with gold spray paint, then strewn around willy-nilly. I
realize the Wazir’s meant to be a brute.
But even if we’re to assume his design sense is barely Neanderthal , one
expects the art department to express that with some sense of subversive fun.
This set’s just glum. And costumes for
the Wazir and his men needn’t have been quite so ugly. Accessories are haphazardly
chosen and applied. The top of the Wazir’s helmet erupts with a mini-fountain
of feather dusters. The resident executioner sports an inverted punch bowl on
his head. Red streamers shoot out sideways while fragments of black netting
droop below, the effect - at best - a sense of wilted festivity. The sheer trauma
of having to wear the thing in public might explain the look of lobotomized vacancy
on the actor’s face. I’ve read that Steve Reeves played this bit in the
Broadway version. If he was forced to wear a similar get-up, it’s no wonder the
man fled to Italy.
Prominent
among the Wazir’s goons are a couple of gangster movie vets. Mike Mazurki operates in his one Runyonesque key – thuggish
and vaguely punch-drunk. But Ted de
Corsia’s actor enough to handle the sandal and scimitar dialogue with flair,
even when announcing another defendant’s inability to appear, having broken
both legs “falling off a cushion while being questioned”. Haaj is charged with theft
and the trial promises to be short. When it comes to sentencing, the Wazir’s
default mode seems to be “off with his head”, although – in this case – it’s
amended to “off with his hands”. The poet’s understandably upset. And – as an
interested Dolores Gray peers from behind a
sort of golden cobweb – he leaps up to explain why this particular
punishment’s entirely too harsh. For a
storyteller, hands are essential tools of the trade. A story worth telling
needs gesticulation. And “Gesticulate” ‘s the name of the song he then hyper-delivers. Though based on Borodin themes, this one
sidesteps the romantic vein mined by the rest of the score. Staccato intensity and
rapid tempo changes are more the order of the day here. And Wright and Forrest dress
up the music with clever, tongue twisting lyrics.
Sample: “Should
Sche-her-a-za-dee
Undulate her body
That can be expressed if you just
Can be assessed if you just
She’ll be undressed if you
Ges-tic-u-late”
All to be accompanied by a jet-propelled display of hand
and body gestures. A significant challenge
for any performer. And Howard Keel
remembered “Gesticulate” as perhaps the single most difficult film number he
ever had to tackle. It took weeks of painstaking rehearsal to coordinate the complicated
vocals with the rapid-fire barrage of body language. But he carries it all off
sensationally; the man had panache.
The
Wazir, however, remains unimpressed and refuses to commute the sentence. And though Haaj rains curses down on his head,
signals for the deed to be done. Then all at once soldiers drag Jay C. Flippen
into the room. This is the bandit for whom our Haaj had earlier pretended to
reverse a curse. Said malediction had involved Flippen’s lost-since-babyhood
son. Haaj had promised a speedy reunion and since that didn’t happen, Flippen
roundly denounces the false magician. Until, that is, he spots a trinket dangling
round the Wazir’s neck.
“That amulet... where did you get it?", he cries
“This amulet’s been with me since childhood”.
Proof, it seems, that Flippen and the Wazir are father
and son.The promised reunion has happened.
And though the Wazir remains decidedly uninterested in
his new parent, he is impressed that
prisoner Haaj might indeed have genuine magic powers.
“We can use this man”, he mutters to Lalume, who answers
“Yes ... yes, I rather think so”, though the twinkle in her eye suggests
ulterior motives for sparing the
strapping, 6 foot 2 Keel. At which
point the caliph makes an out of the blue appearance to announce he’s found the
girl of his dreams and will marry no other. When Prince Lovestruck exits, the
Wazir goes into hysterics. This means there’ll be no Ababu marriage - so there
goes “all the gold ten camels will carry”. Lalume sees a solution that will
satisfy almost everyone. Convince the
poet to work for them. Using magic to prevent the caliph from wedding his
intended. The villain’s all ears. The three repair to Lalume’s private chamber
and greedy Wazir Cabot showers Haaj with promises of riches and high position. Then scurries off to find a suitably gaudy
crown for his new sorcerer in chief. As noted, this bargaining frenzy all takes
place in Lalume’s chamber, a restfully alluring space decorated top to bottom
in cool mint green. It’s the film’s most beguiling interior. Every wall, every knick-knack,
every stick of furniture, every nook and cranny is the same soothing color. A pleasant change from the interior decoration
nightmare down the hall. With the Wazir out of the room, Lalume and Haaj are
free to enjoy the erotic charges shooting back and forth between them. Each recognizes the other as a kindred spirit. Two clever adventurers caught in constricting
situations. Together they may be able to plot their way out of their problems.
And while they do, why not enjoy each other’s charms to the fullest? It’s clear
Gray's Lalume is in the mood to be pleasantly Keel-hauled. And she signals it
with a song. As it happens, it’s one of the
movie’s only completely non-Borodin numbers. It’s called “Bored”, an original
Wright and Forrest wrote just for the movie– and it’s lush. Gray and Keel are semi-snuggled
together on a wicker settee as she starts to sing, slowly winding herself round
him in one provocative pose after another, oozing seduction.
“Bored by the night and the day was I
Seldom gay was I
Till you”
As the camera circles, panther-like, around the pair, she
Julie Londons him into submission, though, truth be told, he’s hardly inclined
to resist. The song’s so good, such a neat fit with the rest of the score - and
Gray’s rendition sells it so powerfully that it’s no surprise “Bored” made it into
most future stage productions of the musical. A clear case of MGM’s “Kismet” actually improving
on the original Broadway show.
Song and tete-a-tete are rudely
interrupted when a blast from the caliph’s trumpeters alerts everyone to big doings
in the street below. The whole household rushes to the balcony, pretending to
marvel at the cardboard sets and dodgy
matte paintings that represent the outdoors. The eventual center of attention turns
out to be a long procession the caliph’s organized. It's headed toward Marsinah’s house. That moonrise meeting he
arranged earlier is actually an excuse to pop the question, then whisk her away into immediate matrimony. A no in front of all these witnesses might be
embarrassing. But he seems pretty confident. I guess caliphs don’t get turned
down that much.
The Wazir’s immediately in
freak-out mode. He demands that Haaj perform some magic to stop the caliph’s
wedding plans. It’s either that or a trip to the Room of 29 Fires. Thinking on
his feet, Keel begins to thunder out
incantations. Gray gets into the act with him. Drums begin to pound on the
soundtrack and soon Keel’s launched into the most turbulent version yet of
“Fate". Member after member of the court surrenders to the bogus spell, swaying
and chanting around him. The Ababu, all the ladies of the harem, the guards,
even Mike Mazurki. The whole scene builds into a cauldron of frenzied, swirling
activity. And under cover of this mayhem, Gray helps our man escape over the
wall. As the uncanny rhythms keep pounding, the Wazir suddenly notices that
Haaj is gone, Gray points skyward to a convenient bird flying past. Implication
being that our magician has changed form and soared away on his mystical
business.
In
the meantime, we return to the caliph’s procession. Which calls for a song - in
this case “Night of My Nights”, my personal favorite from the score. It’s based on
“Serenade” from Borodin’s “Petite Suite”. And for sheer, lilting exoticism this
one takes the cake, then lights it up
with a thousand and one candles. The original Borodin melody’s one of the great
classical ear-worms. Wright and Forrest
give it lyrics that pile image upon image, all carried via Spice Road caravan
to a place “where the rose and the jasmine mingle”
“Let peacocks and monkeys in purple adorning
Show her the way to my bridal chamber
Then get you gone till the morn of my mornings
After the night of my nights”
I’ve heard many versions of this song over the years. But
nothing – absolutely nothing – matches the
arrangement Conrad Salinger created for MGM’s
production. Orchestral waves sweep forward.
Urgent. Undulating. It's a musical marriage proposal no one could turn
down. Vic Damone never sounded better – which is saying something. And the
choral work is perfection. Especially the female voices, billowing like
acres of silk behind him. When Elmer Bernstein conducted an album of Conrad
Salinger’s MGM arrangements (in 1990), he had a vast amount of marvelous
material to choose from. The song he picked to lead off the album was “Night of
My Nights”. That’s how good it is.
Now the bad news. This wonderful
song, performed as part of a colorful parade sequence, was the perfect chance
for MGM’s “Kismet” to finally go for broke with the visuals. In an ideal world, it would have been shot at
night - and outdoors. Cameras weaving and darting to capture each shimmering
leg of the journey as it sweeps up and down hills and byways, people spilling
in from every side-street. All edited to mirror the sumptuous lilt of the
melody. Splashing out the unlimited resources of Hollywood and of a storybook
caliph bent on expressing his love to the limit. This is the number that
should have and could have made up for the picture’s other shortcomings.
But it’s not what we got.
It was apparently Minnelli’s idea
to have the procession pass by a pool so it could be reflected in water. A fine idea – and one that could have been
used to great effect once or twice during the sequence. For some reason, head
office suddenly got extra stingy about the budget. Do the whole thing with an eye on
cost-cutting. Or maybe scrap the scene entirely. As far as I can understand,
Tony Duquette offered to round up the necessary props himself and rent them to
the studio at bargain rates. Just so the sequence might happen. The top brass agreed.
But – though the costumes and props might have wowed with proper cinematography
and staging –that didn’t happen. The scene opens with a close-up of sparklers
(where we should have had fireworks). Then
a slow right to left procession across the screen. Yes, there are horses and monkeys. Plus fancy
costumes, pennants, plumes, tassels and tinsel. But most of the people wearing
them just trudge along chain gang style. There’s not a whiff of joy to
the whole thing. Reflecting it all staidly in a pool does little to help. “Night
of My Nights” plays gloriously on the soundtrack – but without visual payoff.
There’s no sense of progression, of climax, of mounting splendor. Each part of
the parade should top the one that preceded it. Instead it’s all just a slow
motion plod of sameness past a long, dull painted backdrop. Remember when Liz
Taylor made her jaw-dropping entry into Rome in “Cleopatra”? In comparison Vic
Damone sneaks into Baghdad on the 5 a.m. bus. I’m probably going too far. But with
the opportunities, the talent involved and the musical inspiration on hand, why,
oh, why did MGM choose to settle for
the merely presentable?
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