Our self-styled magician, having
escaped from the Wazir’s palace to avoid exposure as a charlatan, now considers
himself a wanted man. He rushes to find Marsinah, still waiting among her
petals and her peacocks. And frantically
pleads with her to flee with him – but the girl resists; she wants to keep that
potentially hot date with her “gardener”. But Haaj insists the police are
probably right on the trail – and when there’s a sudden knock at the front
door, the pair panic, bolting away into the night. Once they’re gone, we see
it’s not the police at all, but the caliph’s bridal pick- up and delivery
service.
As
they dart furtively through the bazaar, Haaj suddenly begins to hear what
everyone in the marketplace is talking about. Apparently when the caliph went
to gather his bride, she’d mysteriously vanished. Result: the royal wedding plans
are stymied. Haaj realizes the Wazir will interpret this development as one
more example of his magician’s powers. So he hands the girl all his gold, explaining
it will buy her a life of ease and security. For his part, he’ll go back to the
Wazir’s palace and reap the waiting rewards. Marsinah doesn’t like the plan at all. A return to the palace will inevitably expose
him to further danger; they should
escape together while they can.
But
Haaj sees this latest turn of events as a sign that Fate is on his side.
“Marsinah, when a man’s fortune is on the rise, he knows
it beyond logic...beyond reason”
Unable to convince her with mere words, he resorts to
song – in this case “The Olive Tree”.
It’s quite a stirring number - with a more concentrated blend
of pomp and stateliness than the show’s other songs. Based on music from Borodin’s
opera “Prince Igor”, the melody would make a wonderful alternate theme for “Lawrence
of Arabia”. It’s got that kind of exotic
Super Panavision sweep – and conveys, even without words, the sense of some
passionately charged emotional manifesto.
The lyrics are a steadily mounting celebration of either ambition
or hubris, take your pick.
“Why be content with an olive when you could have the
tree?
Why be content to be nothing when there’s nothing you couldn’t
be?
Why be contented with one olive tree when you could have
the whole olive grove?
Why be content with a grove when you could have the
world?”
The song expresses a call Haaj can’t resist and - tearfully - Marsinah lets him go.
Back at the palace the Wazir
actually does believe Haaj is behind the disappearance of the inconvenient bride. But
he plans not to reward the magician but to kill him. Leaving one less witness to his own
involvement in the scheme. Luckily, Lalume’s on hand to convince him otherwise - as usual, appealing to his greed.
“Imagine the power you are throwing away ... all Arabia
might be yours”
Cabot’s piglet eyes glimmer at the thought. And when Haaj
clambers over the palace wall and back into view, the Wazir is instantly in roll out the red carpet mode. All fawning accommodation, he even suggests Lalume introduce the poet to the pleasures of
the harem – and of Rahadlakhum.
“What’s Rahadlakhum?, asks Haaj.
And Lalume explains
“An ecstasy of taste – a delight that will steal your
brain away”
The explanation is about to get fuller because
“Rahadlakhum” is also the name of the next song on the menu. Lalume leads Haaj into the harem chambers,
decorated along the same oppressively subterranean lines as the Wazir’s throne
room. With the addition of some mildly
suggestive murals and a pool full of water an unsettling shade of algae
green. The room’s also fully stocked with harem-clad beauties. The Wazir’s wives plus a few guest princesses
contending for the caliph’s hand (including – of course – the Ababu).
The version of “Rahadlakhum” we
see in the movie is – for no good reason – truncated. Missing the first minute
or so that appear on the soundtrack album. That footage has been preserved, probably
because it appeared in the 50’s TV show “MGM Parade” where host George Murphy, in
smooth-talking snake oil salesman mode, tub-thumped for the studio’s latest
releases. The uncut “Rahadlkhum” sequence unspooled on the program –but, like
the TV show, only in black and white. That monochrome footage appears as an
extra on the “Kismet” Blu-ray. Aside from Gray’s assured musical intro, it also
gives us a more leisurely look around the set. Among the girls prominently on
view is dancer Barrie Chase, face a coolly composed flash-forward to Raquel
Welch. Several of Haaj’s former litter bearers can also be spotted, their
presence indicating both the fluidity and limitations of employment possibilities
for Baghdad’s (and Hollywood’s) pulchritudinous. We also have a chunky little
middle aged duenna-type on hand, stirring a pot of - you guessed it - Rahadlakhum,
described in the song as
“... sweet with the meat of the lychee nut, combined with
the kumquat rind,
The kind of confection to drive a man out of his
Mesopotamian mind”
The number’s fun, especially as delivered by the ever
engaging Gray. It’s actually another strictly Wright and Forrest creation. But a
thoroughly persuasive minor-key mix of ersatz Borodin and burlesque house. The song’s climax, scored with orgasmic,
timpani-laden fervour, finds Lalume beckoning a fully up- for- it Haaj back
into her private green room.
Feeling more secure in his
position, Haaj has sent for his daughter to join him. And when she arrives,
Dolores Gray greets her warmly, then leaves to arrange for “gowns and silks befitting
her station”. Alone with Haaj, Marsinah confesses her lingering misgivings.
When he brushes them aside, she finally admits she’s in love and despairs of
ever finding the man again. Considering the mere ten year difference in
their ages, Howard Keel really shines in
the moments when he has to show a tender fatherly regard . Good as Blyth is in
the part, it’s Keel who really gives their relationship texture,
showing a genuine gift for paternal
warmth. He initially dismisses her feelings as childish infatuation but when
she starts to cry, is immediately and believably concerned and nurturing. He asks what the young man looks like. And Blyth finds herself unable to describe him
in mere words. Which leads to another
song, this one considered by some the show’s crown jewel. It’s “And This is My
Beloved”, based on a theme from Borodin’s String Quartet No. 2. The lyrics try
to find images worthy of a newly adored.
“Strange spice from the south,
Honey through the comb sifting
Imagine these in one pair of eyes
And this is my beloved”
Words and melody are a lovely
match, the singers involved all first-rate. But there are problems with the
song’s presentation. Beyond even the lame backdrops, complete with painted
moon. These look like they belong in a touring stage production. And of course in a stage play, part of the
pact includes the audience’s willing suspension of disbelief when it comes to
depictions of the great outdoors. But when you watch an MGM musical, especially one
being sold as a spectacle, you don’t expect bargain basement production values.
People familiar with the original had additional reasons to grumble. In the
stage version, Marsinah and her father usually stand together onstage in one place,
caliph and Wazir in another - but bathed in separate spotlights, indicating the
two pairs are in different locations. Marsinah and her father sing their part, the
caliph and the Wazir theirs, then all
four join voices. Two duets creating a
sort of unwitting quartet. Done right,
it’s musically and visually complex and very effective. Lovers of the original
felt MGM dumbed the whole thing down. Keel sings some introductory lines, then Blyth continues, followed by a very awkward
cut to a different place, a different phony backdrop and a different painted
moon. Damone sings his part, then with the camera back on Blyth, their two voices unite – and it’s over. What’s offered as a complex quartet onstage - an exciting vocal high-wire act
with intertwining parts for Haaj, Marsinah, Caliph and Wazir - becomes onscreen
barely a trio. Reducing Haaj’s part and completely eliminating the Wazir’s. Sebastian
Cabot was no singer, but that’s irrelevant here. Because in the movie Damone
shares the scene with his adviser (Monty Woolley). Woolley had famously performed
a song once. But the droll talk-singing he’d used years before to introduce Cole
Porter’s” Miss Otis Regrets” clearly wouldn’t have worked in this nearly
operatic context. Dubbing? Maybe someone at Metro felt audiences wouldn’t
accept a fully trained voice emerging from Woolley. Did they simply think movie
audiences were too unsophisticated to handle the complications of interweaving
four part harmony? It does seem they could have found a better
solution. This was, after all, the famous Freed unit in action. The song’s
still beautiful; Blyth and Damone both
give it their considerable all. But – in the end - the number’s just not everything
it could have been.
Now the plot takes over with a
number of rapid developments. The caliph orders the Wazir to find his missing
bride. The Wazir tries distraction tactics, inviting him to peer through a two
way mirror into the harem; he hopes a
sneak peek at the Ababu will redirect the royal fancy. As kismet would have it,
Blyth is in the harem chamber at just that moment, being fitted for her new
outfit. Spotting her, the caliph jumps to the conclusion that his lady love is,
in fact, already one of the Wazir’s wives. To the upright prince, this makes
her ineligibile for marriage and he’s heartbroken. He orders the Wazir to bring
the other aspirants to his palace where, having promised his subjects a royal
wedding, he will choose another candidate. The Wazir assumes his magician has
somehow placed the girl in his harem. But still panicky, he has Marsinah
sedated, then enters into a quickie
marriage with the barely conscious girl, announcing plans to consummate the
thing later that night.
Now we’re at the caliph’s palace,
where the royal one’s scheduled to choose his bride. The Wazir’s installed
Haaj, newly resplendent in sapphire blue, as master of ceremonies. And we join
the caliph to watch the contending princesses pitch their wares. It’s all done to
a jacked up instrumental arrangement of
“Rahadlakhum”, choreographed by Jack Cole. And I find once you’re on board his distinctive choreographic train, it quickly becomes addictive. Princess Zubbediya
of Damascus does a wild bobcat shimmy in a golden cyclone of a dress. But her
best accessory is the stout, grinning little lady who acts as her attendant/shadow,
hilariously aping all milady’s moves with Jolson level enthusiasm. Then comes
Princess Samaris, supposedly from Bangalore, whose temple dancer get-up and
stunning staccato moves summon up images of Harryhausen’s yet to be created stop-motion Kali from "The Golden Voyage of Sinbad". Last but not least, the Ababu – never girls
to be outdone - ricochet around the room to loud blasts of big band style
brass. All the competing princesses project themselves – fierce and frantic –
into each other’s business, finally collapsing in poses of exhausted
aggression. It’s all too much for our mild-mannered caliph. He withdraws, this
alarming demonstration having beaten him - if not into submission - then
certainly into retreat.
A final
barrage of plot. The Wazir still has faith his magician will secure the Ababu
marriage. He only wonders how. And – as he chats with Haaj – reveals he
has the caliph’s beloved in his power and is forcing her into marriage. He’s
also proudly indifferent to the fact the girl has vowed to kill herself rather
than submit. When he casually mentions the girl’s named Marsinah, Haaj suddenly
twigs to the full nastiness of the situation. His own ambition has sealed his
daughter’s doom. He grabs for one of two
identical knives the Wazir wears on his belt, intending to kill the man. But
the Wazir, unalarmed, jumps to the conclusion that the knife’s part of
the magician’s next spell. Haaj suddenly conceives a plan. He scratches the
word Ababu on the blade, then tells the
Wazir to hide it in his boot. The scoundrel’s puzzled, but willing to go along
with whatever plan Haaj is hatching. Grabbing the Wazir’s other knife, Haaj
sweeps into the room where caliph and court are gathered. Standing before a
pool, he promises to perform a magical feat which will solve the bridal
conundrum to everyone’s satisfaction. He displays the unmarked blade, then throws it into the water. When recovered, he says, the blade will
contain the name of the prince’s future bride. But, for the spell to work, it
must be the Wazir who retrieves the blade. The wicked one, marked knife lodged securely in his boot,
thinks he’s figured out the plan and happily proceeds into the pool. “Give me
your foot,”, says Haaj. And the foolish villain complies. A quick move from
Haaj and the Wazir is submerged, writhing but unable to escape his fate. As Haaj holds the wriggling leg, he calls out
to the caliph.
“What judgment would you pass, oh king, if your love was
lost because of a lie spoken? What judgment upon the man who lied?"
Comes the answer, “I would order his death without delay
and without mercy!”
Replies Haaj, as the leg ceases movement, “I thank you for your verdict. It has been carried out.”
Replies Haaj, as the leg ceases movement, “I thank you for your verdict. It has been carried out.”
Pandemonium breaks out as everyone realizes the Wazir’s been
drowned in front of their eyes. Attendants dive in to pull him out. And Haaj races
to escape. A physician detects traces of life in the Wazir’s body. Then Haaj is
captured.
Final scene. Haaj has tried to explain his complicated
story to the disbelieving caliph. But then Lalume brings Marsinah (in a new outfit at last, but it’s
tomato-red and not that flattering). No deterrent, however, to the caliph. One look at Ann Blyth in any color is enough to convince him that Haaj’s story is
true. Lalume corroborates everything. The Wazir may have survived the pool but
he now faces a royally decreed death sentence.
Marsinah’s still trying to process everything. Gardener?
Caliph? Whatever. The two melt
into each other’s arms.
The Caliph’s now disposed to
reward his future father-in-law. Haaj, however, demands to be punished. Going
so far as to propose his own sentence. Banishment to a faraway oasis (which
happens to exactly match the lush description of a place Lalume had earlier extolled
when they were billing and cooing). There to spend the rest of his life
comforting the Wazir’s soon to be widow. The caliph happily acquiesces and Fate
pairs off the two couples once and for all.
Most big shows end with a
burst of musical fireworks. “Kismet” is
different. Marsinah and the Caliph,
their backs to us, quietly descend a stairway toward a pool, the one that
ill-starred wedding procession meandered past. And since this is MGM, it’s probably the
one Esther Williams swam in. Haaj watches from above, softly reflecting (in
song) on life’s eternal verities. This is “Sands of Time”, the refrain that
opens and closes the stage show. The
screen “Kismet” only uses it at the end, a move that robs the film of a nice bit
of internal balance. And even stretched across a Cinemascope screen,
those bogus back-drops still don’t create much of a visual crescendo. But the gentle song itself still works
beautifully – its lyrics and sentiments pure Arabian Nights perfection.
Princes come, princes go
An hour of pomp and show they know
Princes come
And over the sands
And over the sands of time they go
Wise men come
Ever promising the riddle of life to know
Wise men come
Ah, but over the sands, the silent sands of time they go
Lovers come, lovers go
And all that there is to know
Lovers know
Only lovers know”
