Tuesday, September 26, 2017

KISMET 1955: PART 9 - PRINCES COME, PRINCES GO



                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.”
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”

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