Anyone who has had to sit through lumbering dinosaurs like The Ten Commandments might find it unlikely, But Cecil B. DeMille has actually made some films which, if not exactly 'good', are interesting in very unexpected ways.
Take Reap The Wild Wind, for instance. In theory, it is traditional, reactionary fodder, a tale about the greatness of America and capitalism, as the booming narrater assures us, with a feisty heroine tamed by an upstanding representative of the law, and a weak man who's punished for his crime against right.
But in practice, it's like Moby Dick filmed by Powell and Von Sternberg. The sexual dynamics of the film are unheard of for such a big budget Hollywood blockbuster of the early 1940s. Paulette Goddard is a strong-willed salvage captain, bellowing orders, embracing danger, constantly throwing a spanner in the works of her macho admirers.
It's these two you've got to see - there aren't gooses this camp outside of a Carry On. John Wayne - oh yes, the Duke - in an amazing, self-deluding, performance, is supposed to be a ragged man of nature, but he's really a big girl, passive and confused, who's constantly outwitted, both intellectually and physically, by Ray Milland's supposedly foppish, gay-coded, lawyer. Hilariously, he dresses in black polo necks, with Village People caps, and the daintiest red cravat. I never saw such finery in a John Ford film.
Milland, while unexpectedly resourceful and tough, is impossible to take seriously as an action hero, with his frilly shirts, fey curls and elegant elocution. And don't get me started on Raymond Massey...
THe film is nominally one of those disaster movies, like San Francisco and The Hurricane, in which a rambling love story pads out a now antiquated special-effects-laden finale. But, thankfully, here it doesn't quite work - serious scenes of action and suspense seem to be shot parodically, and with an oddly comfortable homoerotic bristle; the startling use of colour and costume is disorientating. Dandy monkeys and talking dogs add to the surreal effect. The 'spectacular' squid finale, while bereft of tension (due to DeMille's ignorance of the basic laws of film) is a minefield of sexual innuendo. A remarkable film.
Take Reap The Wild Wind, for instance. In theory, it is traditional, reactionary fodder, a tale about the greatness of America and capitalism, as the booming narrater assures us, with a feisty heroine tamed by an upstanding representative of the law, and a weak man who's punished for his crime against right.
But in practice, it's like Moby Dick filmed by Powell and Von Sternberg. The sexual dynamics of the film are unheard of for such a big budget Hollywood blockbuster of the early 1940s. Paulette Goddard is a strong-willed salvage captain, bellowing orders, embracing danger, constantly throwing a spanner in the works of her macho admirers.
It's these two you've got to see - there aren't gooses this camp outside of a Carry On. John Wayne - oh yes, the Duke - in an amazing, self-deluding, performance, is supposed to be a ragged man of nature, but he's really a big girl, passive and confused, who's constantly outwitted, both intellectually and physically, by Ray Milland's supposedly foppish, gay-coded, lawyer. Hilariously, he dresses in black polo necks, with Village People caps, and the daintiest red cravat. I never saw such finery in a John Ford film.
Milland, while unexpectedly resourceful and tough, is impossible to take seriously as an action hero, with his frilly shirts, fey curls and elegant elocution. And don't get me started on Raymond Massey...
THe film is nominally one of those disaster movies, like San Francisco and The Hurricane, in which a rambling love story pads out a now antiquated special-effects-laden finale. But, thankfully, here it doesn't quite work - serious scenes of action and suspense seem to be shot parodically, and with an oddly comfortable homoerotic bristle; the startling use of colour and costume is disorientating. Dandy monkeys and talking dogs add to the surreal effect. The 'spectacular' squid finale, while bereft of tension (due to DeMille's ignorance of the basic laws of film) is a minefield of sexual innuendo. A remarkable film.