About midway through Black Widow, I realized my eyes constantly fell upon Gene Tierney during her scenes. Even when Van Heflin or another actor delivered his pivotal and emotional speeches which would otherwise command attention, I found myself watching Tierney's quiet reactions. Sometimes her presence in a scene amounted to nothing more than subtle eye movement; nevertheless, I found her mesmerizing.
I state this observation not to draw attention to Tierney's performance (a fine actress, indeed, but she does not have much to do), rather, I mention this to criticize director Nunnally Johnson's utter incompetent frame. An artist controls his canvass through focal points; he commands the viewer's eye to journey through the image across a predetermined path. This sets up a visual rhythm, helps the audience take in and process the imagery, and motivates the viewer to continue, you know, viewing.
Johnson's frame, though, remains bland, flat, and uninteresting—a non-descript street where a parade of characters will march, deliver their lines, and rigidly move the plot along to a monotonous drum. Never does the camera linger on the sights or appreciate the visual aspect of the medium. Characters appear, they move around, and they talk. Oh, do they ever talk. They talk so much that Black Widow could transition to a radio drama with minimal altercations.
Some films, such as Blade Runner, are so visually spectacular one could mute all sound and let the images speak for themselves. With Black Widow, one could shut off the picture and lose absolutely nothing. Since Johnson failed to provide a frame worth looking at (much less a focal point), is it any wonder why the eyes might settle on Tierney even when she's just part of the background? I know, I know. Not all movies are equal, and not all movies are supposed to be Blade Runner caliber demonstrations of artistic virtuosity. The focus—nay, the entire point—of Black Widow is the plot. So, a young attractive writer (Peggy Ann Garner) moves into town and turns up dead in producer Peter Denver's (Heflin) apartment. In traditional Hitchcockian fashion, the innocent man must clear his name, get to the bottom of the accusations, all while avoiding the authorities.
This brings me back to Johnson's directing (and writing) where a lack of subtlety all but announces the killer, which proves fatal in the telling of a murder mystery. The deceased woman had a relationship with the husband of a famous Broadway actress. Well, there's a whole two men in the movie that fit that bill, and we know one did not do it. Now throw in ominous lines of dialog like, "no darling, I'd never cheat on you. You'd strangle me in my sleep." Is it a coincidence that the victim also died by nevermind.
Like all murder mysteries, the ending is a series of monologues explaining what may have happened and, ultimately, what did happen. And when the audience has pieced together the puzzle twenty minutes ago, it gets quite boring watching the characters play catch up. You just want to sit down next to Gene Tierney there in the background, chill out, and wait for the plot.
I state this observation not to draw attention to Tierney's performance (a fine actress, indeed, but she does not have much to do), rather, I mention this to criticize director Nunnally Johnson's utter incompetent frame. An artist controls his canvass through focal points; he commands the viewer's eye to journey through the image across a predetermined path. This sets up a visual rhythm, helps the audience take in and process the imagery, and motivates the viewer to continue, you know, viewing.
Johnson's frame, though, remains bland, flat, and uninteresting—a non-descript street where a parade of characters will march, deliver their lines, and rigidly move the plot along to a monotonous drum. Never does the camera linger on the sights or appreciate the visual aspect of the medium. Characters appear, they move around, and they talk. Oh, do they ever talk. They talk so much that Black Widow could transition to a radio drama with minimal altercations.
Some films, such as Blade Runner, are so visually spectacular one could mute all sound and let the images speak for themselves. With Black Widow, one could shut off the picture and lose absolutely nothing. Since Johnson failed to provide a frame worth looking at (much less a focal point), is it any wonder why the eyes might settle on Tierney even when she's just part of the background? I know, I know. Not all movies are equal, and not all movies are supposed to be Blade Runner caliber demonstrations of artistic virtuosity. The focus—nay, the entire point—of Black Widow is the plot. So, a young attractive writer (Peggy Ann Garner) moves into town and turns up dead in producer Peter Denver's (Heflin) apartment. In traditional Hitchcockian fashion, the innocent man must clear his name, get to the bottom of the accusations, all while avoiding the authorities.
This brings me back to Johnson's directing (and writing) where a lack of subtlety all but announces the killer, which proves fatal in the telling of a murder mystery. The deceased woman had a relationship with the husband of a famous Broadway actress. Well, there's a whole two men in the movie that fit that bill, and we know one did not do it. Now throw in ominous lines of dialog like, "no darling, I'd never cheat on you. You'd strangle me in my sleep." Is it a coincidence that the victim also died by nevermind.
Like all murder mysteries, the ending is a series of monologues explaining what may have happened and, ultimately, what did happen. And when the audience has pieced together the puzzle twenty minutes ago, it gets quite boring watching the characters play catch up. You just want to sit down next to Gene Tierney there in the background, chill out, and wait for the plot.