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I recently touched a bit on how artists can showcase their talents if a filmmaker opts to step out of their comfort bubble, and how that artistic endeavor can showcase one’s skill set. The classical period of Hollywood filmmaking can best be described as a factory that churned out specialized workers for different roles, be it performers, writers, or directors. I say could because it’s not really the case at all, and once one looks beyond a handful of leading films, it’s an assertion that barely survives any scrutiny. Even the unsung journeymen were given the chance to try their hand at a plethora of genres of pictures. I believe the better or more interesting directors seized those opportunities. The notion that form and conventions of a genre (that much-hated term) can be adapted, used, or thrown away for the sake of creating art is the challenge I opportunistically think of. It’s not a difficult task to go through Robert Aldrich’s films and decide he was just a fashionable distributor of tough cynicism, and indeed I have been guilty of doing so in the past. I guess I would like to think that the years give us if not exactly wisdom at least a wider critical perspective.
In that regard, let us examine Autumn Leaves (1956) which at first glance seems an odd contribution from one of the best in the business.
The book starts with a scene of Millie’s daily life as she is currently working. She is typing scripts on a typewriter in her well-kept home. One may say it is a rather boring existence and unfulfilling work. If out of sheer compulsion, anyone labelled her life normal it would be wrong because it quite the opposite. Accepting two concert tickets from a client whom she had pleased in the past brings her a modicum of joy. This is even more so when she finally decides to take herself out. While listening to the music she starts picturing moments wherein she never had any self-identity due to her always catering to an invalid parent. Moreover, the world went into a standstill for her. But later on, towards the end of her journey, she comes across an average side restaurant that surprises her in that she has no reason to go there except to feel something. However, getting those tickets and succumbing to the basic urge of having dinner rather than returning to her dreary home are rather important events for her mundane life.
When the woman sits alone in her booth, listening to the song on the jukebox, the shadow of a smile appears on her face while she seems prim and composed. At this exact moment, another customer, hoping to get a table in the crowded restaurant, enters the scene. This is Burt Hanson, a youthful and loquacious man. Like many in the city, he too seems to be lost. We see the onset of sweet romance here that is indeed tentative. In many ways, this opening is predictable. However, it is in the second half where the tone and the direction shifts incredibly as a decidedly unpleasant past comes rushing into the soft present. The danger posed to the gentleness is what makes up for the subsequent drama that unfolds.
Some say that 1950s cinema has always been and will forever be a fascinating subject to explore. No one can forget the period’s technological advancements and innovations; they certainly impacted the industry in a positive way. However, what captures my attention the most is the thematic exploration that seems to be the trademark of this decade’s filmmaking. The 1950s was a post-war period that had a surface-level gloss, but there was so much more underneath that was obscure. This decade is particularly famous for the themes of renewal and rebirth, and quite a few movies openly embrace this idea. When it comes to Autumn Leaves, instead of basing my opinion on any arguments, I will simply state that I do not think reinvention is the appropriate term when trying to argue this movie’s theme. While Millie does indeed seem to have occupied the carer role for the entirety of her life, one can argue that the ending of this film portrays a future that is beyond her.
Burt stands out as the single most obvious candidate for reinvention. He picks up and brushes off various parts of his life with ease, crafting a reality that suits him best at any given moment. Naturally, the ensuing psychological breakdown, along with the healing journey out from the mental chasm he sinks into, becomes another cycle altogether.
What’s there to say about Aldrich, and does his work provoke cynicism? Yes and no. There is a particular view that considers Aldrich a cynic. This stems from his effort to step closer to grasping the actual truth behind veils of society. I’m not sure that is the case though; for one thing cynicism suggests a sourness, particularly on a personal level. Aldrich probably never strode down that road. What I see instead is someone who seems to be casting a more critical view of society’s institutional framework. His approach to it is somehow different from what I see as the Sirkian way of tackling socio-cultural problems: more blunt than Sirk, but not wholly devoid of critique. In stark contrast to Sirk’s glossy and idealized attempts to tackle a flawed society, Aldrich stripped away all but the essentials with Charles Lang’s shadowy noir lighting and tilted camera angles. These elements combine with the set design to underscore the scant choices available to his tormented and trapped characters.
Following the film ‘Mildred Pierce’ Joan Crawford was already reaching the peak of her career, and ‘Autumn Leaves’ was her very last film. While at her old age, she played Millie Wetherby, a strong character which perfectly fitted her life at that time. There is a greast deal of acceptance of the multitude of insecurities that come with growing older. There are little and big moments through out the film, some of those that stand out are the early interactions that occur at a restaurant, as well as some of the conversations with Ruth Donnelly. Cliff Robertson did an excellent job in the part of the highly troubled Burt, and is slowely falling apart. He does the character well and drops vague hints quite early on, only to pile on casual lies that reveal the expansive nature of the problems at hand.
Vera Miles and Lorne Greene are quite fine as the calculating ex-wife and the sinister father. Aldrich’s view of institutions is irreverent and, his perspective on a dysfunctional family is downright shocking. Miles’ transformation into a contemptuous, entitled ex-wife is spectacularly cruel but leaving that cigarette smoldering in the ashtray in Crawford’s Bungalow is a pretty good touch. And the rest of the cast stands out with Ruth portraying the overbearing head of the family and Greene excelling as the creepy patriarch. If the family shows the society’s foundation, the horrors underlying Burt’s domestic background offers as harsh criticism of the post-war American Dream as one could think of. In support, the aforementioned Ruth Donnelly is a joy every time she appears and there are small parts for Maxine Cooper (Velda from Kiss Me Deadly) and, as a gloriously jaded and world weary waitress, Marjorie Bennett.
Autumn Leaves appears to be one of Aldrich’s less celebrated movies, alongside the major works of his time. And while some might say it deserves less attention, I would firmly argue otherwise because it does everything right. And it special for one other reason, it does not shy away and tackles rather complicated problems with great ease. Instead of putting out his guarded form of dry cynical style, Aldrich crafts a potent narrative, that explores the destruction of certain institutional pillars with an unflinching focus Yet, that contradicts itself with optimism in his characters and their dreams. Last- but definitely not least, he paired it with an amazing theme song by Nat King Cole which goes:
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