What style! What dash! They don't come much better than this. In fact, they don't come at all anymore. It's a splendid genre picture from Warner Brothers when they were at the top of their game. No philosophy, no pretense, no artiness, just love and adventure and action. Except, come to think of it, the whole thing is an allegory. Instead of England standing against the ambitions of Spain's King Philip, it's really about Winston Churchill standing against the ambitions of Adolf Hitler. Not arty, maybe, but socially and politically responsible. That was always the chink in Warner Brothers' otherwise impeccably commercial armor.
The film cries out for color and for Olivia DeHavilland. Brenda Marshall as Flynn's love interest is beautiful in her own way but a bit stiff compared to the intelligent but palpably sensitive DeHavilland. Flynn himself had matured as an actor in the five years since his major debut in "Captain Blood." Peter Blood relied on his boyish enthusiasm and his dazzling, ever-present grin. Geoffrey Thorpe is less one of the gang than a commander here, though compassionate and accessible. He was a better fencer too. Henry Danielle as the heavy, Lord Wolfingham, comes across as a fop. His legs are skinny and his tonal contours those of a man not quite certain of his gender identity. He couldn't fence his way out of a paper bag so the climactic dual has lots of cutaway shots, shadows on palace walls, and obvious doubles. The acting honors really go to Claude Raines as the Spanish ambassador who manages to combine an obsequious manner that oozes insincerity with a genuine concern for his niece's (Marshall's) well-being. He's suave. He's debonair. He's dressed in black and wears ghoulish makeup. And Flora Robeson as Queen Elizabeth I (not the first time) must share in those honors. She informs the part of a dignified and dispassionate queen with a feminine quality that's almost seductive, although, as she says, she'll settle for the scepter rather than for love.
The film wouldn't be what it is without Eric Wolfgang Korngold's recklessly exuberant score, full of trumpet fanfares, bombast, and soaring strings. He even manages to insert a not-at-all-boring love ballad into the film that is simple, surprising, limpid and melodic. (I think he later used it in a more formal composition.) The score is sometimes criticized because, after all, men don't sing like an opera chorus -- "Strike for the shores of Dover," and whatnot -- when they're climbing the ratlines. But if you look closely you don't see any of the men singing on film. The chorus is built into the score. This, along with "Robin Hood", is arguably Korngold's best score. Maybe even his best work, even compared to his more ambitious classical pieces.
Michael Curtiz directed, as he had directed Flynn in several earlier movies. They weren't getting along too well. Curtiz was a demanding taskmaster and Flynn rarely took anything seriously enough to work hard at it. His career, for him, seemed to consist mainly of having fun. As part of a gag aimed at his buddy Allan Hale, he once had the makeup department build a prosthetic penis for him that was so over-sized that -- well, the gag had better not be described in a review subject to scrutiny by tots.
Anyway, enough. See the movie.
The film cries out for color and for Olivia DeHavilland. Brenda Marshall as Flynn's love interest is beautiful in her own way but a bit stiff compared to the intelligent but palpably sensitive DeHavilland. Flynn himself had matured as an actor in the five years since his major debut in "Captain Blood." Peter Blood relied on his boyish enthusiasm and his dazzling, ever-present grin. Geoffrey Thorpe is less one of the gang than a commander here, though compassionate and accessible. He was a better fencer too. Henry Danielle as the heavy, Lord Wolfingham, comes across as a fop. His legs are skinny and his tonal contours those of a man not quite certain of his gender identity. He couldn't fence his way out of a paper bag so the climactic dual has lots of cutaway shots, shadows on palace walls, and obvious doubles. The acting honors really go to Claude Raines as the Spanish ambassador who manages to combine an obsequious manner that oozes insincerity with a genuine concern for his niece's (Marshall's) well-being. He's suave. He's debonair. He's dressed in black and wears ghoulish makeup. And Flora Robeson as Queen Elizabeth I (not the first time) must share in those honors. She informs the part of a dignified and dispassionate queen with a feminine quality that's almost seductive, although, as she says, she'll settle for the scepter rather than for love.
The film wouldn't be what it is without Eric Wolfgang Korngold's recklessly exuberant score, full of trumpet fanfares, bombast, and soaring strings. He even manages to insert a not-at-all-boring love ballad into the film that is simple, surprising, limpid and melodic. (I think he later used it in a more formal composition.) The score is sometimes criticized because, after all, men don't sing like an opera chorus -- "Strike for the shores of Dover," and whatnot -- when they're climbing the ratlines. But if you look closely you don't see any of the men singing on film. The chorus is built into the score. This, along with "Robin Hood", is arguably Korngold's best score. Maybe even his best work, even compared to his more ambitious classical pieces.
Michael Curtiz directed, as he had directed Flynn in several earlier movies. They weren't getting along too well. Curtiz was a demanding taskmaster and Flynn rarely took anything seriously enough to work hard at it. His career, for him, seemed to consist mainly of having fun. As part of a gag aimed at his buddy Allan Hale, he once had the makeup department build a prosthetic penis for him that was so over-sized that -- well, the gag had better not be described in a review subject to scrutiny by tots.
Anyway, enough. See the movie.