John Huston's "THE TREASURE OF THE SIERRA MADRE" - Review By Greg Klymkiw

Life's given Fred C. Dobbs (Humphrey Bogart) more than his fair share of hard knocks, but he’s not going to accept a fair share of anything, anymore. John Huston's great picture of B. Traven's book, "The Treasure of the Sierra Madre" gets better with every viewing.

The Treasure
of the Sierra Madre

(1948) dir. John Huston *****

Starring:
Humphrey Bogart,
Walter Huston, Tim Holt,
Bruce Bennett, Alfonso Bedoya,
Barton MacLane, Robert Blake
and John Huston

Review By Greg Klymkiw

"The creative person should have no other biography than his works." - B. Traven


I have always believed that the best movies are made by filmmakers – more often than not – who infuse their work with a combination of life experience, style and craft. While good, if not great movies can be made with one or two of the aforementioned elements, the stuff that stays with you and, in fact, lives well beyond the mere ephemeral is endowed with all three.

When great lives yield great works of literature, the next logical step is for great filmmakers to fashion great movies based on said works. It doesn't always pan out, but some filmmakers have a golden touch with screen adaptations.

John Huston lived a great life and made his fair share of great movies. The notion of great lives translating into great art was something he probably believed in more passionately and abundantly than most other American filmmakers. In fact, he held onto this belief until his final breath.

John Huston's life was bursting with the sort of adventure most of us only dream of. In addition to working as a screenwriter, playwright, actor and film/theatre director, Huston enjoyed a life that included light-middleweight boxing, journalism and, remarkably, a stint as a soldier in the Mexican cavalry.

As a film director, Huston often used a film’s production as an excuse to engage in exploits of the grandest variety. Peter Viertel, the un-credited scenarist of The African Queen wrote the terrific fact-based novel (later made by Clint Eastwood as the movie White Hunter Black Heart) which detailed Huston’s insistence upon shooting on location in the Congo, just so he could participate in an elephant safari.

With an enlarged heart and kidney disease in his early life and suffering from an aneurysm in later years, Huston never let these ailments stop him. He even steadfastly fought a battle with emphysema to keep alive in his last weeks on Earth to render one of his greatest films, The Dead, based upon James Joyce's exquisite story from the book "Dubliners.”

The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, Huston’s classic film from 1948 is based on the magnificent novel by the mysterious B. Traven. Without question, one the great movies of all time, it owes much to its source material.

Traven, unlike the very public Huston, lived his life in almost complete anonymity, writing primarily about the "working man", the downtrodden and, in general, the disenfranchised. His books, often of the two-fisted variety, are endowed with observations on human behaviour that are so brimming with the stuff of life, that it is, in spite of the aforementioned quotation, a bit of a shame that the author chose a life free of the public scrutiny that most other writers chose and/or endured.

Other than a few pungent quotations, Traven did not leave a body of observations, ideas and thoughts beyond his work. Granted, the work spoke volumes, but Traven was, no doubt, an incredible human being who lived the sort of high adventure life that someone like Ernest Hemingway experienced. What little is known about Traven ultimately suggests that his work is, at the very least, semi-autobiographical.

Few credible sources can claim to have known Traven – not even his publishers had ever met him face-to-face. That said, it is highly conceivable that Huston and Traven, who engaged primarily through correspondence, did actually meet. Traven was scheduled to visit the set, but in his place, sent a mysterious figure with written authorization from Traven that this individual had power-of-attorney to represent Traven’s interests. He then proceeded to spend a good deal of time on location.

It’s widely believed this man was, indeed, Traven himself. If he privately revealed himself to Huston, the great director never betrayed this confidence. Huston, given the sort of stories he loved to tell as a filmmaker believed in the fellowship of men, and in particular, honour above all.

The Treasure of the Sierra Madre is one of the great motion pictures about greed and as such, honour does indeed play a huge role in the proceedings.

Set in a small Mexican town during the mid 1920s, we’re introduced to Fred C. Dobbs (Humphrey Bogart), an itinerant down-on-his-luck labourer who is living off handouts, and in particular, more than one spare piece of change from a wealthy fellow American (played by a dapper and un-credited John Huston himself). When Dobbs encounters an amiable oilman and fellow countryman Barton MacLane (Pat McCormick), he and Curtin (Tim Holt), another downtrodden American, are hired as labourers on an oil-drilling rig.

After the backbreaking work, MacLane disappears and the two men are still penniless. Spending the night in a flophouse, they make the acquaintance of Howard (John Huston’s father Walter in his great Oscar-winning performance), a crusty, old prospector who fills the men’s heads with talk of gold - how with a modest stake and considerable elbow grease, a fortune can be found. Howard also declares that few people - especially honest working stiffs - can ever hope to keep their fortune since gold fever, once it sets in deeply, can instil both greed and insanity in even the best of men.

Though the tale has been plenty compelling to this point, it’s here that things get really interesting. One of the amazing things about the film is how our central protagonist quickly becomes an anti-hero and by a certain point, Fred C Dobbs becomes one of the most miserable, petty and reprehensible leading characters in film history. It takes a star of the highest order; one who is as great an actor as Humphrey Bogart to pull this off. (A recent example of this is Daniel Day Lewis in P. T. Anderson’s There Will Be Blood.)

Dobbs insists he’d never fall prey to such greed. Having recently scored a local numbers-racket lottery (he's sold a ticket by a grubby little boy played by future wife-killer Robert Blake), he even offers to add stake money to a gold prospecting expedition without recompense. It is, however, a steely obsessive look in Bogey’s eyes that betray his proclamations of generosity and goodwill. Even at this early stage we’re convinced that the contradiction of these assertions seem likely.

This, of course, is what makes the picture a fine example of storytelling. We’re sure from the outset that our hero will fall prey to greed, yet we’re rooting for him NOT to. And even when the worst happens and our hopes become so much dust in the wind, we're still hanging on to whatever wisp of the character's humanity that clings to him - praying that Bogey's going to turn around, but knowing all the while it's never going to happen. When Dobbs crosses an unmentionable line of foul behaviour much later in the film, he can only go down further than Hell itself.

Bogart is so great in this picture. He infuses the role with such personality – the tough, downtrodden workingman who just wants to score a fair buck for his labours that we’re also pulling for him.

After the night in the flophouse, Dobbs spies his erstwhile boss Barton MacLane. He demands his pay and when it’s clear he won’t get it, he beats the unscrupulous exploiter to a pulp (the brutality of this is still shocking). That said, when he retrieves the wad of cash from the unconscious profiteer, he takes only the amount owed to himself and Curtin and when he offers the bar owner recompense for damages, he takes it out of his share of the dough.

The actions after he beats Barton don’t seem like the actions of someone who will turn gold crazy against his partners - men who become the closest thing he has to friends. Again though, it is a combination of storytelling brilliance and Bogart’s extraordinary performance that leads us to believe that all will not be right. Bogart infuses the beating with such cool, nasty precision that he’s clearly not a simple working stiff with a clearly defined moral code – he’s a mean, two-fisted bastard. When push comes to shove, he doesn't just shove back, he'll cold-cock his opponent across the face with a two-by-four.

Yes, life’s given Dobbs more than his fair share of hard knocks, but he’s not going to accept a fair share of anything.

From here on in, working from his screenplay adaptation of Traven’s novel, Huston ups the ante. The following ensues with all the power and excitement one wants from such a tale;

- A thrilling gun battle from the train between our three prospectors and a group of bloodthirsty Mexican bandits (led by the grinning psychotically amiable Gold Hat and brilliantly played by Alfonso Bedaya),

- An arduous journey,

- The painstaking building of a mine,

- The retrieval of a fortune in gold dust,

- The growing paranoia and mistrust amongst the partners (especially the increasingly crazed Dobbs),

- The appearance of an interloper wanting a cut of the mine,

- The contemplation of cold-blooded murder (not once, but twice).

- Another thrilling gun battle with Gold Hat and his bandits,

- More paranoia,

- More violence,

- And last, but not least one of the greatest surprise endings in movie history and, for good measure – peace, hope and redemption - though not for one and all.

Treasure of the Sierra Madre simply cannot be beat as pure motion entertainment with heart, soul and a cornucopia of food for thought. Few American films deserve to share breathing space with it.

The picture is so great, I'm compelled to wonder: Where are our John Hustons, B. Travens and Humphrey Bogarts? Will we again see a time when our film artists will live great lives, write great stories and mount them for all eternity on the silver screen? Sure, there are a few out there still living, but they’re getting old. Who will take their places? Who will dazzle us with movies that will live for all time - movies that are the stuff of their own great lives?

"Treasure of the Sierra Madre" is available on Blu-Ray from Warner Home Entertainment. It’s jam packed with a whole mess of terrific extras. Oddly, while I cannot fault the pristine transfer to HD, I was occasionally disconcerted by a look that seemed untrue to the spirit of the picture. I find this happening more and with Blu-Ray and old classics. The transfers are great, but the fact remains that film negative was never designed for such close scrutiny and transfer – it was meant to stay as celluloid, be projected through light and thrown onto a huge screen. On occasion, a transfer manages (often by mistake and/or laziness and/or cheapness) to be more "cinematic". It’s not often enough, frankly, but if Blu-Ray transfers of classics in any form gets new generations thrilling to the material, I suppose that’s enough and the rest of us aging movie geeks can just shut up.

THE DEAD - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Set on the day after the 12th Day of Christmas, the Feast of the Epiphany, legendary director John Huston's final film is the ultimate Christmas Movie. Assemble those you hold dear. Rejoice in this exquisite, profoundly moving film.

A CINEMATIC 12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS, EASTERN-RITE NATIVITY AND FEAST OF THE EPIPHANY: Join me in this special celebration of cinema as each day I will be publishing a review in honour of this season of good will and focusing on films and filmmakers who have made a contribution to both the human spirit and the art of film.

For the FIRST DAY OF CHRISTMAS, Klymkiw Film Corner gives to you…

The Dead (1987) dir. John Huston
Starring: Anjelica Huston, Donal McCann, Donal Donnelly, Dan O'Herlihy, Marie Keane, Helena Carroll, Cathleen Delany and Frank Patterson

*****

By Greg Klymkiw

There aren't many perfect movies in this world, but I can say without question or hesitation that John Huston's final picture, an exquisitely wrought adaptation of James Joyce's equally flawless short story The Dead, is the very quintessence of perfection on film. Even now, I can recall my first viewing of it in 1987 - sitting alone in my seat as the end titles rolled in the dark, my body drained of energy from the unbridled sobs the picture wrenched from deep within my very being. The final twenty minutes were ultimately responsible for turning me into a quivering mass of roiling Jello, but even that would have been nigh impossible if everything that preceded the profoundly moving conclusion hadn't steadily, gorgeously and delicately built to this sequence that in and of itself is so inextricably linked to every frame of the picture.

Such is the case with Joyce's story - which, on the page can barely feel like anything is happening at all and yet, every word, every sentence, every beat of the subtle drama compels you and draws you further into that moment when the central character Gabriel Conroy (Donal McCann) reveals his innermost thoughts to us and in voice-over declares:

"Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age."

And so it goes with Huston's perfect adaptation of Joyce's story. The story unfolds ever-so slowly - so much so that you might wonder if there even is one. But you'll ponder this thought only briefly since you'll be taking in every detail, every nuance, every gesture with rapt attention and, I might add, delight.

Dubliners is the name of Joyce's great book that works, on one level, as a collection or cycle of short stories focusing upon a series of characters connected only by the city in which they reside and the individual journeys that lead to a substantial state of self-awareness, or perhaps, more aptly, an epiphany. Given the book's structure, some consider it a novel, not unlike Sherwood Anderson's great book Winesburg, Ohio wherein the central character is a place, the individual stories are chapters and the narrative arc of the stories as a whole comes, not only from their arrangement, but by how the reader is taken on a literary journey with those who reside in that place - a literary journey that has an epic quality to it; albeit an epic of intimacy.

The Dead provides the climax and conclusion to Dubliners, in which the self awareness gained over the course of our journey through Dublin boils down to realizing that a life, no matter how long or short, must be measured by the level of passion to which that life has been lived.

The tale begins at the annual dinner party hosted by the elderly Morkan sisters - Kate (Helena Carroll) and Julia (Cathleen Delany) - and their niece Mary Jane (Ingrid Craigie). It is the Feast of the Epiphany, the final day of the twelve days of Christmas in Western Christian tradition where the devout (and even not-so-devout) celebrate the adoration of the Magi (the Three Wise Men) as they first lay eyes upon the Baby Jesus. In Eastern Rite tradition, it is the baptism of Christ that is the event celebrated. Neither of these would have been lost on Joyce, and certainly not on director John Huston - in both the story and film, we are witness to both adoration and baptism - certainly in a metaphorical, if not literal sense.

The warmth of the Morkan house is fuelled by the anticipation within the Morkan sisters of their guests and in particular, the Conroys - Gabriel and his wife Gretta (Anjelica Huston). In the beginning, there is much tut-tutting about the eventual arrival of Freddy Malins (Donal Donnely) and his Mother (Marie Keans). Freddy, it seems, is a bit of a tippler and there is an implication how much his poor, dear Mother has suffered over this. The reality is that Freddy is a rather delightful drunk, but his Mother, hardly suffering, seems so overbearingly condescending towards him that surely he's been browbeaten into his affliction. Mr. Browne (Dan O'Herlihy), the only Protestant in attendance is also a drunk, but certainly not loud, cheery and demonstrative like Freddy is. Well kept and well dressed, his quiet inebriation is tolerated due to his gentlemanly comportment.

When the grand Conroy couple finally arrives, the celebrations begin in earnest. We follow the characters throughout the evening - one of considerable gaiety - speeches are made, recitations are given, songs are sung, a piano is played and there is dancing and dancing and more dancing. Dinner is eventually served, all eat heartily until eventually, the time comes for the evening to draw to a close.

Then, it happens - the series of events that will open the tear-duct-floodgates of any audience member with a soul. The party, a brief night's journey into the depths of a divine revelation that gently floats into a deeper night and yes, a light - a light within the deep recesses of the heart that ignites with a force the movie doesn't brace you for.

The Conroys are about to leave. Gabriel, who has spent much of the evening nattering and puttering and nervous-nellying about the speech he must give, is fully dressed and looking about for his wife Gretta. Glancing up from pulling on his galoshes, he spies Gretta as she descends the staircase. An off-screen tenor begins to sorrowfully begin a musical lamentation and she freezes, listening intensely to The Lass of Aughrim. The song moves her deeply. She and her husband leave the Morkan household and check into a nearby hotel for the rest of the evening. It is here where Gretta reveals the secret she has carried deep within for her entire adult life. Frank, hearing her sad tale, watches as she cries herself to sleep. Staring at her on the bed, then out the window as the snow falls gently, he shares an epiphany with us.

There isn't a single false moment in this film. Huston's eye is so perceptive, his sense of the story's natural cinematic rhythm is so acute and the staggering brilliance of every single performance that Huston elicits are enough to commend The Dead to its rightful place as one of the great films of all time.

Gretta on the stairway landing, listening to this mournful song, is so perfectly rendered that at first, we think she is responding solely to the lyrics:

The rain falls on my yellow locks
And the dew it wets my skin;
My babe lies cold within my arms;
Lord Gregory, let me in.

As we watch her listen to the tenor, we soon realize, there is more to this tremendously moving song than the lyrics which are affecting Gretta - Huston holds the camera's gaze on his Anjelica Huston (his real-life daughter) with consummate frame composition - perhaps one that only a father can compose of his own daughter playing a role he cherishes more dearly than life itself - framed and held raptly in service to the story he's telling.

As noted earlier, perfection in cinema is rare. Huston, with his bold gift for adapting literary works to the screen (The Maltese Falcon, Treasure of the Sierra Madre, Moby Dick, The Man who Would Be King, Wiseblood, Under the Volcano, etc.) creates, with The Dead, his crowning achievement.

The Dead was Huston's last film. He was in his eighties, on respiratory support and in a wheelchair when he made this picture. Clearly, Huston knew exactly how to "pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age".

We should all be so lucky.