The Firebird

This Warner Bros. film starts off slowly as a romantic drama, but then becomes a fast paced murder mystery with an ending hard to predict. I was not especially put off by the stage origin of the screenplay, the inauthentic accents of a story supposedly set in Vienna, or the tenuous connection to the Firebird, either as myth or music. The performances of the principals were weak: Ricardo Cortez as the victim, Verree Teasdale (overacting), and Anita Louise (quite beautiful, but unconvincing). This is more than made up for by the supporting roles of Dorothy Tree as the sharp-tongued ex-wife of the victim and Lionel Atwill as the initially oblivious and later befuddled husband/father. Even C. Aubrey Smith, usually relegated to pipe smoking and pontificating, has a more substantial role in this film as the inspector who actually solves the crime.

Egotistical actor Herman Brandt (Ricardo Cortez) is murdered in his apartment one night. Suspicion falls on a member of the Pointer family that lives upstairs: John Pointer (Lionel Atwill) and wife Carola (Veree Teasdale), their daughter Marietta (Anita Louise), and the governess Josephine (Helen Trenholme).

My principal reason for seeing this was Lionel Atwill. I love his horror films but it's always nice to see him stretch his acting chops in other types of movies. He's very good in this. Veree Teasdale's acting is overly theatrical at times. Cortez was one of the greats at playing slimy and here he showcases that. Lovely Anita Louise is quite good, particularly in the film's final scenes. Dorothy Tree was great fun as Brandt's ex-wife who loathed him. Dependable vet C. Aubrey Smith is his usual affable self as the police inspector. A nice little B murder mystery from Warner Bros.

This movie's title is almost entirely irrelevant. Ricardo Cortez portrays a suave musician in Vienna (memo to a previous IMDb reviewer: Vienna is not in Germany), who lures young maidens to his bachelor flat by offering to play Stravinsky's 'Firebird'. Of course, he's a cad with dozens of notches on his bedpost. Sooner or later, somebody is going to kill this guy. Sure enough, somebody does.

This is one of those murder mysteries that features a subjective camera shot from the viewpoint of the murderer, so that the victim looks the murderer right in the eyes but we don't know the murderer's identity. We see Cortez welcoming someone into his digs, and a woman's arm enters the frame ... so we know the killer is a woman. And she's white, too. Other than that, her identity is a mystery.

C. Aubrey Smith, more phlegmatic than usual, is the world-weary police inspector who's got to wade through the suspects. The prime suspect is Cortez's neighbour abovestairs, Verree Teasdale, whose lovely young daughter Anita Louise may have been ruined by Cortez. In this movie, Teasdale is married to Lionell Atwill, so she's got enough problems.

I'll give this movie some credit. The solution to whodunnit was a genuine surprise to me. Likewise, her motive (yes, the killer IS a woman) was something I didn't expect. Unfortunately, her motive isn't very plausible either. Also, this movie starts out as a whodunnit, but C. Aubrey Smith's sleuth spends much less time trying to solve the murder than he spends pontificating on the morals of the younger generation and such. This movie is based on a play, and it shows: there's lots of talk and very little action.

This movie was directed by William Dieterle, a brilliant craftsman who believed in astrology and numerology, and whose artistic decisions were often dictated by the horoscopes cast for him by his wife. She must have put her azimuth in the wrong house this time, because Dieterle's talents -- so amply demonstrated in many other films -- aren't much in evidence here. Several good actors try hard with weak material. I'll rate this movie just 4 out of 10.

The Firebird is a typical thirties whodunit that turns out to be a surprising overachiever as cast and crew put on a highly impressive display of collective film craftsmanship. Rather than just go through the motions with the standard stock characters reciting their lines director William Dieterle embellishes the proceedings with both comic and suspenseful incidentals, character nuance and a pace that only flags occasionally as he keeps the audience off balance with a myriad of suspects moving about the luxury apartment complex like characters in a Feydeau farce.

Herman Brandt, a popular stage actor begins to pursue a politician's wife who rebuffs his brazen advances but rather than make a scene and bring scandal to her politician husband they decide to move out. When the smarmy Brandt is murdered in his apartment suspects abound.

The Firebird's scenario is standard Chan, Moto, Saint plot line that quickly rises to another level through Dieterle's energetic rhythm of cutting and character idiosyncrasies that flood scenes with rich detail and engrossing composition by way of Ernest Haller's fine camera work and Anton Grot's beautifully lit, lush but unpretentious sets. Ralph Dawson's editing perfectly accents the tempo by seamlessly melding it to the physical action of exits and entrances.

Unhampered by a big star Firebird's cast is nearly pitch perfect in type and creating ambiguity. Dieterle is not content to have the actor's stand around with gaping mouths and side glances as the plot unwinds. Whether it's the small roll of the concierge, the governess, valet or tenant Dieterle infuses them with an offbeat individuality that results in both sustaining suspense and delivering some sharp gallows humor. C.Aubrey Smith's police inspector appears noble but employs devious method. His excellency played by Lionel Atwill is both sensitive and a book burner. Her excellency (Veree Teasdale) is also a traditionalist snob but ready willing and able to make the ultimate sacrifice.

While the melodrama may get a little thick at times The Firebird is a run of the mill mystery but its execution in terms of form and the comically provocative shots it takes at the class system, theatre people, cops and celebrity make it a diamond (albeit small carat) in the rough.

Womanizing matinee idol Ricardo Cortez is murdered in his apartment. Homicide detective C. Aubrey Smith soon limits his suspects to people in the building.

It's not a particularly difficult mystery to solve for the audience, so director William Dieterle fills it in with interesting performances. Lionel Atwill as a retired bureaucrat seems softer and feebler than in any other role; perhaps it is the mustache. Verree Teasdale, as his wife seems about twenty years older than her real-life 30, but she always seemed to play women a bit on the matronly side. Anita Louise, as their daughter, seems small and hesitant. And so forth, with a cast that includes Dorothy Tree, Hobart Cavanaugh, Etienne Giradot, and Skippy. Ernest Haller's photography seems a bit intermittently soft, as if there is some problem with the print, but that might have been a deliberate decision.