White Woman

They don't make them like this anymore. A lurid jungle picture with a fallen woman (the gorgeous LOMBARD)forced to sing in an interracial cafe after her husband commits suicide. No one in the African jungle British community wants anything to do with her. The British are there tearing up the jungle for the rubber plants and building huge rubber plantations. Rumor is her husband killed himself over her cheating ways. She's miserable and salvation comes along in the guise of Charles Laughton playing Horace Prin, the "King Of The River" - he's the richest rubber plantation owner in the jungle and he likes what he sees in Lombard. They marry, she's now rich but she's nothing more than one thing he owns and she begins to realize that he is obsessively jealous and insane and cruel. Laughton is amazing. A brilliant actor (from Witness For The Prosecution, Advise & Consent, Mutiny On The Bounty) who is capable of hamming it up for the sake of ham (Island Of Lost Souls, un-released Caligula)this is the hammiest performance I've ever seen but it is also so entertaining. He has a field day destroying any worker who dares to look at his new bride. What a hoot!!!

After the suicide of her husband, down on her luck "Denning" (Carole Lombard) finds herself reduced to singing in a remote club where she espies a chance to escape the drudgery by marrying the "King of the River" - "Prin" (Charles Laughton). He's an outwardly charming fellow, but when she gets to his converted boat many days into the Malay jungle, she discovers he's a bit of a sadistic brute who rules his lucrative rubber planation ruthlessly. Her arrival sets the cat amongst the pigeons and sows a bit of dissent amongst his team causing temperatures to rise and tempers to flare - and that's before the arrival of the plain-speaking "Ballister" (Charles Bickford) who decides that this reign of terror must be stopped. How, though? "Prim" is well prepared and the natives are either terrified or armed only with spears against his guns. I'm an huge fan of Laughton but his role here seems a little too faux-cockney, vaudevillian and reminiscent of his performance from "The Private Lives of Henry VIII" also made in 1933 - especially when he is chewing to camera! Lombard is also out of sorts, a bit - her character has a stiltedness that even the romantic tryst scenario can't really enliven. It had potential, the story is good and the cast were all there - but Stuart Walker can't quite get this adventure firing on all cylinders.

It's another steamy, lurid romp through the backlot jungle, this time in Malaysia, where poor Carole Lombard suffers from a one-two punch: Her husband committed suicide under suspect circumstances, and the local Brits despise her for working the only job she's allowed, singing sultry Gordon-Revel ballads in a mixed-race bar. (She's dubbed, I'm sure of it.) There she meets Charles Laughton, expertly playing years above his 34, a rubber plantation magnate who struts and revels in abusing his inferiors. Nevertheless she marries him, it's her only out, and journeys upriver to his sorry domain, which is where the Red Dust ripping off really begins. His overseer is Kent Taylor, and we know there's going to be a triangle, which expands into a quadrangle when new overseer Charles Bickford arrives, oozing testosterone and stirring up trouble. Wildly dated and decadent as it is, it's great pre-Code fun, with uprising, spears, native drums, decapitations, and Laughton looking like he's having a blast. Stuart Walker, a director of little note, ably keeps the pace brisk, and the atmosphere sweltering.

Carole Lombard is singing Cole Porter-style songs in a native bar. She's an outcast because she went off with a man and her husband killed himself. In comes "King of the River" Charles Laughton. He marries her and takes her upriver, where all the White men have something in their background that would get them jailed -- at best.

The movie looks like a badly aged mash-up of other, better remembered stories from the era: RAIN, of course, and RED RIVER with Charles Bickford as the he-man, and SANDERS OF THE RIVER. Although Lombard is the protagonist for the most of the movie, and Bickford looks like he's going to take it over when he enters for the third act, it's Laughton, playing one of his grotesques who dominates the film, from his entrance until the very end, when he is the only White standing, shouting defiance. Just like in other movies of the era, he's so good at playing a fascinating villain who despises everyone else... until he throws it all away in an act of mad bravado, to impress Lombard.

Although it's seldom discussed, one of the staple genres that classic Hollywood tackled best was the jungle-set melodrama. It gave studio technicians an opportunity to experiment with oppressive artificial sets, eerie sounds effects and expressionist lighting. Those Venetian-blind shadow patterns so characteristic of film noir were preceded by just as many painterly images lit through louvered windows and bamboo curtains. And the exotic backgrounds allowed jaded screenwriters to attain a delirious level of moral turpitude, betrayal, sadistic violence and erotic obsessiveness, not to mention downright racism. White Woman may not quite rank with the finest wallows in the white man's grave (Red Dust, Tropic Zone, the absolutely jaw-dropping Kongo), but it certainly concocts a heady stew of cruelty, masochism and lasciviousness. This is thanks to a dense script by some old reliables, and by another ingenious portrayal by Laughton (much more subdued than in the similarly-set masterpieces, the Beachcomber and Island of Lost Souls, but wilier and more self-deluding.) Lombard was still stuck in her earnest, victimized stage before she hit her stride as a comedienne, but her brittle blonde presence and flustered pretensions are a fine fit here. Charles Bickford kicks the plot into overdrive as a Gable-like he-man who won't brook Laughton's guff. They're a perfect match for each other playing a doomed hand of poker while their gruesome fate awaits them at the hands of the natives they've crossed. Thankfully, the filmmakers avoid the moralising and let the viewer stoically sink into the morass along with them.