L'inferno verde

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.

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!!!

Sensibilities have changed in 90 years that it's difficult to get into the swim with "White Woman", a well-shot and acted Paramount feature rooted in Colonialism but saved by the usual tour de force performance by Charles Laughton. It's hard to imagine another actor in his role.

Opening reel seems to be a familiar tale of prejudice and ostracism: star Carole Lombard looking fabulous and even singing (direct sound) a couple of torch songs as a cafe singer down on her luck in some Far East British colony (likely set in Straits Settlements). Her husband committed suicide, and folks look down on her working in a cafe frequented by locals.

But soon she's married Laughton, self-proclaimed King of the RIver, who from humble beginnings has bought up most of the island. With a unique walrus moustache, he's a very odd fellow, full of sarcasm and even some self-deprecatory humor as he lords it over all and sundry. A couple fo studs understandably lust after Lombard, with the sjurprise of Charles Bickford, young and overconfident, even taking a shower and having an unlikely beefcake role.

When Laughton literally spits in the faces of a couple of higher-rank natives, things look glum for the white folks, as a rebellion begins. Chuck has a couple of impressive machine guns with plenty of ammo for just such an occasion, but he's thwarted byt the white guys he keeps under his thumb working for him, leading to a truly memorable climax, in which violence is tastefully delivered off-screen.

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.

...from Paramount Pictures and director Stuart Walker. Carole Lombard stars as Judith Denning, a nightclub singer with a sordid past stuck in a Third World country where the white governors don't want her around. She reluctantly agrees to marry Horace Prin (Charles Laughton), a rich but repellent owner of a Malaysian rubber plantation. Known as the "King of the River" , Prin runs things with an iron fist and a maniacal twinkle in his eye. It doesn't take long for Judith to regret her decision, what with the horrid weather and seething natives. She's also being chased by a pair of her husband's employees: handsome Army deserter David (Kent Taylor) and swaggering new overseer Ballister (Charles Bickford).

This plays like a mash-up of A Lady to Love and Island of Lost Souls. The filmmakers re-used the sets from the latter film, and Laughton gets to ham it up in a delightful way, with an exaggerated accent, peculiar manners, and silly haircut and mustache. Lombard looks terrific, but she doesn't have much to do other than excite the guys in the cast while looking sad. Bickford doesn't show up until later in the movie, but he's worth it with his macho, no BS characterization clashing wonderfully with Laughton's sadistic weirdo. Like most exotic locale movies of the era, this one is more than a little racist, and the bungled depiction of the natives adds to the movie's bizarre "charm".