La femme de l'autre

This film is an atrocious failure on many levels.

It is emblematic of the loss of imagination and the draining of talent of the studio system in the late forties when confronted with the genius of European productions of the same time, especially Italian neo-realism.

To begin with, the subject is extremely derivative. It is based on a German play that had already been made into a successful film in 1928 in Germany. This play was inspired, like a whole family of plays and films of the era, by a real event that took place in Italy in the 20's (the Bruneri-Canella case). This case also inspired the 1938 French film "Carrefour" (set in France and remade in Hollywood as "Crossroads"). This French film was later remade in England in 1940 as "Dead Man's Shoes". The same story inspired Pirandello's "As You Desire Me", set in Italy, in the late 20's, which became a Greta Garbo vehicle in the 30's, as well as the novel "The Wife of Martin Guerre" by American writer Janet Lewis (1941), a story set in France in the Middle Ages, which became the French film "The Return of Martin Guerre" (Daniel Vigne, 1982), which was of course remade as a Hollywood film starring Richard Gere, "Sommersby" (Jon Amiel, 1993) and set after the US Civil War. The same Italian story also inspired Edward Wool's 1935 play "Libel!" (filmed in 1959 in England), which has several similarities with the classic film "Random Harvest" (1942).

As if the story was not tired enough, the big mistake was to transpose a German play about the aftermath of the First World War in a post-WWII French Brittany setting - filmed on the back lot - that just doesn't gel. The sets appear to be the ones used for the South of France in "Song of Bernadette" and the music by (the ordinarily trustworthy) Herbert Stothart is unconvincing in its attempt to convey any real sense of France or Brittany. Everything in the art direction is stilted and false. Its un-Frenchness is almost frightening. The viewer may get an occasional glimpse of O'Neil, Strindberg, Ibsen, Murnau and Rossellini, but never, never of a French fishing village.

The subject and acting try very hard to reconnect the story to some sense of lustful reality while channelling something of the drama and realism of European serious cinema. But they fail. Imagining Robert Mitchum and Greer Garson as a French fisherman and his wife is simply an exercise quite beyond anyone's powers of self-deception.

The end result is a cumbersome imitation of European simplicity with misfiring Hollywood production values, an embarrassingly stodgy melodrama that tries very hard to be a thoughtful little art film. It stinks and it sinks and it will forever remain as an example of one of the first signs of decadence of Hollywood's golden era.

In post-war France, Marise Aubert (Greer Garson) discusses her struggles with her doctor. She recounts how she found Jean Renaud (Richard Hart) playing her husband Paul Aubert (Robert Mitchum)'s song in her home. He seems to know a lot about Paul. He claims to be a friend from the POW camp and witnessed Paul's death while they were escaping.

This movie depends a lot on whether one buys the romance. I don't like Jean's stereotypical French look with his skinny moustache. The movie uses a lot of montage and yada-yada to advance the romance. I'm willing to accept it, but I'm not feeling it. She believes him too easily. If I was her, I would never accept it so willingly. The fact that she did is disappointing. Most of Robert Mitchum's screen time is concentrated on the last half hour and that is also disappointing. It's a complicated feeling. I would like a specific ending although the movie delivers something else. I do like the foggy climax. It's complicated.

Its structure is intense. The way it's edited kept me always on the tip of my toes. I was biting my nails through half of it, and feeling a nervous guilt in the pit of my stomach through the other half. This movie has it all, from one of the best escape scenes ever, to a whole spectrum of emotional truths. I found myself switching my opinions many times about the characters and what actions they should take. All the way through the ending, I was proud for the people who lent their efforts to make this movie. The acting and cinematography are unbeatable. I repeat, unbeatable! It might not be air-tight in plot details, but it gets a certain sense of cinematic perfection across that can also be found in other 1947 movies like "Out of the Past" and "Black Narcissus". I love those movies just as much as this one, if not more, so it's a little baffling how hard people are ragging on it.

It seems like the making of the movie was beset by hardship, and left a bad taste in the mouth of a lot of the cast and crew, but I see no reason that it should leave a bad taste in our mouths. It's just too gorgeous a movie to forget about. And any hardship and injury that came of it only makes the cinematic achievement that much more astounding. But ultimately, this movie's greatest achievement is that it surprisingly exudes a maturity that is more common in movies made closer to the present, for example, Mike Leigh's morality-play movies "Vera Drake" (2004) and "Another Year" (2010). It's time "Desire Me" had a re-evaluation, if you ask me.

Director George Cukor was so unhappy with his production of "Desire Me," that he insisted that his name be taken off the opening credits. It was the first film M-G-M had ever released without one. No happy memories about the filming for Greer Garson either. During the filming of one scene, which was by the ocean, a wave came up unexpectedly and swept the star out to sea. She nearly drowned!

This is a film to be cherished for its lush cinematography, exquisite and picturesque settings, character development, and fine performances. While the story is on the surface a love triangle, there are complexities among the characters, and in their relationships with each other, that make the film compelling in spite of being typical Hollywood romance. The film shines with Cukor's touches throughout, although he was uncredited as director. The production values are first class, and appropriately polished.

While DESIRE ME is generally perceived to be one of classic Hollywood's biggest turkeys, public perception is often misleading. For those of us who are fans of the genre, of Hollywood myth, melodrama, and romance, this is a lovely, lovely film. But it seems even less likely that such a film would be appreciated in these times than in 1947.