Classic Era Trips To Zenda

Three Ways To Do The Prisoner Of Zenda

The legendary NBC special on David Selznick from 1968 began with a pull-back of Ronald Colman (some day I will spell it "Coleman" just to be like everyone else) and Madeleine Carroll as they enter a grand ballroom in The Prisoner Of Zenda, narrator Henry Fonda calling it a moment to epitomize old Hollywood at a most grandiose. That highlight was all I could get of The Prisoner Of Zenda at the time, because no station in NC ran it by my searching eyes, and search I did through every week of TV GUIDE for years. How we take for granted treasure so readily had today. MGM bought Selznick's Zenda for a 1952 remake. His original went from there to diminuendo. It could be rented on 16mm non-theatrical from Films, Inc., but stayed elusive otherwise. Elders maintained the 1937 version was better than what Metro later did with Stewart Granger, but where was evidence for comparison? The newer Zenda was broadcast from early 60's onward, but syndication glossaries kept a "?" beside listings for the 1937 version. United Artists broke ice when they distributed the pre-48 MGM library, Zenda among those available by the late 70's. Since then, of course, TCM has righted the wrong, and there is a DVD that pairs 1937 and 1952 treatments. Preferred one has been loudly declared and agreed upon, personnel in '52 knowing theirs was but pale patch on Selznick's work, even as Technicolor splashed paint on the pageant.

I looked at the DOS version again recently. It begins slow, has to trudge thicket of exposition, but sails admirably once we're at court and deception of one Colman substituting for another. Here is also where Alfred Newman's splendid music really kicks in, a kind of sum-up score for what we love about a Classic Era. Selznick knew the property was old-fashioned, but trusted it, just as he had Little Lord Fauntleroy and The Garden Of Allah. The producer's taste had been formed by childhood explore of literature. One writer (I think Ben Hecht) said frankly that it had ossified there. Success proved Selznick right however, as The Prisoner Of Zenda took $2.6 million worldwide, overseas gross topping what the film got domestically. All of what Selznick made had gloss beyond what even majors could achieve. He'd putter with a thing until it was flawless, bring in directors just to do specific moments he knew they'd excel at. That was how W.S. Van Dyke came to shoot the climactic duel, and George Cukor the "renunciation" of Colman by Carroll in favor of the throne she must now sit on.

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John Cromwell got directorial credit for Zenda, him a ready instrument of Selznick's will, sensible enough to realize that a man's name on studio stationary meant that his word would be final. As to whether Cromwell helmed bulk of the film, there is Douglas Fairbanks Jr.'s autobio recall (The Salad Days) that JC and DOS "had a showdown" over constant Selznick rewrites and that "John was relieved of his assignment and a good deal of the film was re-shot with W.S. Van Dyke replacing Cromwell as director." Fairbanks observed that the switch "did make everything go smoother." Certainly Cromwell gave no ground in later-in-life interviews ... so far as he was concerned, The Prisoner Of Zenda was his work, and co-workers let that impression stand so long as the veteran director lived. The Salad Days was published in 1988, nine years after John Cromwell died. A search of Selznick records might reveal how much of Zenda was actually Cromwell's, but then, how much of any Selznick production could belong to staff other than Selznick, always in firmest control of everything written, shot, and edited.

John Cromwell, Center with Pipe, Directs The Prisoner Of Zenda

An Outdoor Dueling Scene Deleted From Final Prints of the 1937 Version

Casting beyond Colman and Carroll was as perfect. Here, in fact, was where any remake would die on vines. Robert Douglas and Jane Greer for Raymond Massey and Mary Astor? And this was only fifteen years later, when memory of Selznick's Zenda was fresh. It must have amused DOS to see what he knew would be a punk try. Not that anything was specifically wrong with the 1952 version. It is most enjoyable on updated terms, especially if you'd not been exposed to the earlier one, but back-to-back, and ouch. James Mason was interviewed by Focus On Film in 1970 (#2). " ... a depressing experience for an actor ... ," he called  Zenda '52, wherein Mason played Rupert Of Hentzau. Blame was fixed on director Richard Thorpe, the players limited to one take unless something went seriously wrong. Mason recalled Stewart Granger asking to do a scene again, feeling he could improve on it, to which Thorpe responded, "No, I don't see any reason. It was fine. I'm going to print that. It was good." When Granger persisted, the director reminded him that takes with "reasonable tempo" where actors "say their lines in a way that's completely intelligible" was plenty enough to get jobs done for the boxoffice, that last Thorpe's primary concern according to Mason. 

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Ramon Novarro as a Silent-Era Rupert

Jane Greer said they kept a moviola on the 1952 set where scenes from the 1937 version were viewed and then slavishly duplicated. Outcome of the remake bears this out. It is like a photocopy done after someone figured out how to do photocopies with color. But everyone acquits fine, none seeming to slum. I had a 16mm IB Technicolor print of this Zenda back in the 70's and it was a thrill of a collecting lifetime. Affection sustains for that, if little else. I'm not at Viva Richard Thorpe stage, but those apparent first takes he printed play fine, Metro at peak of technical efficiency, if a twilight one. They were wise enough to re-use the Newman score, this time adapted by Conrad Salinger. Posters fairly had to shout The NEW Prisoner Of Zenda to avoid appearance of stale bread. Did anyone in sales alert Dore Schary that fifteen years was but wink of time to at least mature ticket buyers --- or did Schary figure attendance had gone over altogether to kids and teens? Selznick's oldie came back to theatres as recently as 1949. He was promiscuous in licensing backlog for reissues. Had MGM even looked into possible over-exposure of the earlier film? And wait, Selznick's wasn't even the first, as there had been a silent Zenda back in 1922, directed by Rex Ingram for the old Metro firm before merger that made up MGM. The Prisoner Of Zenda, then, was a tale told plenty by the time 1952 audiences took receipt of it.

Mary Astor and Colman Relax Between Scenes

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There was also a fifteen years window between the Ingram silent and Selznick's try. The gulf in terms of pace and story construction was vast, however, as though filmmaking had got its full education in that brief space of time. The 1922 Zenda plods, misses opportunities Selznick would seize, and lets both action and the love story wilt on a near two-hour vine. Ingram was about visuals more than narrative, excelled at the first, tended to drag with the second. His Zenda has size and luminous effect later ones would not attempt, and is worth a look for elements they'd improve upon. In Colman/Granger's part is Lewis Stone, his dual role hardly separate for neither character having much verve, Stone then as now our idea of mature rectitude, one of those you imagine never saw a young day in his life. Starred in the 1922 Zenda is Ramon Novarro, who plays Rupert of Hentzau, said to be the most actor-proof part ever written. In other words, no one could emerge from it in less than triumph. When Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. was offered the role in 1937, his father told him to accept by all means, that this was a best opportunity he'd ever have to make an impression, which indeed he did. My question, then: What other parts are actor-proof, that is, so good as to foreclose possibility of failure? One at least comes to my mind, Doc Holliday, but what of others? Surely there are more, in fact, lots more.

Rupert Of Hentzau getting away with murder was one of few times that happened in Code-dominated movies. Several deaths are attributable to him, only one shown, but we're given to understand he is ruthless, unsportsmanlike, and has killed unarmed men. Hentzau is utterly likeable otherwise ... well, likeable really because he is ruthless, unsportsmanlike, and laughs it off, his philosophy being that morality is for chumps. I think The Prisoner Of Zenda was onto something with Rupert. He's like a character from today dropped down over a century back (the novel published in 1894), and kept around to give readers/viewers a glimpse of anti-heroism to come. Rupert is funny and sardonic and no one wanted to see him punished, then or since. Selznick knew this and used a trick to let Rupert off the hook, telling the PCA that he had a Zenda sequel planned where Rupert would get just desserts. As it stands, he gives a jaunty farewell and swims off to safety. Of course, there was no sequel, by Selznick or anyone, even though Anthony Hope had written a follow-up novel to The Prisoner Of Zenda. The three principal versions of Zenda can be had on DVD, including the silent version from Warner Archive. Screening of the three gives good account of progress and changes in H'wood filmmaking over a thirty-year span.