Douglas Sirk Ranked Part Two

Recently I reviewed Eureka’s excellent boxset Sirk in Germany, which featured the first three films by director Douglas Sirk. Having thoroughly enjoyed the experience, I thought Hey, why not keep going? So I watched the entire Sirk feature filmography in chronological order, ranking and reviewing them as I went along. Considered The King of Melodrama, Sirk’s career is often condensed to the five year run between 1954 and 1959, during which he made all his most famous films. But there are more gems to explore and more than just Melodrama to discover. There are Noirs, Comedies, a Swashbuckler, a Western, Musicals, Thrillers and War films and, while most of the famous Melodramas predictably come out on top, there are several surprises that I loved far more than I expected to.

In Part Two I’m looking at the top 20, which is chock full of little gems and acclaimed masterpieces. You can find Part One here.

ALL ENTRIES CONTAIN SPOILERS

20. MAGNIFICENT OBSESSION

In 1949, Jane Wyman won an Oscar for playing a deaf woman in Johnny Belinda. Six years later she was nominated again for playing a blind woman in Magnificent Obsession. The cynical viewer may have speculated that Wyman was working her way through the five senses. An even more cynical viewer may have suggested that she did the double with Magnificent Obsession by also demonstrating that she’d lost her sense of taste.

There’s no denying the importance of Magnificent Obsession in the Douglas Sirk filmography. For many, it represents the quintessential 50s Melodrama and most commentators place it among their list of Sirk’s finest examples of the genre. This was the first Sirk film I ever saw. It was included among the materials for an Open University Film and TV course I was taking and, having read the accompanying literature, I was quite prepared for just how thickly the melodrama would be laid on. Although I recall finding the film utterly preposterous, it also felt like nothing I’d ever seen before and thankfully helped point me in the direction of Sirk’s subsequent Melodramas, all of which I loved. Despite this growing appreciation for the director, I never returned to Magnificent Obsession until last night. On a second viewing, I was armed with a greater knowledge of Sirk’s particular brand of irony and the knowledge that he too found the plot preposterous and was attracted to the challenge that such bizarre material posed. I thought perhaps all this would make Magnificent Obsession more palatable but if anything I disliked the film even more the second time. The films that followed in its wake always seemed like a combination of satirical and sincere, their deconstructions of 50s American society enhanced by a genuine affection for the characters and investment in the stories. I felt little of that in Magnificent Obsession. A lot of the time it felt like Sirk was just pissing about, albeit with a keen visual technique and an intermittently engaging screenplay by Robert Blees.

Magnificent Obsession is based on a novel by Lloyd C. Douglas which had been filmed once before in 1935. I’ve never sought out this earlier version but I’ve heard that it is somewhat more muted than Sirk’s Technicolor splatter of a weepie-sneeze. The plot stacks button-pushing manipulation upon manipulation, with good-looking playboy Bob Merrick inadvertently causing first the death of a beloved local doctor and then the blinding of his grieving widow. Desperate to make amends, Bob strikes up a friendship with the artist Edward Randolph, a friend of the late doctor who helps Bob adopt his altruistic life philosophy. A former medical student, Bob resumes his studies at the expense of his carefree lifestyle, while also befriending and falling in love with the doctor’s now blind widow Helen. Bob hides his real identity as he helps Helen through her newly darkened world, but when she reveals that she knows who he is and Bob proposes, Helen runs away to avoid being a burden to him. Years later, their paths cross again when Helen is desperately ill and Bob steps in to perform the complex brain surgery she requires. She survives and, as an added bonus, Bob’s surgery also restores her sight. The couple reunite.

For a while I was inclined to rate Magnificent Obsession lower than I did but I find there’s a part of me that sort of likes the film. It is so idiotically nauseating that Sirk’s impishly excessive approach becomes bizarrely infectious. I also really enjoyed some of the performances, notably Otto Kruger as the perpetually amused pipe-smoking artist, Agnes Moorehead as the down-to-Earth pal, and especially Rock Hudson as the gradually reforming playboy. While Wyman got the Oscar nod for her tragi-glam turn, Hudson has the more difficult role and really proves himself as more than just the hunky beefcake lead. His transformation is well-written by Blees, making another potentially ludicrous strand feel much more believable. Ultimately though I didn’t care about the romance because I found Bob’s opportunistic deception of a blind woman distractingly creepy and the miraculous climactic cure to be a strange validation of Helen’s fear that her disability is a burden. A far more romantic ending would’ve been a reunion in which Bob and Helen faced her blindness together, rather than a convenient “S’alright love, y’not blind no more” depiction of visual impairment as an insurmountable roadblock to romance. Consequently, my tears ducts were never troubled. 

There are moments in later films when what I call the Sirk Smirk is apparent in certain exaggerated details, but in this case it seems fixed throughout. Perhaps it’s still preferable to taking Magnificent Obsession at face value but either way it feels like an oddly mean-spirited exercise. Sirk’s ambition and willingness to face the inevitable critical drubbing that constituted the film’s initial reception are to be admired but I can’t share in the latter day view of Magnificent Obsession as an ironic masterpiece. In the end, I think its story is just too repugnantly outré to work under any circumstances, and Sirk’s decision to lean in hard to its excesses only magnifies its indigestibility.

19.THE LADY PAYS OFF

Between 1951 and 1953, Douglas Sirk found himself mainly working on lighthearted Comedies and Musicals, beginning with The Lady Pays Off. Although Sirk claimed he had no feel for the material, he did a more than serviceable job with what he had been provided. A tad unfocused and ultimately trying to keep more plates spinning than it can handle, The Lady Pays Off is nevertheless an interesting effort that pinballs between cynical Screwball, sentimental Drama and Romantic Farce. The most compelling of these genres is the first one, with Linda Darnell shining as Evelyn, a wearied teacher who finds her love-life stifled by the high expectations placed upon her. In a wonderful opening scene set at a ceremony to present Evelyn with the Teacher of the Year award, Sirk represents these memories of incompatible suitors as ghostly reflections in entrées and water glasses. Darnell plays Evelyn’s distraction beautifully, ultimately blurting out a sour response that shocks her adoring audience. 

The plot then sends Evelyn for a holiday in Las Vegas, where she inadvertently loses an exorbitant sum of money and ends up beholden to casino manager Matt (a sturdy Stephen McNally), who uses this debt in order to secure Evelyn’s services in caring for his mysteriously morose daughter. At this stage The Lady Pays Off makes its first jarring shift with the introduction of Gigi Perreau as the young girl. Perreau does a decent job of portraying little Diane but the tone crashes too violently into syrupy scenes of her saying her prayers and asking God to make Evelyn like her. I admit I teared up but then I’m a ludicrously easy mark when it comes to manipulative scenes with children. Once the scene in question had past, the sense of having been played for a sucker was strong, because the crucial bond between Evelyn and Diane is largely betrayed after this mid-film resolution. In particular, the final twist in which Evelyn walks out on Matt proclaiming their entire romance to be a mere act of revenge portrays Evelyn in far too harsh a light given the involvement of the child. Sure, it is supposedly the child going missing that brings Evelyn rushing back but by this stage the adult characters feel too selfish to really care about. Diane, meanwhile, shows her own dark side when she disposes of Evelyn’s romantic rival by steering her into a patch of poison oak, which leaves her bedridden for three days. These edgier moments are the best part of The Lady Pays Off but they clash awkwardly with the sentiment, like syrup being stirred into soup.

Despite it not quite hanging together, I still quite enjoyed The Lady Pays Off. Sirk was clearly in danger of becoming another faceless journeyman at this stage in his career but his consummate professionalism is balanced by flashes of his artistry, like the aforementioned past-suitor hallucinations or a running gag in which Evelyn talks things through with her own reflection in a mirror. These moments are clearly the work of a director to watch, even if the material he’s been handed doesn’t quite demand the same.

18.A TIME TO LOVE AND A TIME TO DIE

Right at the tail end of Douglas Sirk’s filmography, just prior to his grand finale, there is a vaguely anomalous War film called A Time to Love and a Time to Die. An adaptation of the novel by German author Erich Maria Remarque, whose All Quiet on the Western Front had previously given early Hollywood sound cinema the source material for one of its first masterpieces, A Time to Love and a Time to Die was regarded by Universal as a surefire money-maker but not only was it a box office disappointment, the film never quite entered the pantheon of recognised classics of the genre. Its reputation was boosted somewhat by the retrospective reappraisal of Sirk’s catalogue but that latter day appreciation focused so strongly on his full-blooded Technicolor Melodramas that this comparatively muted, if still melodramatic, War picture remains something of a cult item. It is also quite divisive, with some putting it amongst Sirk’s masterpieces or even top of the heap, and others feeling it comes up a little short. Although I did enjoy the film to an extent, I’m very much in the latter camp.

Part of the fascination of All Quiet on the Western Front had been its presentation from the German perspective. There had been another World War since the success of that film and Remarque had become a target of the Nazis due to his anti-war sentiments. He escaped to Switzerland but his sister, who had stayed behind in Germany with her family, was later beheaded for “undermining morale”, after a trial in which the Court President declared “Your brother is unfortunately beyond our reach – you, however, will not escape us.” These horrific events are clearly visible as an influence on A Time to Love and a Time to Die, which follows a young German soldier on furlough whose burgeoning disillusionment with the Nazis is pushed to breaking point by the devastation he encounters back home. Adapted by Remarque himself and written for the screen by Orin Jannings, A Time to Love and a Time to Die’s writing is its strong suit. Both the story and screenplay feel like an effective representation of the creeping dread felt by the citizens unwillingly living under Nazi rule and the soldiers forced into doing their bidding. The film opens with a very powerful sequence in which frozen bodies are uncovered by the onset of spring in Russia and young Germans are ordered to execute captured civilians, often to the detriment of their own mental wellbeing. One soldier, clearly broken before he had even pulled the trigger, soon turns the gun on himself with a chilling inevitability. The film largely takes place on the German home front and it is shown to be scarcely any safer than the war zones themselves, with relatives vanishing without trace, former friends embracing the personal benefits of Naziism at the expense of their souls, and citizens living under constant fear of repercussions if they express themselves with any level of honesty.

For the most part, Sirk captures the air of creeping terror and disillusionment very effectively. Working with regular cinematographer Russell Metty, Sirk creates a very different visual experience from the vivid Technicolor glossiness of All That Heaven Allows and Written on the Wind, the grainier aesthetic a perfect choice for the murkier material. The bombed-out streets and cramped residences of the poorer citizens are captured with a fine blend of authenticity and theatricality. But against this promising backdrop, A Time to Love and a Time to Die has its share of problems. The script is not done justice by the weak performances, primarily that of lead John Gavin. Although it is thought to have hurt its box office, the impulse to cast unknowns instead of stars was a good one, potentially allowing viewers to immerse themselves more fully in the real world implications. Unfortunately, this only works if the unknowns you hire can actually act, and Gavin is visibly struggling in every scene. His leading lady, Lisolette Pulver, at least has a charm about her but she is far from great and this crucial central relationship fails to ignite in the way it needs to. 

Perhaps in an attempt to achieve an epic air, Sirk forsakes his usually concise runtime for a two-hour plus duration that does wear a little, while his inclinations towards the melodramatic, though largely kept in check, do feel a bit cheap on the occasions that they surface here. The final image, for instance, feels like a clear attempt to replicate the simple power of All Quiet on the Western Front’s iconic ending, but there’s just something so bluntly manipulative about a fatally wounded soldier reaching helplessly for the letter from home that he had not finished reading, which tells of his wife’s pregnancy. Though I love Melodrama when done right (something which Sirk’s best work epitomises), I’ve always felt it mixes poorly with war narratives. A Time to Love and a Time to Die benefits from Sirk’s sympathetic and incisively human sensibilities but his inclinations towards emotional grandstanding do not sit well in this context.

17.A SCANDAL IN PARIS

Like John Ford and the Western or Vincente Minnelli and the Musical, Douglas Sirk and the Melodrama are so strongly associated that the majority of people are quite surprised to find that he directed films in other genres. Although his sense of irony has been widely celebrated in relation to those famous Melodramas, Comedy tends to be the genre to which people are most shocked to see the credit ‘Directed by Douglas Sirk’ attached. It’s a shame because Sirk’s career is far more than just that end run of hot-blooded Technicolor trysts and for a stretch of time in the early 50s, light Comedies were what Sirk was directing the most. A Scandal in Paris predates that era by half a decade but it wasn’t Sirk’s first Comedy. It was preceded by the sharply funny satire of April, April!, the frothily flimsy The Court Concert and a handful of early shorts, most notably the terrific Two Greyhounds. But A Scandal in Paris expands upon Sirk’s comedic repertoire, marrying urbane wit and thigh-slapping amorality with the broadest strokes with which he had yet painted, including a trained monkey who closes the film by producing a title card that reads ‘The End.’ Sirk always had a soft spot for this film and claimed it was rejected by American critics because they lacked a grasp of irony. This cutting assessment does rather oversell the dramatic weight of A Scandal in Paris’s frolicsome approach but those coming to the film with the appropriate expectations are more likely to draw the conclusion that what a lot of those 50s critics lacked was a sense of humour. That said, the monkey thing is a bit shit.

I wasn’t aware when I sat down to watch A Scandal in Paris that it was going to be a Comedy. Sirk’s early career is currently so underexplored and many of those who do mention his pre-50s films seem determined to miscategorise everything as a Melodrama. I’d seen A Scandal in Paris referred to as such but from the opening scenes it is immediately apparent that we’re watching something with far lighter intentions. The film is a loose adaptation of the memoirs of Eugène François Vidocq, a French criminal who eventually became a Prefect of Police during the Napoleonic era. With its droll injections of voiceover narration and playful attitude towards morality, A Scandal in Paris initially recalls the tone of Ealing classic Kind Hearts and Coronets, before it begins laying the table for the promise of a swashbuckling adventure. I was preparing myself to love the film in these early stages but, whether in faithfulness to the text or as a filmmaker’s cost-cutting concern, A Scandal in Paris suddenly leaps over the protagonist’s potentially exciting two year trip abroad with a very brief piece of narration, before dropping us into the stuffy surroundings of a Marquise’s opulent chateau for a large chunk of the remaining runtime. At this point the film slows down just as it seemed to be picking up speed. The introduction of the Marquise’s daughter and her younger sister upends the enjoyably sardonic air of the first act in favour of a sweeter, if not entirely moralistic, approach. Signe Hasso’s performance as the lovestruck Therese is strangely childlike and her pairing with the slyly witty George Sanders as Vidocq feels unconvincing.

Fortunately, the good in A Scandal in Paris far outweighs the bad, with the weaker parts still managing to delight with their lighthearted affability. Carole Landis’s second female lead Loretta is a much more interesting character and her resurfacing in the narrative rejuvenates it, bringing along with it a strikingly intense Gene Lockhart. Lockhart’s big performance is matched by Akim Tamiroff as the sleazy sidekick to Vidocq, who steals every scene he’s in. With this strong cast and Ellis St. Joseph’s smart, ambitious screenplay, A Scandal in Paris emerges as a hugely entertaining film. It’s a little too flawed for me to rate it as highly as Sirk himself did but its charms are sufficiently powerful that I can see why its director wanted to go to bat for it so badly.

16.SLIGHTLY FRENCH

After making a run of Film Noirs with mixed results, Douglas Sirk directed Slightly French, a light piece of musical whimsy which, while no masterpiece, is very easy to love. A remake of the 1933 film Let’s Fall in Love, itself an alternative take on the Pygmalion story, Slightly French follows the story of a demanding Hollywood director who, after pushing the French starlet of his latest film to the point of nervous exhaustion, has to find a suitable replacement. With the studio stuck on the alluring exoticism of the French accent, the director works with his choice, a down-to-Earth American carnival entertainer, in order to pass her off as French. 

In many ways it’s easy to see why Slightly French is largely forgotten. It is whipped-cream light, as well as very obviously a cheap B-picture. Sirk, however, seems far more comfortable with this frothy Romantic Comedy than he did with the grim world of Noir, and he works hard with the resources at his disposal. The musical numbers are surprisingly effective, leaning into a stage theatricality with stylised, barebones backdrops and a troupe of talented performers. Lead actress Dorothy Lamour was able to handle the singing beautifully but she was no dancer, so the extended dance routine at the film’s centre is shot from a distance with a fairly obvious body double. Occasionally Sirk cuts in a close up with Lamour performing a very simple dance move. These momentary shots can’t help but inspire giggles but, in a film this lighthearted, it’s all part of the rough-around-the-edges charm.

Other assets working to Slightly French’s advantage are a good cast, with Don Ameche striking the right note between sweet and sour as the hardheaded director and Lamour proving to be a blast as the faux-French dancer, and a wonderfully witty screenplay by Karen DeWolf, who gives the actors plenty of great dialogue and witty one-liners. Slightly French was not seen as a prestige picture and it sat on the shelf for over a year before Columbia Pictures released it. Sirk’s name tends to be what brings viewers to it these days, and while those with lofty expectations may be disappointed, lovers of old Hollywood with a soft spot for a B-movie and an undemanding evening’s entertainment may just be as charmed as I was by this little bon-bon.

15.HAS ANYBODY SEEN MY GAL?

In several ways, Has Anybody Seen My Gal? was an important film in the Douglas Sirk canon. It was Sirk’s first film in colour, with Clifford Stine’s absolutely stunning Technicolor cinematography immediately making the film almost impossible to tear your gaze from. I’ve seen numerous reviews of earlier Sirk films to the effect of “Douglas Sirk without colour is nothing”, and while this is clearly reductive and wrong, it’s an indication of just how deeply linked Sirk became with his glistening Technicolor work. Has Anybody Seen My Gal? is also notable for being the first time Sirk worked with Rock Hudson, one of his most significant collaborators. Hudson gets top billing along with Piper Laurie but they are both eclipsed by Charles Coburn who, although third billed, is the driving force behind the narrative and gets considerably more screen time. Despite being a loathsome white supremacist in real life, for a while Coburn cornered the market in sweet old man/gradually reforming curmudgeon roles. As the ageing millionaire who drops in incognito on the tangentially connected family to whom he plans to leave a substantial amount of money, Coburn is always entertaining to watch, although there is a sense he’s beginning to tire of the bit by this stage. Certainly the performance is not a match for his similar work in the previous The Devil and Miss Jones or his Oscar-winning turn in The More the Merrier. Though his character’s inability to adapt to modern 1920s values is a source of much amusement, Coburn sometimes sounds like he’s just reading lines with the flat cadence of a first-time table read.

In terms of genre, Has Anybody Seen My Gal? is often identified as a Musical Comedy but, in truth, the musical aspect of the film is cursory at best. There are a couple of moments when characters suddenly sing but they are far too few to claim the film as a Musical. In fact, it would be significantly improved by snipping out these anomalous interruptions. The film is named after a line from the 20s Jazz number Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue, which appears in boisterous fashion in a dance sequence in a drugstore. It feels like a very heavy-handed way to establish the era in which the story is set and the title’s only significance seems to be that the song appears in the film. Perhaps, given that the plot’s main driving force is the way money can change people for the worse, the phrase “Has Anybody Seen My Gal?” could be seen as an allusion to a change in someone’s character, but that’s probably a bit of a stretch. The film’s handling of the satire on the evils of money is a bit lumpen, especially as regards Lynn Bari’s mother character who doesn’t seem so much altered by her windfall as a monstrous snob from the get-go. While this does help steer the plot in the direction it needs to go, her characterisation is woefully thin and painted with such broad strokes that her ultimate redemption seems entirely unearned.

But to pick Has Anybody Seen My Gal? apart too much is to do a disservice to what is essentially a very simple pleasure of a film that just so happens to have ended up being assessed in light of its director’s subsequent artistic successes. Taken as a straightforward good time with a deliberately easy-to-grasp message, Has Anybody Seen My Gal? stands out as one of Sirk’s finer lighthearted works aimed at a broad audience. The screenplay by Joseph Hoffman, his third for Sirk, is often witty and amusing, especially where Coburn is concerned. His attempts to learn the finer points of working in a drugstore from Hudson’s character provide good belly laughs, his multiple arrests are a nice running gag, and his scenes with another frequent Sirk collaborator, the charming child actress Gigi Perreau, bring out the most warmly winning side of the film. The ravishing colour never wears out its welcome and is perfectly matched to such a vibrantly zippy entertainment. On an evening when you’re tired and just feel like finding the easiest and quickest route to a smile, Has Anybody Seen My Gal? is a perfect choice.

14.THE GIRL FROM MARSH CROFT

Sirk’s first non-comedic film, The Girl from Marsh Croft is often cited as his first dabbling in Melodrama. Certainly, you can see glimpses of the artist who would make those later staples of Hollywood Romantic Drama, but The Girl from Marsh Croft is also an early example of Heimatfilm, a genre that became popular in West Germany, Switzerland and Austria in the late 40s. Heimatfilm is characterised by its attractive rural settings that serve as the backdrop for stories of simple sentimentalism. Sirk’s Hollywood Melodramas, for all their lush Technicolor surfaces, had a deliberately oppressive air to them, with characters crushed beneath the societal expectations of 50s America. Similar expectations play a big part in The Girl from Marsh Croft but they are offset by the big lungfuls of air available to the viewer as we take in the mountainous farmland views.

Adapted from the 1908 novel by Selma Langerlöf, The Girl from Marsh Croft follows the story of Helga, a maid who is impregnated and then discarded by a master who refuses to accept responsibility. When her strength of character in the courtroom impresses a young farmer named Karsten, he takes her into his employ where she thrives. Karsten’s fiancée Gertrud is not pleased with how seamlessly Helga becomes part of the family but her demands that she be fired cause a rift between herself and Karsten. Nevertheless, the wedding plans persist and Karsten finds himself in a troubling situation when a murder takes place on the night of his bachelor party and he can’t remember the events of the evening. Who will stand by Karsten and is he guilty of the terrible crime he can’t recall? 

The Girl from Marsh Croft is spiced up with a love triangle and a murder but at heart it examines the morals of the era, with attitudes towards an unmarried pregnant woman being juxtaposed with the unsullied reputation of her former lover. Philipp Lothar Mayring’s uncluttered screenplay makes it clear with whom its sympathies lie and Sirk elevates its dramatic peaks with excellent, intense direction. The opening courtroom scene is particularly moving, and Sirk expertly prefaces it with a lightly comedic scene of a group of maids surveying their possible new masters and indulging in local gossip. Setting the scene is as important as the heftier details of the plot and Helga’s morose intensity as she passes through is beautifully highlighted. Sirk will continue to lose Helga among the wide-open spaces of the rural setting, isolating her in her anxious loneliness. In one impressively unconventional shot, Sirk has his two leads begin a conversation and then sets his camera to roaming around the room, focusing on small details of the setting while his characters converse offscreen. The camera works its way back to them, as if drawn by an unstoppable force. At once, the importance of place and the inescapability of attraction are felt with a force beyond the grasp of mere dialogue.

In its implicit condemnation of judgmental attitudes, The Girl from Marsh Croft also refuses to make its apparent villains clear cut. Gertrud, at first appearing to be paranoid and jealous, is validated in her suspicions and it is in understanding her character that The Girl from Marsh Croft finds its strongest emotional payoff. Her final scenes with Karsten are heartbreakingly plain spoken, and her final departure a moment of muted hurt rather than garment-rending passion. Perhaps the film’s biggest weakness is that it never quite inspires the same level of emotion in regard to its central couple, which is even eclipsed by Karsten’s relationship with his parents. But there is so much more to The Girl from Marsh Croft than its core romance. There’s a sense, again reflected in that wandering camera, that Sirk is more interested in the people and attitudes surrounding his leads than he is the leads themselves: principles over principals, as it were. The result is a film that resonates more strongly the longer you think about it. Such slow-burning appeal would eventually prove crucial in Sirk’s later work, where stripping away Soapy facades gradually revealed one of the eras great overlooked filmmakers.

13.APRIL, APRIL!

Debut features from great filmmakers are always a source of interest, although that curiosity is often rewarded with an oddity rather than a classic. Douglas Sirk’s debut, April, April!, if not quite a classic, proved to be surprising in terms of both its style and quality. Sirk did make Comedies during his Hollywood years but he became so synonymous with the sumptuous, ripe Melodramas for which he is famous that those working backwards through the filmography are often shocked when they arrive at a demonstration of his deft comedic skills. For anyone viewing chronologically however, Sirk’s early short films clearly point the way towards this hilarious and hugely enjoyable debut feature. 

April, April! shares a writer, Rudo Ritter, with Sirk’s excellent debut short Two Greyhounds, and the same cheeky, satirical style is evident. The social-climbing Lampe family, owners of a successful pasta factory, are contacted by Prince von Holsten-Böhlau who wishes to put in a large noodle order for his planned expedition to Africa. When the Lampes laud this honour over their party guests, one disgruntled friend decides to teach them a lesson by fooling them into believing the Prince himself is coming to inspect their factory in person. By the time they get wind of the gag, the Lampes have made such a fuss and whipped up so much publicity that they can’t go back on their claim. So they decide to hire an impostor to pose as the visiting Prince. In the meantime, however, the real Prince has seen a newspaper article about his impending visit and assumed it is something that has been arranged on his behalf and that he must attend. But having never seen the Prince before, when he arrives the Lampes take him for their fraudulent plant.

There are more farcical misunderstandings, not to mention goofball non-sequiturs and romantic subplots, but part of the fun is watching them play out. April, April! packs a lot into a brief runtime and Sirk ensures we’re always on board with the gradually more complex misadventures. Aside from being delightfully constructed, April, April! is also genuinely funny in quite a modern way. Often the mistake with farce is playing it too broad, so that the world is established as ludicrous even before the madcap shenanigans begin. But April, April! is careful to create a realistic baseline, with character types who are instantly recognisable without being cartoonish. The cast occasionally throw funny lines away with everyday mannerisms that make the situation when funnier. One sequence in which a pair of characters who have reached breaking point take it in turns to smack a stick down hard on a table in order to vent their frustrations is the sort of unexpected aside that became popular in the surreal TV comedies of the 90s.

It’s probably fair to say that April, April! works better as a farce than a satire. The fawning over royalty at first seems to be a welcome subject for irreverent pricking but it emerges that it is the nouveau riche who are the real target. The actual Prince turns out to be good-humoured and impishly charismatic, immediately shepherded into the role of romantic lead rather than set up for the equal mockery for which one might hope. As such, April, April! doesn’t have quite the same level of bite as Two Greyhounds, although it is also less one-note and more ingeniously plotted. Ultimately, it is just a delight to discover that the earliest portion of Sirk’s career was dominated by Comedy, and that displayed such a flair for it.

12.LURED

Lured was the first in a run of three consecutive Noirs that Douglas Sirk made at the tail end of the 40s. Noir is a notoriously difficult genre to define and there are plenty of purists who will tell you (usually with unnecessary anger and perceived superiority) that Lured is not Noir, but as someone who would rather discuss the wide range of genre and genre-adjacent Noirs than be a nitpicking gatekeeper, I’m happy to consider it as such. Regular opposition to this categorisation stems from the fact that Lured is perceived as too light a confection for the shadowy world of Noir. Certainly, Sirk carries over an element of the playfulness that drove his previous film A Scandal in Paris, and this is compounded by the comedic gifts of his charming lead, the legendary Lucille Ball as Sandra Carpenter. But Ball isn’t playing this role as funny. She’s merely layering in the humour already evident in Leo Rosten’s smart screenplay to create a fully-rounded character whose sincerity is as visible as her cynical edge.

Although it is fast-paced, fun and consistently entertaining, I think it’s a mistake to perceive Lured as light. Sirk doesn’t spoonfeed us the grim elements but the deeper we get into the sprawling plot, the more pockets of darkness we find. Deadly sexual proclivities, serial killers, mental illness, slavery, capital punishment; it’s all there in the mix, and the Nancy Drew-esque beginnings of Sandra’s amateur sleuthing quickly uncover horrifying results. There are those who find Lured’s twisty narrative frustratingly unfocused and it’s true that there is a trail of red herrings so long that it’s more like a crimson eel. But these diversions are what make Lured uniquely astute in its depiction of the everyday peril that women endure just living in a world full of men. Sirk’s well-documented dedication to the complex and sympathetic portrayal of the female experience is demonstrated by Lured’s implicit acknowledgment that just because our story is focused on the tracking of a specific predator doesn’t mean a woman can drop her guard when it comes to the numerous other threats right there on her doorstep.

Lured is actually a remake of Robert Siodmak’s French film Pièges, which I have never seen. Given Siodmak’s Noir credentials, I would be interested to compare it with Sirk’s film and see if those life-of-the-party purists would be any more inclined to accept the original into the Noir fold. If Lured may not be exactly the sort of film fans of Sirk’s famous Melodramas expect, I think it blends his sympathetic streak and sense of irony beautifully with the grittier leanings of Noir to create a Thriller that stands out by virtue of its director’s distinctive fingerprints. A terrific cast has also been assembled, with Ball taking top honours but receiving more than able support from Charles Coburn, Cecil Hardwicke, George Zucco and Alan Mowbray. George Sanders makes his third and final appearance in a Sirk film as Ball’s leading man and the caddish ambiguity he perfected over the years serves this part especially well. There is also a wild cameo from Boris Karloff which, though only lasting one scene, stands out as the moment Lured kicks into a very different gear.

Sirk often attributed the commercial indifference to Lured to the studio’s insistence on changing the title mid-release to the bland Personal Column, apparently because they feared people might think the film was called Lurid. Anyone daft enough to skim read a poster and hurriedly stumble into a screening with a preemptive erection would surely find Lured didn’t live up to this imagined misprint. Though it boasts plenty of gruesome concepts, Sirk delivers a tastefully restrained atmosphere that is more interested in exploring the motivations of men than lingering over the consequent suffering of women. One can only imagine what late-era Hitchcock might have made of this screenplay. Perhaps something that would’ve better satiated that shortsighted patron in the stained raincoat.

11.THE FINAL CHORD

For those of us who followed that familiar route through Douglas Sirk’s filmography, starting with the later films and working backwards, it’s almost impossible not to view his earliest works while looking for signs of the director he became. In his first few films, particularly The Girl from Marsh Croft, it is possible to see the early signs of his developing style but in The Final Chord, only his fourth film, Sirk’s stylistic genius is all but fully formed. The key difference is the material with which he is working. While still recognisably a Melodrama, the genre most readily retrospectively associated with Sirk, The Final Chord’s screenplay is far less focused than the likes of All That Heaven Allows or All I Desire. This is the first of a handful of screenplays co-written by Sirk himself and it dips into lots of different staples of the Melodrama in its search for a cohesive identity: the faithless wife, the mother separated from her child, a troubled romance, two separate suicides. The strength of Sirk’s direction pulls all these things together but by the time The Final Chord becomes an eleventh hour Courtroom Drama, it does feel rather like it is flailing.

If story isn’t necessarily The Final Chord’s strong suit, it more than makes up for that in the unforgettable images Sirk puts on screen, starting with a nightmarish New Year’s Eve party in which a newly bereaved window receives the news while surrounded by cackling humanoid chickens and a shifty-eyed harmonica player. There are extended musical sequences as the male protagonist conducts a large orchestra and Sirk’s roving camera drinks in the atmosphere of the concert hall. At one point a mirror is artfully positioned so that the face of a woman is seemingly cast onto the head of her manipulator. These ingenious moments scarcely let up, which is perhaps why the static nature of the courtroom scenes feel so conspicuous. With many interweaving characters and plots to consider, a sober moment to tie them all together is arguably required, and yet it is only in this slowing of the pace where The Final Chord’s weaknesses actually become apparent. Even the hurried final gambit involving a suspected murder hides its curious desperation behind the flourishes of Sirk’s impeccable montage.

Made under the Nazi regime, The Final Chord is said to have pro-Nazi undercurrents but they’re hard to spot unless you’re well versed in the intricacies of that hateful ideology. Certainly, if these themes are present then it is unlikely to be due to the director, who would ultimately flee the country with his Jewish wife and would eventually direct a film entitled Hitler’s Madman. One of the stars of The Final Chord, Lil Dagover, was said to be one of Hitler’s favourite actresses and she is wonderful in her role as the cheating wife, a classically Sirkian example of a deeply flawed character who doesn’t quite qualify for the title of villain. Her complexity and development are testament to Sirk’s strong character work and Dagover’s elegant magnetism. Dagover made only one attempt to break America, in Michael Curtiz’s lacklustre The Woman from Monte Carlo, her particular appeal proving unsuited to the Hollywood aesthetic. Sirk, however, thrived in the US and you can see how that would be the case in The Final Chord’s foreshadowing of several Hollywood classics. There are shades of the wonderful To Each His Own in the mother and son plot, while Maria Koppenhöfer’s memorable turn as the manipulative maid Mrs. Freese feels like a forerunner for Hitchcock’s take on Mrs. Danvers, from the severe appearance to the barely-veiled coded lesbianism. Sirk also drops in several reminders of his less celebrated but nonetheless notable comedic abilities. The opening suicide is discovered by a drunken reveller who extols the virtues of humour, while a stern nurse and her assistant prove hilariously frightening in their attempts to connect with an abandoned boy. I actually laughed out loud at the latter scene.

If The Final Chord’s plot feels a bit unsatisfying, it is the only thing here that is. While that could be enough to sink the average film, this one is packed with enough strong characters, good performances and beautifully directed flourishes to somehow make story temporarily seem like a secondary concern. 

10.THUNDER ON THE HILL

Douglas Sirk had made a few Noirs before Thunder on the Hill and it never quite felt like the ideal genre for his talents. With its stormy backdrop and ominous themes of murder and imminent execution, Thunder on the Hill has links to Noir but it feels more like a Mystery with hints of the Melodramas that would soon ensure Sirk’s place in the history books. With its religious leanings, which include a heroine who is a crime-solving nun, the sense of hope is stronger than in most classic Noir, although the inevitability of someone being carted off to the gallows does bring a certain Noirish fatalism to proceedings.

Whether Noir or not, Thunder on the Hill is at the very least a great little film. It has strong credentials, with Sirk’s name on the credits being joined by screenwriters Oscar Saul, fresh from his work on the screen adaptation of A Streetcar Named Desire, and Andrew Solt, who had just written Nicholas Ray’s exceptional Noir In a Lonely Place. Cinematographer William H. Daniels had also recently cemented his place in Noir history with an Oscar win for his seminal work on The Naked City. With star names Claudette Colbert and Ann Blyth heading up the cast list, Thunder on the Hill has the air of a small A-picture rather than the grubbier B-movie vibe of much Noir. This is to both its credit and its detriment, as Noir fans like myself often thrive on that down-and-dirty energy. But if Thunder on the Hill lacks a bit of edge, it makes up for it in charm.

Thunder on the Hill tells the story of a Norfolk convent which finds itself host to convicted murderer Valerie Carns and her escorts when severe flooding forces them off course on the way to her execution. Sister Mary, the nurse in charge of the convent’s hospital ward, begins to suspect Valerie may be innocent and, against the wishes of the police sergeant and her own Mother Superior, launches an amateur investigation into the case. There’s an endearing Nancy Drew-like quality to Sister Mary’s escapades and a nice vein of humour as she enlists the help of a fellow nun in her sleuthing. But Sirk never lets us forget that the stakes are extremely high and the raging storm acts as an effective ticking clock, since once the rain stops we know time will be short. The storm and the flooding it has caused also act as an obstacle, largely confining everyone to the convent and forcing Sister Mary to use the resources at her disposal.

Though they could’ve gone down a Whodunnit path, the makers of Thunder on the Hill recognise that the thrills aren’t in hiding the killer’s identity but in ramping up the tension as time drizzles away like the rain on the windows. Claudette Colbert is very good in a meaty, unglamorous role, and her ability to convincingly convey intense emotions on cue makes her the perfect lead for Sirk’s brand of sincerity. For all the latter day claims about Sirk being a satirist of saccharine celluloid, I’ve always thought his films seemed genuine, if not necessarily unaware of their blatant manipulations, and this makes them work all the better for me. Thunder on the Hill demands a level of emotional investment and between them Colbert and Sirk ensure it. Consequently, a potentially hokey little tale of mystery and morality becomes compelling and delightful. You won’t find the grimmest jettisons from Noir’s cigarette butt here but as a Noir-adjacent mini-adventure, Thunder on the Hill provides the perfect palate cleanser for those who like to cast their Noir net wide.

9.HITLER’S MADMAN

Hitler’s Madman is a significant milestone in the Douglas Sirk canon. For one thing, it’s the first time the name Douglas Sirk appeared on screen. Sirk changed it from Detlef Sierck after fleeing Germany and settling in America, and it was under this new name that the bulk of his most acclaimed work was created. Hitler’s Madman does not generally feature amongst that list of Sirk’s greatest but it feels to me like a film that is well overdue a reappraisal. At the time of writing, at the outset of Trump’s second term, films about fascism unfortunately continue to hit with a renewed resonance, but even removing that consideration (which is easier said than done when you open the news pages with renewed dread every morning) Hitler’s Madman remains a striking and uncompromising piece of work. 

For Sirk, who only a couple of films previously had found himself constrained by a Nazi-sympathising screenwriter, this must’ve felt like a very important film both politically and personally. The subject of the film and the titular madman in question, Reinhard Heydrich, was a Nazi officer whom Sirk had met while still in Germany, and of whom he said “he made my blood run cold.” That frozen circulatory system is something Sirk manages to effectively reproduce in this fictionalised account of Heydrich’s assassination, an event that occurred only a year before Hitler’s Madman was released. That peculiar title was changed from the less risible Hitler’s Hangman when it emerged that Fritz Lang was also making a film about Heydrich’s assassination entitled Hangmen Also Die! That name change may have contributed to Hitler’s Madman’s consignment to relative obscurity. I certainly approached the film expecting something more lurid and silly than I got. Then again, that ill-advised exclamation mark on the end of Lang’s film title did that release no favours either.

Hitler’s Madman was produced independently by Seymour Nebenzal, another German filmmaker who had been forced to flee the Nazis. With the support of PRC, the smallest of of Hollywood studios, the film was shot in just one week but word of mouth about the strong results of Sirk and Nebenzal’s collaboration attracted the attention of MGM who purchased the film and commissioned Sirk to shoot extra footage to increase the dramatic impact. Though Sirk felt this compromised the documentary-like realism of his original footage, the added scenes do stand out as the film’s most visceral and impressive. They include a frightening scene of Heydrich terrorising a class of university students and a deathbed sequence which gives us a glimpse of Heydrich at the closest he comes to vulnerability. John Carradine is fantastic in the role of this monstrously cold killer, giving the sort of powerful performance that makes him feel like he’s in the film for much longer than he actually is. Hitler’s Madman is only held back from being an outright classic by the rather bland Alan Curtis in what is nominally the leading role. Fortunately, the film is more roving than many of its contemporaries, moving between people and places in a manner that can’t support the notion of a true leading protagonist. Instead, Sirk presents us with an impressionistic image of a terrible time and place, making the numerous factual errors feel subservient to the overall milieu. 

Hitler’s Madman culminates in a chilling recreation of the Lidice massacre, a retaliatory destruction of a village by the Nazis. Even with the modest budget available to him, Sirk creates an indelibly grim image of fiery desolation, a parade of the dead passing the camera and appealing through the fourth wall for audiences to take action. Hollywood often used dewey-eyed patriotism to appeal to wartime audiences but the creative team behind Hitler’s Madman were uniquely aware that there was nothing here to be romanticised. This isn’t a film that aims to create and idolise heroes so much as a film that presents the devastation with unvarnished horror and cries out for everyone to do something and quickly. It may have been hurriedly retitled with a ludicrous moniker but Hitler’s Madman remains a film of vital, urgent impact.

8.NO ROOM FOR THE GROOM

The fascinating thing about going through a director’s entire filmography is that you’re never quite sure when a hidden gem is going to crop up. You have certain expectations but they are often proved erroneous. A case in point is No Room for the Groom, a Comedy by Douglas Sirk that was held in such low regard by the director that he later claimed not to remember a thing about it. The fact that the film comes from a period in Sirk’s career where he was making mostly featherlight Comedies and Musicals, and the fact that the title No Room for the Groom sounds overly pleased with its goofy rhyme, meant I went into this film with very low expectations. Comedy is my favourite genre but the two Comedies Sirk made directly before this one, The Lady Pays Off and Week-End with Father, were far from exemplary and No Room for the Groom’s reputation led me to believe this would be more of the same. No Room for the Groom even shares a screenwriter, Joseph Hoffman, with the dull Week-End with Father. But while that earlier film had been contented with standard family sitcom dynamics, No Room for the Groom turned out to be a much more pointed satire on capitalism, greed, family relationships and sexual mores. Bolstered by a couple of stars, Tony Curtis and Piper Laurie, who have real chemistry, No Room for the Groom manages to wring laughs out of the same themes of romance blighted by societal expectations that drove Sirk’s later masterpiece All That Heaven Allows.

No Room for the Groom begins with the couple Alvah and Lee eloping to Las Vegas. Alvah’s desperation to consummate their union is made immediately apparent in his desire to go with the quickest ceremony possible, before rushing back to their hotel room where a prematurely popping champagne cork underlines that theme. But in a frustrating turn of events, Alvah is diagnosed with chickenpox before anything can happen between the newlyweds. Forced to return to active duty immediately, Alvah and Lee are kept apart for ten months. In the meantime, Alvah’s manipulative mother, who has been living with Lee in Alvah’s house, has gradually moved her entire extended family in with them. When Alvah finally returns, he is faced with a house overflowing with strangers and nowhere he can be alone with his wife. Worse still, his wife has neglected to tell her mother about the marriage, afraid it will exacerbate the symptoms of illness that she fakes in order to keep Lee under her control. Lee’s mother has other plans for Lee, hoping she will marry business magnate Herman Strouple, whose cement business is turning the once peaceful small town upside down. On learning of the marriage, Lee’s mother has one ray of hope: an unconsummated marriage can still be annulled.

No Room for the Groom has the complex setup of a wacky farce and there are moments of lively slapstick that certainly fit this definition, but overall the film is played a lot smarter than that. There are lots of threads to pull on and each of them dispenses a different flavour, from bawdy comedy to cutting satire and earnest drama. Hoffman’s script and Sirk’s direction keep these tonal shifts in check, creating an insightful and nightmarish vision of poisoned 50s American domesticity. Tony Curtis, in an early leading role, is enjoyably flummoxed at the escalating mayhem, while Piper Laurie is terrific as the woman torn between her family, her husband and the temptations of the capitalist ideal. The other standout cast member is Lillian Bronson as Lee’s Aunt Elsa, one of the few members of the household who is on the side of love rather than profit. Spring Byington is an odd choice for the malevolent mother but this slight miscasting is balanced out by numerous enjoyable bit players such as Bill Baldwin as a doctor who has arrived direct from the casino tables, and Paul McVey as a deadpan psychiatrist sent to declare Alvah unstable. Given that the last two Sirk Comedies had been bogged down by precociously sweet child performances, it’s also refreshing to see Lee Aaker as Donovan, a young tearaway whose projectiles become the bane of Alvah’s life. Their surprisingly physical ongoing battle is a fun running gag.

It’s clear that a 50s Sex Comedy about thwarted consummation is going to end with implied, triumphant offscreen copulation but the road to get to that climax is long and circuitous. Actually, “long” may be the wrong word to use here, since No Room for the Groom runs to a scant 82 minutes. These brief runtimes had been a relief in previous Sirk Comedies but in this case there are a couple of strands which could’ve benefited from more filling out. In particular, the negative effects of the large cement business on the town are only alluded to, whereas if the audience had been shown this devastation it might’ve fuelled the urgency of the final act. Nevertheless, No Room for the Groom exceeded my expectations to the point that I’m willing to name this smart, multi-faceted Comedy as Sirk’s best film up to this point. What a wonderful surprise. 

7.MEET ME AT THE FAIR

Meet Me at the Fair was Douglas Sirk’s penultimate light Comedy film before his more famous stretch of Melodramas began. Though this clutch of six consecutive Comedies and Musicals is little seen these days, there are a few little gems in there and Meet Me at the Fair is the cream of the crop. One thing that did strike me though was just how washed out the Technicolor looked in the version I viewed, especially after watching the pristine-looking Has Anybody Seen My Gal? I wonder if there are better prints available out there because I feel like if Meet Me at the Fair was polished up to its full visual potential it might even add half a star to its rating. That the film was able to break through this pallid veneer to delight and entertain nonetheless is testament to what a sparky humdinger of a Musical it really is. Clearly, the ravages of time aren’t the only obstacle here. It’s quickly apparent that Meet Me at the Fair is a comparatively shoestring production, with several cramped locations and few real household names among the cast. That matters little though when the players are giving their all to make it work and Meet Me at the Fair benefits from several wonderful turns, especially Dan Dailey as the yarn-spinning medicine show owner Doc and the scene-stealing Scatman Crothers as his associate and pal Enoch. This being 1953, there is unfortunately a fleeting blackface number towards the end of the film, but by and large Crothers performance provides strong representation for a film of this era and refuses to trade dignity and charisma for the traditional stereotype and humiliation.

I’ve seen many reviewers claiming that Meet Me at the Fair works OK as a Comedy but is weak as a Musical. I feel that it works well as both but the Musical elements actually score big for me. Set in the early 1900s, Meet Me at the Fair features a mixture of reliable period standards like Oh! Susannah, old spirituals like All God’s Chillun Got Shoes and modern originals. In the case of the latter, Scatman Crothers is once again the MVP, co-writing the wonderful singalong I Was There and performing the hell out of comedian Stan Freberg’s I Got the Shiniest Mouth in Town. From a comedy point of view, Meet Me at the Fair is more fun than it is actually funny, but the gusto of the theatrical performances make that more than enough. There’s a surprising dramatic heft to the story too, focusing as it does on the abusive treatment of orphans by corrupt community figureheads. Child actor and soprano Chet Allen plays the escaped orphan who alerts his new travelling companions to the mistreatment, and he gives a spirited performance that slips nicely into the lively exaggerations of the ensemble. It’s hard to believe while watching this warm, uplifting film that Allen would eventually die by his own hand at the age of 45.

It’s easy to see how some may be underwhelmed by what appears on the surface to be another cheap and cheerful, cornball studio Musical but those with a penchant for the genre and a solid amount of experience with Musicals both famous and obscure will likely recognise just what an impressive job Sirk has done in drawing out the full potential from this charming material. Far from suffering from its financial restrictions, Meet Me at the Fair actually thrives on that energy, its independent flavour playing into the film’s thematic veneration of knee-slapping outsiders.

6.WRITTEN ON THE WIND

Based on the novel by Robert Wilder, whose Flamingo Road had previously served as the source for an excellent Michael Curtiz film of the same name, Written on the Wind quickly became one of Douglas Sirk’s most popular films. Its hot-blooded melodrama is a clear forerunner for any number of infamously trashy but widely beloved American TV Soaps. Though I’ve never been an avid viewer of Soaps myself, on the few occasions when I have caught an episode I can well appreciate how easy it is to get drawn into their lurid twists and turns, specifically designed to ensnare and hold the attention. I don’t have time in my life to submit to these passing interests enough to commit to becoming a regular Soap viewer but I’ll gladly indulge this suppressed appetite for throwaway thrills with a film that provides all the salacious payoffs of a long-running serial in under 100 minutes.

Written on the Wind shares many qualities with Sirk’s earlier Melodramas, including the ravishing colour cinematography of Russell Metty, a reliably sturdy leading turn from Rock Hudson and a swirling score by Frank Skinner. But there’s a different feel to Written on the Wind from that found in those other films. While romance was always a central concern, Written on the Wind focuses far more strongly on obsession and sexual transgression, resulting in a deliberately bitterer flavour. As with Magnificent Obsession, Sirk is clearly aware of the ludicrous excesses of his material but unlike that film, in the case of Written on the Wind that self-awareness pays dividends. With a main cast of characters that includes a pathologically jealous alcoholic, a vindictive spurned lover and their disappointed oil baron father, Sirk leans hard into unpleasant emotions and explosive interactions. The fact that the whole thing is based on a real life scandal between a tobacco heir and his torch singer wife makes Written on the Wind feels even more of a gloriously guilty pleasure. Many details had to be tweaked to avoid a lawsuit but the film retains that edge of tabloid sleaze, our occasional interest in which we ought to and do despise. Somehow, the self-hatred that unfortunate impulse stokes also creates just the sort of mindset that is perfect for getting the most out of Written on the Wind. The film feels artfully contradictory in its sparkling visual gloss and the layer of indelible dirt it leaves behind.

The two big names in the cast of Written on the Wind were Rock Hudson and Lauren Bacall but the film belongs to Robert Stack and Dorothy Malone as the Hadleys, two oil heirs whose outlandish self-indulgences are a continued source of despair to their millionaire father. Hudson and Bacall as the two comparatively sane bystanders drawn into the Hadley’s maelstrom do a fine job of providing an anchoring force amidst the storm of rampant sexual impulses that rage around them and ultimately pull them under. Stack gives a sometimes ferociously over-the-top performance as the outwardly cocky but emotionally fragile Kyle, his booze-soaked antics eliciting both horror and guilty guffaws in a way that only Sirk could make work so well. But it is Dorothy Malone, her platinum dye job and impossibly blue eyes made for Technicolor, who completely steals the whole film in an Oscar-winning turn as the relentless manipulator Marylee, whose obsession with Hudson’s Wayne drives her to an endless string of sexual exploits in order to gain his attention. This leads to a fantastic barroom brawl scene in which Kyle and Mitch confront her latest conquest and Hudson delivers a series of knockdown blows that end with a hysterical punch to the back of his victim’s head.

Written on the Wind pulls off the neat trick that was subsequently mastered by all the best Soaps: it gives the impression of telling a great story when what it is really doing is hitting us with a series of jolting events. Good characters are essential, of course, and Sirk effortlessly draws these out of George Zuckerman’s bold and brassy screenplay, presenting us with our four leads in a series of opening closeups that accompany their actors’ credits in the manner of a TV show’s opening credits, only with the irresistible cinematic quality that sets the film apart from its successors-in-miniature. It’s incredible that Sirk could take such gossip column gubbins and make it appear to be an epic family saga by applying a sheen of salty excess that is irresistible even as it has you hunting for the nearest tongue-scraper. Never has trash shone so bright or smelled so sensual. You’ll hate yourself in the morning but it’ll feel so gloriously worth it.

5.THE TARNISHED ANGELS

Would it be insensitive of me to begin a review of a film that features two fatal plane crashes by saying that its only major problem is that it doesn’t stick the landing? After a fantastic dramatic peak, The Tarnished Angels slightly meanders to a vaguely unsatisfying climax in its last fifteen minutes. But the film has flown so high in the lead up to this that it barely matters. Reuniting the main cast and screenwriter of his hugely popular Written on the Wind, Douglas Sirk has pulled together a deeply moving and effective adaptation of William Faulkner’s novel Pylon. Having fought unsuccessfully to be allowed to make his previous films All I Desire and There’s Always Tomorrow in colour, Sirk opted to shoot The Tarnished Angels in black and white in order to capture the despondency of its Depression-era setting. Although critics tend to cite colour cinematography as one of the major strengths associated with Sirk’s filmography, I’ve found myself drawn to his black and white films, confirmation that there is far more to his work than Technicolor prettiness. Cinematographer Irving Glassberg creates a perfectly stark, cold look for The Tarnished Angels, a chilly aesthetic that is enhanced by the carnival backdrop, a candy-coloured distraction rendered crushingly impotent by its draining into monochrome.

Although it reassembles much of the creative team behind Written on the Wind, The Tarnished Angels is a very different film. While the former was wilfully salacious and over-the-top, the latter exercises some emotional restraint and deals with slightly more guarded characters. Dorothy Malone, who was gifted the most luridly outlandish role in Written on the Wind, demonstrates her range as neglected wife LaVerne Shumann, her performance this time relying on a palpable sense of quiet, internalised hurt. While Robert Stack gets less chance to shine in the part of LaVerne’s husband Roger, Rock Hudson gives one of his best performances as the heavy-drinking newspaperman who takes more than a professional interest in the Shumann’s daredevil stunt airshows. Often lumbered with, and excelling at, the stoic, dependable roles, Hudson thrives on his first opportunity to portray a more flawed human being since his selfish playboy in Magnificent Obsession. Joining the main cast is Jack Carson as the schlubby mechanic Jiggs. Often the sort of role written as overly-virtuous to balance out a good-looking rogue of a lead, Jiggs is written and played with an intriguing mix of good intentions, unrequited desire and ineffectual weakness. Carson epitomises all three in a memorably unpleasant scene in which he allows himself to be coerced into a game of dice in which LaVerne is the prize.

Sirk was always excellent at finding the relatable emotional cores of his characters even as he subverted and satirised the value systems that surrounded them but The Tarnished Angels has the extra frisson of being about stunt pilots and parachutists, so you get some terrific aerial action sequences in the mix too. And while the cinematography is more muted and the characters more subtly realised than in Written on the Wind, there are still Sirkian flourishes and humorous incongruities at key moments. Two characters finally giving in to their repressed passions are interrupted by a jump scare from a death-masked party reveller. A tragic accident is briefly acknowledged with mild disinterest by two carnival performers making out, who promptly disregard it and continue with their business. This is prime Sirk material and it could scarcely be mistaken for anyone else’s work, colour or no.

Although many of the contemporary reactions, notably that of Sirk Hater in Chief Bosley Crowther, were predictably negative, The Tarnished Angels has since been embraced as one of Sirk’s most effective cult films. It lives in the shadows of All That Heaven Allows and Written on the Wind, but I’ve come to realise that those shadows are the dark corners in which Sirk’s very best work resides. Crowther can hardly be blamed for missing the nuances in Sirk’s films which were, after all, presented as and taken by most to be face value weepies whose layers were only peeled away decades later during his Fassbinder-approved reappraisal. But for those who find Sirk’s colour-drenched emotional extravaganzas too much to stomach even now the ironies are an open secret, The Tarnished Angels is perhaps the best alternative starting point to see the master of Melodrama working in a slightly different register.

4.ALL THAT HEAVEN ALLOWS

The deer is funny. We all know that now. The image of the frolicking deer with which Douglas Sirk chooses to end All That Heaven Allows is so pointedly saccharine that it can only be taken as some form of satire. This seems obvious to us now but when we’re lamenting how literally it was taken by dismissive critics of the era, we often fail to factor in the changing times and tastes that eventually rendered the deer’s comedic cynicism so blatant. And, lets be honest, most of us fail to factor in that we’ve seen interviews with and articles about Sirk that clarify his deconstructionist approach to 1950s values to the point where there was very little intellectual work on our part beyond the simple act of reading. But here’s the thing: the deer is also lovely. I mean, come on, what kind of Bambiphobic bastard doesn’t enjoy seeing a capering deer against a snowy backdrop? And this is key because, while they undoubtedly cast a critical and slyly sardonic eye over the mores of 50s life and its cinematic counterparts, Sirk’s best films also give the sincere impression of caring about their characters in a way that is reflected in their audience. I’m a firm believer that you can’t completely fall in love with All That Heaven Allows to the extent it deserves if you’re watching it with the leering smirk of a deer-hating nihilist.

The deer isn’t even the funniest animal in All That Heaven Allows. There’s a hilarious moment when a dramatic kiss between Jane Wyman’s Cary and Rock Hudson’s Ron is followed immediately by a lingering shot of a bemused pigeon. But this moment of ornithological voyeurism also seems to hold a greater significance that’s its initial humour. On first encountering the pigeon, Cary is terrified and with good reason. The pigeon’s perplexed reaction is a feathery forerunner of those doled out by Cary’s friends and family when they find out about her relationship with the younger, lower-class Ron. All That Heaven Allows, after all, is really a romance second and a social satire first, training an unforgiving eye on the human vermin who forcibly impose their own values on others, who overdramatise their impulsive whims in a way that casually devastates and who enhance their own dubious version of contentment by actively seeking to spread discontent amongst their social circle. Allegedly Sirk wanted to end All That Heaven Allows on a tragic note, with a romance destroyed and a life taken by the restrictive demands of snooty etiquette. Instead, as had been the case with his previous masterpiece All I Desire, Sirk was forced to append a happy conclusion, and once again I actually find the studio-imposed ending a preferable decision. Sirk’s sniping at 50s values is a thing of progressive triumph and it only increases the impact to have his characters break free of the same at the climax, rather than cynically dash all hopes as the impeccably ironed curtain falls. Plus, of course, this way we also got the deer, and the deer is funny.

Following the success of Magnificent Obsession, a re-pairing of Wyman and Hudson seemed inevitable but All That Heaven Allows is a very different beast. Magnificent Obsession was a Melodrama in the extreme, with a contrived tragic event seeming to occur at every fifteen minute interval. By contrast, All That Heaven Allows is a much simpler story, at least on the surface. In terms of real world societal resonance however, it has a great deal to say about the class divide, perceptions of the ageing process and the expectations placed on women. This affords Wyman the opportunity to sink her teeth into a much more interesting role than the one she played in Magnificent Obsession, which essentially rested on the now largely retired tragic disability trope. Peg Fenwick did a fine job of adapting the novel of the same name by Edna L. and Harry Lee, and having material derived from two female contributors must’ve been a great help to Wyman in creating one of the most vividly real heroines she ever essayed. 

By contrast, Hudson has a less interesting role here than in Magnificent Obsession, where he went on a more scintillating moral journey. In All That Heaven Allows he is essentially the idealised square-jawed dreamboat, a role he plays very well and which allows Wyman the spotlight she deserves. The third returning cast member from Magnificent Obsession is the wonderful Agnes Moorehead, who plays Cary’s friend Sara. Sara may be the most interesting character here, split between her loyalty to her friend and her inclination towards conformity, she is tentatively supportive but never quite relinquishes her misgivings. Even in the face of the appalling behaviour of their social circle, Sara’s response to Cary’s consequent breakup is a veiled “I told you so.” Moorehead plays this all with exquisite subtlety, creating a flawed but sympathetic character whose hint of empathy makes her a glimmer of hope in a nest of vipers.

For many, the most memorable villain in All That Heaven Allows will be Jacqueline de Wit’s shitstirring busybody Mona Plash, a powerful figure whose overt, catty disapproval can ruin reputations in a matter of minutes. There are other antagonists here that cut even deeper than Mona however. Gloria Talbott and William Reynolds are frustratingly patronising as Cary’s children Kay and Ned, their familial status making their sabotage of their mother’s happiness even more wounding. Ned in particular seems to object almost on a whim, his tantrum dissolving into indifference when he gets his way. Kay is a strange character, a self-styled, Freud-quoting intellectual with thick-rimmed glasses who suddenly undergoes an inexplicable improvement in vision after getting engaged. Perhaps this is a comment on vanity from Sirk, although the implication seems to be that the glasses were an affectation and the implied skepticism about female intellectualism sits oddly with the more progressive attitudes of the rest of the film. Such a nitpick is dwarfed by the handling of the film’s other major villain, Donald Curtis’s Howard. Here, Sirk gives us male sexual entitlement in its full moustachioed horror. This was still the era when a forced tickling of the upper lip by a Clark Gable or Ronald Colman type was regularly depicted as a much-needed lesson in womanhood rather than the sexual assault it so clearly is, but All That Heaven Allows is having none of that. In both his scenes, Howard is shown to be a vile predator, his sexual advances driven first by uncontrolled lust and then by a presumed judgment on Cary’s virtue which resembles the type of loathsome value system you still find in incel-drenched corners of the internet today. Given that it was only the previous decade that The Philadelphia Story was lecturing audiences about how the infidelities of middle aged men are the fault of their young daughters not giving them enough affection, All That Heaven Allows’ angle feels comparatively trailblazing. The fact that Howard’s behaviour results in the castigation of Ron and Cary and not himself was presumably reflective of the way many of the film’s contemporary audience would also have reacted.

The deer is funny. The pigeon is funny. Cary trapped inside her brand new TV set is not funny. This ingenious moment, perhaps the most famous in the whole Sirk canon, epitomises All That Heaven Allows at its sincere best. The reflection of the sad-eyed Wyman as she stares into the screen of the new gadget that her own children have presented her as a love substitute is a moment of pure domestic terror, a premature boxing up of a young widow not yet ready for the shelf (or TV table). If the image of the deer may be the first to jump to mind when All That Heaven Allows is mentioned, the TV scene is the one that’ll come back to you in the dead of night. It is deservedly one of the most revered shots in American cinema and it epitomises the brilliance of All That Heaven Allows’ commentary on the oppressive nature of a conformist groupthink that would seek to put us all in predetermined boxes whether we like it or not. Sirk’s powerful parable is a celebration of those brave few who find the strength to get up and change the channel.

3.THERE’S ALWAYS TOMORROW

With There’s Always Tomorrow, after years of trying, Douglas Sirk finally made his Melodrama with a downbeat ending. It might not look that way at a glance. The misery-averse studio heads almost certainly took this ending at face value, a man’s return from the brink of infidelity to the loving family unit as the adoring children look on approvingly. It’s the way it would read on paper too. But the way Sirk shot it and had his actors play it, the ending of There’s Always Tomorrow is a stingingly depressing moment of resounding sadness, with characters experiencing varying degrees of loss, despair and deception that are beyond the comprehension of the calligraphic swirls in the chintzy ‘The End’ credit bumper.

There’s Always Tomorrow is the second of two films Sirk made with Barbara Stanwyck. It was also the second film with Stanwyck that the studio refused to let Sirk produce in colour. Whether this was a reaction to Stanwyck’s age I’m not sure, although the fact that in Sirk’s previous film Jane Wyman had been cast as an “ageing widow” at the age of 38 is not a great sign. Either way, Stanwyck is no less iconically beautiful or devastatingly talented here than she ever was and it is wonderful to see her back working opposite her Double Indemnity and Remember the Night co-star Fred MacMurray. MacMurray was getting on a bit himself by Hollywood standards but he too looks as beautiful as ever and embraces the chance to give one of his most affecting performances. Although the lack of colour may have hurt its box office and contributed to it being bewilderingly overlooked for many years, There’s Always Tomorrow was not hurt artistically by this restriction. In fact, I’m beginning to think Sirk often did his best work in black and white. He was able to secure His preferred cinematographer Russell Metty who shot most of Sirk’s most famous colour films and Metty gives There’s Always Tomorrow the perfect blend of soft focus and hard edge to complement its chilly romantic observations. Black and white feels right for the film, a story of middle aged regrets and people who feel the colour has drained out of their lives.

There’s Always Tomorrow follows the story of Clifford Groves, a toy manufacturer with a wife and three children who lately feels neglected by his busy family. Left alone in the house one evening after his wife rejects the birthday plans he had made for her in favour of their daughter’s ballet recital, Clifford receives a surprise visit from one of his old employees, Norma Miller, and the two go out together where they reminisce about old times. As more plans with his wife and children fall through, Clifford turns more and more to Norma for companionship, until he is spotted out with her by his eldest son. Though the relationship is still platonic, it is also intimate and the discovery causes further friction in the family. Will the faithful Clifford be driven into the arms of his old acquaintance?

There’s Always Tomorrow sounds like another trite story of extramarital affairs but, as with its final scene, it is not done justice on paper. Critic Mae Tinee’s patronising review referred to it as “a plea for poor old pop”, while Bosley Crowther mirrored this with the comment “For Pete’s sake, have mercy on Dad—especially if you are contemplating taking him to see this film.” But from a modern perspective, There’s Always Tomorrow feels more balanced than that. From the viewpoint of those with traditional 50s values, of the wife who has dinner waiting and the children who bring Dad his pipe, slippers and newspaper, There’s Always Tomorrow may seem like it is entirely sympathetic with Clifford’s plight but, as we know, Sirk was not especially aligned with 50s American values. In this case, he refuses to portray Clifford’s wife Marion as uncaring or neglectful. Her reasons for being unable to accept Clifford’s birthday surprise or an impromptu holiday are always to do with the children. Clifford himself doesn’t seem even aware of his daughter’s first ballet performance and is later keen to skip out on her when she’s suffering with a potential broken leg. Clifford’s expectations to be doted on by his adolescent children seem unrealistic at best and, given his lack of reciprocal attention, entitled at worst. There’s Always Tomorrow feels like a study of the kind of man who feels usurped by his own offspring, self-infantilised and requiring constant attention or else he’ll go seeking it elsewhere. This may sound harsh given how sympathetic MacMurray makes Clifford the Big Red Hangdog, but that is further testament to Sirk’s dedication to the complexity of his characters. He neither condemns nor venerates this character, merely explores him thoroughly.

From a melodramatic point of view, There’s Always Tomorrow is one of Sirk’s subtler films. When Stanwyck’s eyes shine with tears and when MacMurray crumples in lonely desperation, that is when the drama hits its emotional peak. These comparatively small moments luxuriate in Metty’s black and white beauty and Sirk presents them in an unironic fashion, mining them for every ounce of sincerity. There are moments of amusing Sirkian incongruity, such as one of Clifford’s low points being accompanied by a foregrounded robot toy apparently heading towards a tabletop suicide, but the general air of restraint makes that bitterly ironic climax all the more effective. Clifford’s son Vinnie, the instigator and chief perpetrator of the rumours about his father which become self-fulfilling, gets a happy ending when he is reunited with the girlfriend who judges him to have grown up as a result of the chaos he has wrought. Meanwhile, Norma, having already left town years ago to escape her impossible love for Clifford, is forced to do so for a second time. We last see her, resplendent in her moist-eyed devastation, disappearing on a plane as the crushed Clifford watches from his window. When his loving wife inquires if he is ok, citing his uncharacteristic irritability for the last few days as the source of her concern, Clifford replies that he is alright now and the two walk away arm in arm. They are watched by their children, who remark what a lovely couple they make. On paper, this sounds like the sort of hurried, happy resolution that could destroy a film but Sirk hits all the right notes to change the meaning for anyone reading between the lines. Clifford’s claim that he is alright is delivered with a total lack of conviction and, as he sleepwalks back into the life with which he is now even more unsatisfied, the last word goes to the naive children who have been so wrong about practically everything throughout the film. To them, it appears, everything is going to be just fine!

2.ALL I DESIRE

While working my way chronologically through the films of Douglas Sirk, I’ve encountered numerous landmark moments in the director’s history: his first feature, his first American film, his first film in colour. All I Desire, though, feels like the most significant landmark yet. This is Sirk’s first Melodrama in the style that would eventually become irrevocably associated with his name. Sure, there were precedents for Sirk’s American Melodramas in his early German films, and there are those who argue for other works like Summer Storm and Sleep, My Love to be included under that umbrella. But All I Desire establishes a personal touch so distinctive that not only is its place in the Melodrama genre unquestionable but its influence on the development of that same genre is monumental. All I Desire can also lay claim to another, perhaps even more significant landmark achievement in the Sirk canon: that of being his first truly great film.

All I Desire is often overlooked and the only reason I can attribute to this is that it is not in colour. Sirk’s next big Melodrama, Magnificent Obsession, and most of the others after that were filmed in eye-popping Technicolor and that particular aesthetic became so inextricably linked with Sirk that many seem to absolutely demand it be in place. Only a handful of his subsequent films were in black and white, including his other Melodrama with Barbara Stanwyck, There’s Always Tomorrow, itself often a victim of marginalisation. It’s incredible to me that films by one of the great directors which star one of the greatest actresses of all time can be treated this way based on such a seemingly minor consideration. Then again, Sirk may not agree on this count, given that he and his producer Ross Hunter fought hard to be able to shoot All I Desire in colour. Ultimately, the extra cost was not deemed worth it by Universal and this is still a major sticking point for many Sirk fans who can’t seem to mention All I Desire without bemoaning what could have been. For my part, I think the film is all the better for the soft, shadowy cinematography of Carl E. Guthrie, who finds the visual warmth Sirk wanted through his subtly glistening monochrome palette. All I Desire shares enough with the subsequent Melodramas to clearly define itself as the initiator and yet it also differentiates itself with a clipped runtime and lightness of touch which is well served by this comparative visual modesty.

Based on Carol Ryrie Brink’s 1951 novel Stopover, All I Desire tells the story of Naomi Murdoch, an aspiring stage actress who abandoned her husband and children several years ago ostensibly to pursue her career. Unbeknownst to those she left behind, Naomi has fallen on hard times when she receives a letter from her daughter Lily begging her to come back home to witness Lily’s acting debut in a high school production. To the surprise of everyone, Naomi returns to her former Wisconsin hometown where her presence causes quite a stir and unearths a long dormant scandal involving a local shopkeeper. All I Desire sounds like pretty standard stuff storywise but it is executed so beautifully by all involved that it elevates the material significantly. The characters all feel vividly real in both writing and performance, with Naomi’s two daughters presenting an incisive bisection of her own personality, while her young son seems to represent her untapped potential to be the loving mother she struggled to be the first time round. The casting is perfect, with Stanwyck capturing that middle ground between captivating glamour and frazzled regret and Richard Carlson embodying the committed but unexciting prospect of a husband. Marcia Henderson and Lori Nelson complement each other beautifully as the polar opposite sisters, while Billy Gray is heartbreaking as the son who is getting to know his mother for the first time. His tentatively hopeful scenes with Stanwyck are some of the film’s best.

As well as denying him the colour he wanted, Universal also forced Sirk to tack on a happy ending to All I Desire. As originally shot and in keeping with the impermanence of the working title Stopover, Naomi was supposed to leave her family once again at the climax of the film. Considering the emotional impact of the preceding scene in which her son begs her to stay, Sirk’s original ending might’ve positioned All I Desire as one of the all time great weepies. As it is, the film still works with the hopeful but not completely pat resolution with which it was slapped and there’s a sentimental part of me, the part so completely taken with these characters, that remains glad it exists. Call me an old romantic but I’m not sure if the downbeat ending would’ve been as thematically resonant as the one in which the husband accepts his part in driving the wife away and they resolve to face off against the societal expectations inevitably heading their way, strengthened by their bond. These pressures of puritanical 50s morality were something that Sirk would deconstruct time and again and, while I’m sure he could’ve just as powerfully satirised them with an ending in which they destroy their target, such cynicism is far less effective inspirationally if not provided with a counterbalance. So even with the compromised climax and without the colour so many feel should be there, I think All I Desire is a practically perfect, exemplary piece of 50s Melodrama.

1. IMITATION OF LIFE

Not many artists get to close out their Hollywood careers in as perfect a way as Douglas Sirk did. Having grown tired of the Hollywood system and the style of films with which he had become associated, Sirk opted to make one final film that was as extreme a Sirkian Melodrama as was possible to imagine. With its inflated two hour runtime, knockout colour cinematography from Russell Metty and beautifully impassioned performances from a cast who were unaware of their director’s impish ironies, Imitation of Life is the perfect culmination of Sirk’s proto-Soap aesthetic, equal parts rousingly sumptuous and luridly nauseating and 100% self-aware on both counts. Watch Imitation of Life without the context behind its creation and you might just loathe it. Even those who are pre-warned of its deliberate excesses and sardonic intentions often loathe it anyway. But then there are sick puppies like me who just adore it. Given my twin penchants for sentimentality and subversion, Imitation of Life is a rich confection that I relish choking down and throwing up in equal measure.

As with Magnificent Obsession and Interlude before it, Imitation of Life is an adaptation of material previously adapted for a film by John M. Stahl. Stahl’s version stuck closer to Fannie Hurst’s source text, in which a white woman and her black maid/nanny start up a successful waffle company together. It was pancakes in the film, perhaps because waffles aren’t Hollywood enough, but no variety of breakfast confectionery was dramatic enough for Sirk. In his version, written by Eleanore Griffin and Allan Scott, the cosy entrepreneurship is torpedoed in favour of Lana Turner’s Lora following her dream of being an actress, which leads to fame, fortune and the fracturing of her neglected family. There’s a cockeyed conservatism to Imitation of Life’s attitude to Lora’s career ambitions, as she faces multiple breakups with her boyfriend Steve over her desire for a career. The film often feels like it is siding against her, which is inconsistent with Sirk’s usual disdain for oppressive 1950s American values, although he is working in such a heavily ironic register here that to assume any character is the moral mouthpiece, or even that there is such a thing in this film, feels like an insufficiently conventional reading.

If Imitation of Life’s gender politics could potentially be viewed as vexingly ambiguous, its racial politics are fascinatingly complex. Stahl’s earlier version of the story favoured an unironic imbalance in which black maid Delilah continually did herself out of deserved financial remuneration for the sheer love of looking after her white employer. This was portrayed as somewhat admirable in 1934 but in 1959 the same character, now named Annie, has a more noticeably critical portrayal which plays into the racial themes much more convincingly. Annie’s folksy wisdom and relentless eagerness to serve are portrayed as far more naive and questionable. Unlike Lora, whose ambition is shown to be more self-serving than that of her blandly virtuous 1934 counterpart, Annie is still held up as a deeply sympathetic character but her tragic arc is suggested to be at least partially of her own making, while her obsession with having an opulent funeral is in keeping with her frustrating tendency towards the denial of pleasure. It is typical of Annie’s character that her major financial outlay for herself is something she can’t even be there to enjoy.

There’s a sense of self-perceived inferiority that shows through in Annie’s treatment of herself and her daughter Sarah Jane, a girl who is light-skinned enough to pass for white and regularly chooses to do so. In the early scenes when Sarah Jane is a very young girl, Annie tearfully wonders how she can tell her daughter she was “born to be hurt”, a very strange turn of phrase from someone who believes in a benevolent God. It has troubled some commentators that no-one questions or stands up to the perpetrators of racism in Imitation of Life but that seems to be part of the point here. Lora, her daughter Susie and Annie all seem to be both horrified by the effects of racism but also implicitly accepting of it as part of some hideous natural order, while Sarah Jane hates her own race so much she seeks to conceal it. Sirk is well aware of this detrimental societal aberration and he even inserts a self-referential moment in which one of Lora’s suitors discourages her from taking a role in a serious play rather than a comedy, declaring “that coloured angle is absolutely controversial!”

The cast that Sirk assembled for Imitation of Life are perfect for the film’s unique tone. Lana Turner was embroiled in an infamous scandal involving her lover, the mobster Johnny Stompanato, being stabbed to death by her teenage daughter, and Sirk was not above using this tabloid publicity to boost box office. The storyline about Lora’s daughter falling in love with her boyfriend mirrors a defence used in the real life case, while the change of character name from Bea to Lora seems designed to draw comparisons with Turner’s own name in a manner that keeps that real life drama in constant focus. Turner was also often talked about in terms of her beauty and glamour above her acting ability and Sirk ensured that she was clad in striking outfits and millions of dollars worth of precious jewels throughout the film. But Turner rises above all this, giving a performance which highlights Lora’s failings while also emphasising her strengths with a dignity and restraint that offsets the melodrama brilliantly. While Juanita Moore and Susan Kohner get most of the key emotional scenes and were rewarded with Oscar nominations, Turner feels like the film’s anchor, a centre around which the other characters orbit. Sandra Dee is a ray of sunshine slowly engulfed by shade as Lora’s daughter Susie, and John Gavin, so ineffective as the lead in Sirk’s previous A Time to Love and a Time to Die, is much better utilised as the on-and-off love interest Steve. He is memorably handsome and affable while never threatening to over-encroach on what Sirk firmly establishes as the women’s story.

As Annie, Juanita Moore is committed to giving as emotionally charged a performance as possible but she is upstaged by Susan Kohner as her daughter. It’s difficult to be sure whether Kohner understood the assignment and is giving a great performance or whether she was oblivious to Sirk’s tongue-in-cheek approach and is actually giving a bad one, but ultimately it matters little because her wildly over-the-top thesping is utterly perfect for Imitation of Life’s heady brew. Her highly-strung scenes are often a blast but she also manages to keep the drama at fever pitch when performing disturbing or genuinely moving scenes, such as her beating at the hands of her boyfriend or her heartbreaking final rejection of her mother. It is left to Kohner to deliver the climactic coffin-climbing moment of melodrama, after which there is nothing to do but end the film for fear that it would either slide downhill or else spiral out of control. It’s an extraordinary turn.

Imitation of Life is a hard pill to swallow for those averse to Melodrama even when it’s served with a side order of irony. Some might say that in updating Sahl’s film, Sirk removed the pancakes but kept the syrup, but this would be to sell short a phenomenally multi-faceted movie that feels as thoroughly laced with poison as it is smothered in sugar. It is astutely engaged with contemporary racial tensions and gender inequalities in a manner that feels ahead of its time yet free from preachy finger-wagging. With its story’s lengthy timeframe, the two hour runtime, the ambitious thematic preoccupations, the earnestly engaging performances, the breathtaking Technicolor and the truly extraordinary levels of melodrama to which it finally pushes, Imitation of Life is a feast for the eyes and ears and a challenge for the stomach. Even in Sirk’s own oeuvre, there’s nothing else quite like it. It’s beautiful. So horribly, horribly beautiful!