Director: William Dieterle
Writers: Robert Nathan, Paul Osborn, Peter Berneis, Leonardo Bercovici, David O. Selznick, Ben Hecht
Photography: Joseph H. August, Lee Garmes
Music: Claude Debussy, Dimitri Tiomkin
Editors: William Morgan, Gerard Wilson
Cast: Jennifer Jones, Joseph Cotten, Ethel Barrymore, Lillian Gish, David Wayne, Cecil Kellaway, Florence Bates, Felix Bressart
My Halliwell's film guide lights up like a pinball machine for this peculiar fantasy romance exercise about ghosts of New York, with an effusive three-star judgment: "A splendid example of the higher Hollywood lunacy: a silly story with pretensions about life and death and time and art, presented with superb persuasiveness by a first-class team of actors and technicians." And I have to admit I enjoy it too, for many of the same reasons. Joseph Cotten is one of the best players of his generation. Released in 1948, the supporting cast of Ethel Barrymore, Lillian Gish, Felix Bressart, and others effectively hark to gauzy past prewar days of cinema. And Jennifer Jones is suitably ethereal (though oddly reminiscent to me of Debra Winger or Karen Allen). In the big finish, Portrait of Jennie even takes a page from the silent era, subtly tinting the frames with increasing color, pushing toward a big final shot in technicolor that feels bigger than it can possibly be.
In fact, producer David O. Selznick stamps B - I - G all over this even before we get to the stylized main titles, which I suspect explains a lot of the lunacy—Selznick the misty romanticist tycoon. Cotten plays the starving artist Eben Adams, who is down to his last dollar. As he wanders the city trying to hawk his work he enters Central Park near the end of the day, where he meets a young girl named Jennie Appleton. It's Jennifer Jones and in these early scenes we're intended to believe she's quite young, no older than 12, which is mostly accomplished by positioning the camera above her. She sings him a strange and beautiful song, tells strange stories, says things that don't make sense. She does some goo-goo da-da bits in her delivery, asking Eben to wait for her to grow up. Eben sees she doesn't seem to understand the math of aging.
My Halliwell's film guide lights up like a pinball machine for this peculiar fantasy romance exercise about ghosts of New York, with an effusive three-star judgment: "A splendid example of the higher Hollywood lunacy: a silly story with pretensions about life and death and time and art, presented with superb persuasiveness by a first-class team of actors and technicians." And I have to admit I enjoy it too, for many of the same reasons. Joseph Cotten is one of the best players of his generation. Released in 1948, the supporting cast of Ethel Barrymore, Lillian Gish, Felix Bressart, and others effectively hark to gauzy past prewar days of cinema. And Jennifer Jones is suitably ethereal (though oddly reminiscent to me of Debra Winger or Karen Allen). In the big finish, Portrait of Jennie even takes a page from the silent era, subtly tinting the frames with increasing color, pushing toward a big final shot in technicolor that feels bigger than it can possibly be.
In fact, producer David O. Selznick stamps B - I - G all over this even before we get to the stylized main titles, which I suspect explains a lot of the lunacy—Selznick the misty romanticist tycoon. Cotten plays the starving artist Eben Adams, who is down to his last dollar. As he wanders the city trying to hawk his work he enters Central Park near the end of the day, where he meets a young girl named Jennie Appleton. It's Jennifer Jones and in these early scenes we're intended to believe she's quite young, no older than 12, which is mostly accomplished by positioning the camera above her. She sings him a strange and beautiful song, tells strange stories, says things that don't make sense. She does some goo-goo da-da bits in her delivery, asking Eben to wait for her to grow up. Eben sees she doesn't seem to understand the math of aging.
But Eben is so haunted by the encounter that afterward he "sketches" her portrait from memory—it doesn't look like a sketch to me, more like a fully finished pencil drawing, but never mind that's Hollywood. The midtown gallery that said they would buy more from him if he did portraits instead of landscapes (and weren't talking about printing orientation) is impressed with the sketch. Miss Spinney (Ethel Barrymore), one of the gallery's principals, actually has a kind of dignified crush on Eben—he told her in passing she has lovely eyes. But she also seems to be genuinely impressed with his work. There's a lot of hifalutin inspirational talk here about art and dedication and buck up never say die we'll get along, it's the work that matters, only the work, etc.
Back to Central Park goes Eben, in a better mood this time, and there once again is Jennie. But she's older now, more like 16. The camera is more up at eye level with her. She and Eben go ice skating and laugh a lot. She talks about things that are old—buildings that have been torn down, the New York of 25 years earlier, her parents who were trapeze artists and died doing their act. Eben sputters and gasps about her changed appearance and the way she disappears when he turns around. Among other things Portrait of Jennie is a wonderful portrait of the modern Empire State Building New York City. These locations and the cinematography of Joseph H. August and Lee Garmes have a lot to do with making the picture work.
That's the basic arc: Jennie is impossible to pin down outside of Central Park, and she is older every time Eben sees her until she is finally appropriate to marry and he is madly in love with her. This is no Tennessee politician story. At one point she is sent off to a convent after her parents have died (the timestreams are tricky to sort out), which is where Lillian Gish comes in as Mother Mary of Mercy, who took Jennie under her wing there even though Jennie wasn't particularly Christian in her beliefs. In this picture, Christianity is solemnly sacred of course, as only Selznick can do it, but we're also given to understand that the reality of the universe goes well beyond mere Christianity.
Cue Dimitri Tiomkin riffing orchestrally on Claude Debussy. Debussy belongs on this soundtrack, which otherwise wanders off with corny "spooky" music in too many of the Jennie scenes. Eben spends a lot of the movie wondering what's going on, raving about mysteries of the universe, and seeing his career as an artist take off when he sets himself to an oil painting portrait of Jennie. Mostly he pines for her when she's gone, disappearing for weeks and months at a time. In his lonely swoons then an Irish friend probably from Greenwich Village comes to visit and breaks out in a melancholy folk song while playing a lap harp.
The climax takes place in a big sea storm off the coast of Massachusetts, where word is the "real Jennie" died in life. A lighthouse is involved. Eben has an idea he can reverse her fate—I admit the plan has some intuitive logic to it, or maybe my judgment has just been twisted by the fantasy. In the cold light of day it is of course insane. But here we go, into the terrifying squall. And still, this is where director William Dieterle or perhaps Selznick has pulled out the stops with tinting and ultimately technicolor. It is suitably explosive for a big finish and the ending is so complicated emotionally it's hard to say simply that it's happy or otherwise. It is just more of the high Hollywood lunacy on display here, ending on a very high note. Or, as Jennie puts it, "There is no life, my darling, until you love and have been loved. And then there is no death."
Back to Central Park goes Eben, in a better mood this time, and there once again is Jennie. But she's older now, more like 16. The camera is more up at eye level with her. She and Eben go ice skating and laugh a lot. She talks about things that are old—buildings that have been torn down, the New York of 25 years earlier, her parents who were trapeze artists and died doing their act. Eben sputters and gasps about her changed appearance and the way she disappears when he turns around. Among other things Portrait of Jennie is a wonderful portrait of the modern Empire State Building New York City. These locations and the cinematography of Joseph H. August and Lee Garmes have a lot to do with making the picture work.
That's the basic arc: Jennie is impossible to pin down outside of Central Park, and she is older every time Eben sees her until she is finally appropriate to marry and he is madly in love with her. This is no Tennessee politician story. At one point she is sent off to a convent after her parents have died (the timestreams are tricky to sort out), which is where Lillian Gish comes in as Mother Mary of Mercy, who took Jennie under her wing there even though Jennie wasn't particularly Christian in her beliefs. In this picture, Christianity is solemnly sacred of course, as only Selznick can do it, but we're also given to understand that the reality of the universe goes well beyond mere Christianity.
Cue Dimitri Tiomkin riffing orchestrally on Claude Debussy. Debussy belongs on this soundtrack, which otherwise wanders off with corny "spooky" music in too many of the Jennie scenes. Eben spends a lot of the movie wondering what's going on, raving about mysteries of the universe, and seeing his career as an artist take off when he sets himself to an oil painting portrait of Jennie. Mostly he pines for her when she's gone, disappearing for weeks and months at a time. In his lonely swoons then an Irish friend probably from Greenwich Village comes to visit and breaks out in a melancholy folk song while playing a lap harp.
The climax takes place in a big sea storm off the coast of Massachusetts, where word is the "real Jennie" died in life. A lighthouse is involved. Eben has an idea he can reverse her fate—I admit the plan has some intuitive logic to it, or maybe my judgment has just been twisted by the fantasy. In the cold light of day it is of course insane. But here we go, into the terrifying squall. And still, this is where director William Dieterle or perhaps Selznick has pulled out the stops with tinting and ultimately technicolor. It is suitably explosive for a big finish and the ending is so complicated emotionally it's hard to say simply that it's happy or otherwise. It is just more of the high Hollywood lunacy on display here, ending on a very high note. Or, as Jennie puts it, "There is no life, my darling, until you love and have been loved. And then there is no death."
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