Libel (1959)
It’s an old play. Otto Preminger directed it onstage in 1935, and one can see echoes of it in Anatomy of A Murder, a film he directed in 1959 -- the same year as this film was made. Odd. The whole thing is odd. It’s melodrama of the highest order which means once you get hooked the plot twists and turns can keep you spinning. Although I was never totally involved, I was astounded at the sheer number of what Aristotle called reversals. At first it’s odd because Olivia de Havilland is obviously older than her husband Dirk Bogarde — he was 39 and she was 44 — but she is wearing old lady hats and an old lady hairdo, and Dirk Bogarde is just his stunning self. And then there’s the fact that I cannot get out of my mind that Bogarde was gay in real life and starred in Victim, an iconic gay film, so what’s he doing or not doing with Olivia de Havilland? His hair seems to be dyed gray in order to make him look old. But then suddenly that’s a plot twist, and we’re not sure if Dirk Bogarde is himself (a rich lord who owns a stately family mansion) or if he’s a working class actor who killed him and is now impersonating him. (All very complicated.) But it all has to do with the war, you see. Paul Massie catches sight of Bogarde showing of his house, and then tells the newspaper he’s not the real Sir Mark Sebastian Loddon and Bogarde sues him for libel. That’s only the beginning, we are then in a courtroom and through flashbacks we see Sir Mark Sebastian Loddon interacting with a young private named Frank Wellney. They look exactly alike; this is where the plot twists get a little fishy, because they are both also missing two fingers. But then it gets fishier because Dirk Bogarde of course plays both Sr Loddon and Frank Wellney. And it’s all suddenly somewhat meta, because Bogarde has chosen to play Frank Wellney as gay, or at least as effeminate. So what we suddenly have on screen is an evil, mincing Dirk Bogarde having a conversation with a well-meaning, masculine Dirk Bogarde. It all works out in a very complicated way — Sr Loddon is himself, and killed Wellney, not the other way around (confused yet?). But in the middle of it all is Olivia de Havilland, and the question on everyone’s mind is — doesn’t she know her own husband? I mean you have sex with your husband, right? And there’s that thing between his legs, and would it look the same, and work the same, if it was another man? But all this can be brushed aside because the crafty playwright has written in the notion that de Havilland might have purposely deceived herself into believing that the imposter is her husband — but it doesn’t matter anyway because it turns out he is. (Oh dear.) What struck me about all this was that the movie only works because Bogarde is such a consummate actor that we quite believe him as both his evil mincing self and his masculine nice self, and though his own Hitchcockian confusion about his identity (he hears funny tunes in his head and sees weird things like in Spellbound) is meant to be profound, what’s really profound is what happens when you stand outside the movie and just think of Bogarde — who was closeted for his whole life. It just makes you think about lies lies lies and the uncertainty of reality and of everything. I’ve been thinking about this blog, and the fact that nobody reads it (but they might), and the fact that I don’t care that nobody reads it (but I do). And then I’ve been thinking about art. I’ve spent my life writing funny light plays in which the audience is distracted from the gayness by what I’m hoping is the sheer perfection of my shimmering concoction -- and indeed it seems some of the little presents I wrapped up for people in pretty paper were mistaken for feather dusters, when they were really cudgels in disguise. This is kind of cowardly, but I am a coward, Then there’s the fact that I am kind of hiding in these blogs, and by that I mean they are blogs about COVID-19 but then again they are not. I am waiting at any moment for the politically correct police to shut me down because I’m saying things in these blogs that people could object to -- but I can do that right, because it’s a poem, right, and it’s art? Or confession. Or something. And you might say this isn't good enough to be a poem (fine) but I think it’s all about my intention anyway so back off. That would be my defense, anyway. And what is this little strawberry cream puff I’m writing here, anyway? Do I care about the dumb movies? Well I do, of course I do, I’m not lying when I say they keep my alive. It’s getting dark outside my window right now — it is precisely nightfall — (no future, no plays, where are my friends?) and I find that terrifying, and there’s a light going on and off across the street — I mean it’s on for awhile and then it goes off for awhile — what sort of nefarious undertakings are going on there? (God knows in this neighbourhood.) But at least, earlier, when I was sneaking a smoke (I’m trying to stop and I will) I saw at least three quarters of the moon (I had wondered where the moon had gone) so it will be out this weekend -- full -- and I will be under it, probably not having sex, because all the places where I usually have sex are closed now, so that’s that. I know, I’ve been trying to change the topic in hopes you’ll forget about the lies. So is art a secret vehicle for nefarious revolutionary obscene and objectionable ideas, covered with candy icing? Only if it’s bad art, which I hope this isn’t. No, can’t you understand that the opinion that I am expressing now at this minute is the opinion that I have presently, but everything changes. Lucretius and the atomists said everything is always in flux --and so did Ovid, and then Einstein took it up later so there. Reality shifts according to the point of view of the viewer, but also according to the poet's point of view. (And God, by the way, is a poet.) So one moment I am Dirk Bogarde the sleazy villain and moments later I am Sir Dirk Bogarde lord of the only surviving Elizabethan mansion. But if I look at you with my dreamy Dirk Bogarde eyes and then start the quiver in my sensitive Dirk Bogarde lips I’m just too kissable for you to bother figuring out what is true. Don’t try and figure it out. Yes I’m incendiary, and yes I’m as innocent as a lamb, and if you still are living under a sanctimonious cloud that demands one truth and one truth only -- I don’t want to be around when you get your rude awakening. Dissimulation, you say? Well, I call it art. (Pity.)
