I Confess (1953)
Failed Hitchcock, and yet the French love it, why? There are certain images, yes, especially towards the end, of Clift fighting his way through a hostile crowd, and then the confrontation with the crazed killer in what appears to be an old proscenium theatre. There are the steeples, and the very oddness of something filmed in Quebec City. And then Montgomery Clift’s face, which simply, I think, expresses and contains the torture of labouring over a role that he doesn’t understand with a director who doesn’t understand him — but that may work, in a way. Apparently Clift — like most method actors at that time — had an acting coach with him on set. But the anecdote that survives is this: Hitchcock asks him to look up at a sign and Clift says “My character wouldn’t do that”. I think this is characteristic of a certain ‘method’ narcissism that cannot be defended. But the primary issue with this film is Clift’s dilemma as a priest accused of murder (and this may be why Catholics seem to like it and not Protestants) is wholly internal and novelistic (I Confess is based on a novel). The priest cannot prove that he is innocent unless he admits that he has — at one time — been in love with a woman who is still in love with him. But once that is ‘cleared up’ (i.e. — once his flirtation with a married woman comes to light) and he does admit being with her the night of the murder) he still cannot defend himself against the accusation, because the murderer has confessed to him (hence the title) and as a priest he cannot reveal what has been admitted in confession. Non-Catholics don’t understand Clift’s reluctance; Catholics of course do understand. So we WASPS continue to be befuddled by the film. But not if we think of I Confess as concerning a man whose very integrity and devotion to his personal truth results in him being charged with murder. But then there’s Anne Baxter. The less said about her the better, but I just can’t resist. It makes me furious that she gets screen time in anything. Seeing her playing the angelic young (platinum blonde) Quebecois girl — in a pinafore — with a ridiculous little cross around her neck, is just painful. Anne Baxter is so breathy — all she does is breathe, in her moments of what should be her deepest emotion, she appears to be straining particularly hard to pass a breathalyzer test. She complained of Clift’s drunkeness during the shoot, but it is more likely not simply that he was homosexual and dreaded kissing her, but that he was an actor and dreaded acting with her. At any rate; she’s horrible. The only time all that false earnest breathiness ever worked was in All About Eve, where she was supposed to be playing a fake person. (She was perfect in that role.) It would seem that a movie with a title like this might prompt me to discuss my propensity for confessing, it is after all my favourite thing; and so — why?. Two people I barely know but very much like told me today they ‘always read my blog,’ and I was dumb with terror. If they are telling the truth, then it’s petrifying to have a long drive to Toronto with them (I was being driven to Toronto by them to take the train to Montreal, what a queen I am and how sweet they are). When they told me that I said “you know all my secrets now” — thinking about the last blog where I talked about having sex in a crawl space in my apartment with Shaun. I didn’t mention the poppers. Poppers will be the death of me. If you’re not gay, then you don’t know what they are. it’s interesting that there is a drug that completely related to ones particularly sexuality. What are they? Hard to describe — it’s like describing getting hard, because that’s what happens. Poppers are purely a sex drug, but people do use them for dancing. Name drop; my favourite poppers story is doing them with Lucy Peacock’s husband Christopher Thomas a thousand and one years ago. I was living with him and Duncan McIntosh (Queen of P.E.I. — therein lies a ‘tail)’ at the Shaw Festival, in a boring house, in the boring suburbs, where we were expected to live in for some reason, because I think we were all technically pretty low on the Shaw Totem Pole. I used to go drinking and driving with Chris. That is he used to drink and drive. I won’t have you say a word against him; Chris is a prince of a man and Lucy is lucky to have him (I’m not saying just she is, anybody would be lucky) he was one of the sweetest kindest straight men I’ve ever known (I talked against straight men in one of my recent blogs and I want to take it all back). Anyway, now and then he’d say “Sky Buddy are we going for a drive?” And he’d hop in his car with a six pack (when that meant beer) and we would (as Patti Smith says) grease the night. He was very Sam Shepherd — and so I cast him as Sam Shepherd in a play — maybe those drives were an audition, but I would never accuse him of that, he was too nice a guy. Anyway, one day we were sitting around NOT acting (Duncan and Chris) or directing (in my case) and bored out of our skulls, and we started chatting about poppers. And Chris said what are those? And we tried to explain that they facilitated gay sex (they open the sphincter — well you asked for it— sorry you didn’t but I told you anyway) — and what’s really great for dancing is that they supply a momentary rush, and then it’s over, so it’s a drug you can completely control. Not that it doesn’t kill you eventually (like everything does — and I would imagine faster than some other things) but the immediate effects of it, are completely under your control. That’s what I like. I am addicted to poppers but I hardly ever do them, because essentially it’s somewhat akin to lying on the kitchen floor and huffing cleaning products. And we do all have to draw the line somewhere. But occasionally I still use them (uh-huh, we get it) and they will probably kill me. But I will be in good company. It was Christopher Newton who said (sorry to keep mentioning him but I did love him very much) who said to me when Tennessee Williams died — “it was poppers.” I was skeptical. But Christopher insisted “He choked on a bottle cap. A BOTTLE CAP — haven’t you ever put a popper bottle cap in your mouth and taken a wiff" — and yes, in fact the two of us had in fact done that the night before. The question is, why am I telling you all this? Is it just pure self-expellation, or a kind of public humiliation, or is it just after I sink low I want to somehow sink lower? I call it my own integrity, as crazy as that is, to tell you the truth and nothing but the truth. And in this sense I am as crazy as Montgomery Clift — he would not tell the secret, even if kills him, and I must tell you all -- or it seems like death to me.
