By Michael Joseph

Engaging with historical media (whether it came out ten or one hundred years ago) is the most worthwhile way of going about understanding how contemporary tropes, means of production, editing techniques, and all other aspects of modern media came to be as we know it today. The Coolidge Corner Theater’s education events offer phenomenal exhibition opportunities, with a focus on films that garnered historical and cultural significance through their narratives, style, content, and reception history. Films such as Orson Welles’ The Lady from Shanghai, as well as the entirety of the theater’s film noir exhibition lineup (Noirvember), earned their place in history through an unforgiving and razor-sharp lens pointed at issues of moral complexity. The film in question for this blog, The Lady from Shanghai, is a perfect example of popular media seeping into/emulating aspects of reality; the ways in which it does so can be traced back to petty squabbles as well as globe altering war efforts, making it a fascinating example of historical media bound in the zeitgeist of its time. The screening of The Lady from Shanghai, was an opportunity that I am incredibly grateful to have been able to attend. The film has an overflowing ability to incite conversation. Having attended the screening as well as the lecture by Northeastern Professor Nathan Blake, I have a plethora of subjects to discuss in relation to the narrative/thematic structure, conception background, and historical/personal contexts which play a role in the film’s reception and analysis.

            The film stars its director (Welles) alongside his then wife, actress Rita Hayworth. Welles plays a sailor (Mike O’Hara) who one-night meets a beautiful woman (Elsa) played by Hayworth. Elsa is portrayed is portrayed early on in an iris shot, setting her up as a figure of beauty and desire which the narrative will follow the pursuit of. This pursuit of desire is made noticeably clear incredibly early in the film when Mike meets Elsa and laments that he, “Wasn’t doing much thinking when I saw her.” Elsa’s possession of ultimate beauty and desire are in many ways art imitating life, and a mimicry of Hayworth’s reality.

            Rita Hayworth was one of the 1940’s biggest film-stars, known for her acting and her astounding beauty. Having appeared in over 60 films throughout her career, Hayworth was an established staple of the American film industry. She was referred to as the top pin-up girl of the World War Two era and notoriously had her bombshell status set in stone forever when her face was plastered on an American atomic bomb. Hayworth was said to have been appalled by her likeness being inextricably to tool of such destructive violence; but regardless, her place in American iconography was ironed into history. However, despite her having garnered herself a figure of national militaristic strength, Hayworth was not the all-American girl she was thought to be. Born Margarita Carmen Cansino into a family of Spanish descent, she was molded into the pop culture icon that was Rita Hayworth. Around the time Hayworth met production director (Columbia Pictures) Harry Cohn, her image became anglicized in Cohn and other executives’ image, garnering a more widespread appeal to a 1940’s moviegoing audience. Via electrolysis and dyes, Hayworth’s hairline and hair-color were altered to hide traces of her Spanish roots; effectively anglicizing her towards an American standard of beauty. Hayworth’s director, co-star, and husband, Orson Welles, evidently saw her on the cover of “LIFE” magazine and became infatuated with her; the two married and went on to make The Lady from Shanghai together. This film marks an interesting landmark in Hayworth’s filmography, due to the dual nature of the both the films’ cheeky allusion to desired exoticism, and the reality of Hayworth’s background and status. The films title (The Lady from Shanghai) in and of itself suggests that there is alluring danger around the otherness of places perceived to be exotic through an American lens. This alluring danger is paralleled by Hayworth’s character Elsa, who presents as a very traveled and knowledgeable woman who is powerful and inherently dangerous. On the surface, Elsa displays poignant power through sexual difference. She has full confidence in herself and presents her body without hesitation but also represents both the desire of and otherness from male sexual activity. Suffice to say, she is the object of desire but is also a sexually liberated and confident woman; therefor her confidence and autonomy in regard to gender/sexual dynamics puts her on a pedestal from the men in the narrative: she has the power.

            Throughout The Lady from Shanghai, there is a discernible aspect of on-screen characters and actions mimicking reality. Most notably through the character of Arthur Bannister providing a mirror image to Harry Cohn. Cohn and Welles battled over creative control on this film as well as over Hayworth, who’s “love-goddess” image was in large part cultivated by Cohn. Cohn evidently did his fair share of spying on Hayworth (who successfully negotiated 25% of the profit from her “love-goddess” films) and wanted control over the actress who was, especially after her ties to militaristic propaganda, a box office star. This dynamic of desired control is seen paralleled by the relationship between Elsa and her husband Arthur Bannister. Bannister interferes with his wife and gets in the way of her autonomy several times throughout the film, just as Cohn interjected himself into Hayworth’s life and persona. There is also a concrete connection between the picnic scene and the discourse around Cohn’s production methods. The Lady from Shanghai is an example of a Cohn film which never really hit the ground running and subsequently went way over budget while not gaining widespread popularity. This is poked fun at in the picnic scene which for all intents and purposes is wildly lavish for a picnic in nature. The picnic represents Cohn’s monetary ignorance and is an effective jab from Welles snuck into the film.

            What is perhaps the most fascinating aspect of Wells’ noir, is his condemnation of the audience through subversion of tropes as well as undermining audience expectations. Like many film noir pieces, The Lady from Shanghai utilizes an almost omniscient male voice-over, provided by Wells in character as Mike. This male voice becomes conjoined with the female image of Hayworth’s Elsa, and effectively loses its authoritative grip. This inclusion of voiceover serves to subdue female sexual difference with the goal of restoration of order. Essentially, male fear of the opposite sex’s power stems from difference; the difference in question became power the moment men began to fear its potential, it stems to the foundational human fear of the unknown. The image of a powerful woman, Hayworth’s Elsa in this case, disrupts the traditionally conservative male voice-over. The image wins out, and the narration becomes secondary. There is also a noticeable subversion of traditional cinematography, presented most starkly through comparison of shots with male and female subjects. Unlike on Hayworth (who even while swimming in the ocean had flawless hair and makeup) the men of the story are often framed in extreme closeups. This ultimately, and without much extra work due to their grimy appearances, positions men as grotesque and uncivilized creatures. And while Hayworth does receive close ups (not extreme) they are not executed in a way that strikes traditional chords of beauty on screen. The close-ups of Hayworth are fragmented and dismantled, effectively symbolically deconstructing her “love-goddess” image that she had gained notoriety from. There is a strong resistance of fetishized glamour, instead framing Hayworth as valuable outside her physicality. These instances of subverting voice-over standards, comparative practices between characters and real people, and disregard for traditional shots to convey beauty or lack thereof, all work together to condemn the viewer in Wells’ personal style. He has taken pieces of normality/what could be expected from a 1940’s audience, and disregarded the boundaries set by stagnant methodologies.

            Hayworth’s Elsa is a character of great depth and richness, making the film even more enjoyable while following a fiercely interesting character. Elsa pulls a Chekhov’s gun (literally) incredibly early in the film but then detracts herself from any suspicion that she may be inclined to use it. She presents herself as a woman lost in the chaos of her husband’s world, making her reveal as the film’s femme fatal even more impactful. Upon a rewatch, there are discernible clues pointing towards her being the mastermind of something larger. But it is her demure and at times go-with-the-flow attitude that largely preclude her from suspicion. However, her quiet nature does not prevent her from handling herself with confidence. Most potently in the scene where Elsa and Arthur have a cigarette on the bench positioned directly under the sign saying that smoking there was prohibited. This scene being done with a slow tracking long take emphasizing the un-bothered nature of the couple smoking where it is prohibited presents very clearly to the audience the notion that they both see themselves above societal conventions of respect and law.  

Finally, in the moment of climactic action, Elsa is involved in the hall of mirrors shootout. During this scene we see the only time that Elsa is not completely put together; as the mirrors shatter, her reality effectively crumbles and takes her plan along with it. Conjoint with the destruction of the reality that Elsa operates within, is the singular moment in which her physicality has not been manufactured thoroughly. Her power came from the secret that she concocted and sold; the failure of this secret plan coincides with the loss of the artifice she has been living in. She is effectively destroyed with the destruction of her scheme.

This masterpiece of noir is an artistic endeavor I wish I had stumbled upon ages ago; Hayworth is beyond fascinating and deserves a retroactive deep dive and dissection of her cultural and artistic contributions. The spectacular weight both artistic and personal that this film holds is enough to make a viewing worthwhile if you stumble across the film online. That being said, if you get the chance to see The Lady from Shanghai on the big screen, do not let it pass you by! This film is one that deserves a theatrical experience. The grandiosity of the image and the spectacular glamour of costume and set design make a big screen exhibition a phenomenal and preferable experience. Nothing compares to experiencing the artistry of cinema in the venue which it was intended for, the grandiosity of the screen mirrors the magnificence of the media; the two work as one to create an atmosphere that is completely singular and inimitable outside the theater. Seeing a film on the big screen is always an opportunity to deepen your connection to a given piece of art, but seeing The Lady from Shanghai in the theater is more than that. It is truly a treat.