residual echoes
by Douglas Messerli
Percy Heath (screenplay, based on Stevenson’s Strange
Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde), Rouben Mamoulian
(director) Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde / 1931
The by-now quite elderly readers of The
Pall Mall Gazette finally almost got the work they thought they were
reading back in 1885, along with a nice girl that the good Doctor Henry Jekyll
might have settled down with and married if he hadn’t gotten caught up in his
heinous experimentations, in Rouben Mamoulian’s well-filmed remake of Dr.
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in 1931.
The Doctor (Fredric March) is just as curious about scientific
exploration to which friend Dr. John Lanyon (Holmes Herbert) is similarly
opposed, and is once again involved in the community through his lectures and
his work at the charity ward which leads him to miss the dinner portion of his
fiancée’s party just as he had in Robertson’s retelling of the Stevenson story.
But this beautiful girl, now named Muriel Carew (Rose Hobart) is far less
passive about her relationship to him, and he far more expressive of his love.
And her over-protective father, now titled Brigadier-General
Danvers Carew (Halliwell Hobbes), having none of the charm of the gay cad
that Sir George had, offers only a befuddled arch conservative Victorian who
stands in the way of the couple’s desired early wedding every chance he has.
The handsome and debonair Doctor, no matter what his credentials be, is
perceived as a young radical in his eyes, and even his desire to marry early,
he tells him, “is yet another evidence of your eccentricity.” His attempt to
argue the point is “positively indecent.”
We
already know from Jekyll’s public lecture early in the film that this radical
thinker fully believes that “man is truly two beings,” the one we call the good
one, who strives for nobility, while the other “seeks an expression of impulses
which bind him to the animal nature of the earth.”
“These two selves are chained to one another, causing repression,” he
argues—scandalously from his friend’s Lanyon’s point of view. Jekyll even
admits that it is the “the things one can’t do that tempt me most.”
Having broken up his bachelor’s club on which he was so dependent in
both the fiction and in the 1920 film, Mamoulian leaves him with only the
conservative Lanyon—Utterson, the narrator of Stevenson’s tale is such a minor
figure in this film that he is not even mentioned in the credits—as a
supporting friend. March’s Jekyll is such a solitary figure that when—having
begun his experiments in separating the two selves of his own being he becomes
frightened about the possibilities of the direction in which Hyde might take
him—he dares to once again bring up the necessity for an early marriage with
Muriel (he begs of Muriel, “Marry me now. I can’t wait.”; making it clear that
only in marriage can he get her into bed so that he might relieve his sexual desires),
whereupon he again is denied that possibility. The film veers dangerously close
to the shoals of the completely neutered 1941 revision by Victor Fleming in
which Jekyll’s transformation into Edward Hyde is simply a product of his
sexual frustration instead of a self-willed voyage into an unknown land of
depraved desires.
Fortunately, Jekyll has already come to the rescue of the bar-singer /
prostitute (a word which even the 1931 cusp-of-code film could not utter) Ivy
Pierson (Miriam Hopkins), who not only entices Jekyll but literally strips for
him, tossing her garters over his turned away body as she gets naked for bed,
and dangling her naked leg as a token of her desire that he return to her for
sex as soon as possible.
In
the 1936 re-release, Joseph Breen and his committee demanded the entire scene
be cut—ironically reiterating the demands of Muriel’s father, that Jekyll
remain celibate, permitting only his monster self the ability to have sex with
a woman. The footage was lost for decades, forcing audiences apparently to fill
in the gaps of the cinematic logic of how Jekyll has become so very nervous
about his ability to wait out the time while Ivy and her father go traveling
across the continent before their marriage and why Hyde shows up at Ivy’s
nightclub. But in 1931, March’s Jekyll clearly took his cue from Ivy’s
delightful invitation, visiting her as Hyde at the dive of a nightclub in which
she nightly performs.
The
trouble is that being locked away in Wally Westmore’s excessive make-up,
turning him into a hairy simian being with large and crooked canine teeth of
Edward Hyde—very much the way Victorian taxonomists portrayed mad, syphilitic,
and deviant human beings as well often as those who were non-Caucasians—it is
hard to imagine any woman, even a prostitute willing to go to bed with Edward
Hyde. While Robertson’s Hyde may have been unattractive, he still showed the
remnants of being Barrymore’s Jekyll. Here he is simply a beast who, as those
British housewives who read the daily exploits about child prostitution might
have imagined, whips, beats, and runs his long nails across the back of his
lover Ivy. At last we know what depravities Hyde committed, but alas we have
lost all interest in them.
And it is totally impossible to imagine any rational friendship or
sexual camaraderie between Jekyll and Westmore’s version of Hyde. Except for
his busy athletic monkey-like jumps and leaps, Hyde becomes uninteresting and
totally unbelievable. Our and the film’s interest now focuses solely on the
brooding and very lonely Jekyll, without any of his bachelor friends to even
offer a shoulder to cry upon. What now becomes important is Jekyll’s attempt to
go sober, to resist the temptations of the drug which makes him so very
loathsome; and, after he transforms into Hyde even without the potion, his
belief that there is still some possibility that he can correct his ways and
overcome his addiction is severely diminished. If you have noticed that I am
using the terms of alcoholism and a drug addiction I think it is quite
appropriate to describe how this film superficially portrays the situation.
Although they exist as one in the same body, we might argue that Jekyll
and Hyde have now truly become two separate beings, the good man overcome with
guilt for attacking Ivy, sending her a £50 note and when she mistakenly comes
to Jekyll seeking protection from her tormentor Hyde. But of course, he can no
longer control the “other,” Hyde soon after returning to Ivy’s room to murder
her, and in so doing dooming Hyde and his creator Jekyll to death—and, I might
add, in the process ending our interest in any further events other than a
shiver of curiosity perhaps of how they will track him, either Jekyll or Hyde,
down and kill him.
Mamoulian is too intelligent of a director to let his film go at that,
and postpones the inevitable by restoring the important scene from the original
work where Jekyll, trapped in Hyde’s visage, sends for Lanyon to bring his
chemicals so that he might return to his own being. But unlike the original,
where the tension between Hyde and Lanyon exists as a frisson of sexual fear,
here it is a matter simply of transactional violence as Lanyon pulls a gun on
Hyde demanding that he take him to Jekyll, forcing the monster to take the
drink in front of the skeptic of all things supernatural to watch him turn into
his former friend; Lanyon is bound by his doctor’s oath of patient
confidentiality cannot even attempt to tell others of what he has just witnessed.
Realizing that Hyde has been now separated forever from his female
tempter, Jekyll is still convinced that he can control the situation for
himself by cutting of his ties with Muriel. In the process, however, he is once
more transformed beyond his will into Hyde, beating and killing her father. We
may even feel it is the old man’s well-deserved punishment for refusing youth
its natural pleasures, but the act obviously means the end for Jekyll as well.
As
Elaine Showalter has observed in her essay I quoted in the first section of
this collation, Jekyll does not even imagine killing himself, since as a
heterosexual transgressor he suffers no real guilt for having transgressed
against a woman or even having killed his would-be lover’s father for standing
in their way.
When Hyde again returns to overcome Jekyll, Lanyon and the police show
up at his door, the police finally shooting him dead for his criminal acts. But
even then Hyde is not allowed his reward of surviving his progenitor; the last
scene of the film shows one final transformation, as the terrible face of Hyde
disappears to be replaced by Jekyll’s handsome visage. As I noted above the
even the remnants of a potentially queer figure must be wiped away from the
film without further evidence, as if he never truly existed.
Despite the director having utterly altered Stevenson’s dark tale of the
sexual desire for the “other” that perhaps lies outside of normative
heterosexual desire, and, by so doing, literalizing the work in such a way that
it becomes basically a story about a thoroughly frustrated man’s lust for a
woman outside of his social status not so very different, in fact, from a
fiction such as Theodore Dreiser’s An American Tragedy—despite this and
numerous other failures, there are many excellent moments in Mamoulian’s film
which take it a notch above Robertson’s earlier version.
The entire first scene, in which we view Jekyll’s world only from his
eyes as he narrowly envisions it—a society created to facilitate his efforts, a
butler to remind him of his lecture and fetch his cape, a hackney drive to take
him to the event, friends to great him and a friendly worker to whom he can
toss his coat as he passes, along with a full room of desirous young students
as well as carping skeptics attending to his every word—devastatingly reveals
the central figure’s fatuousness, his utter faith in himself at the expense of
anyone else. It is only when, as preparing to leave, he
peers into a mirror to check on his appearance
that we catch a glimpse of the being behind the camera’s movements, a handsome
man who cannot truly see beyond the pleasant image that faces him in the glass.
The rest of the movie will, in fact, take him into that mirror to explore who
he truly is.
Unfortunately, one might argue, what that voyage is almost as
predictable as he imagines the world is in this first scene. And that
represents the film’s failure, whereas had it followed Stevenson’s story more
closely it might have taken its hero and us into far more uncomfortable and
revelatory territory.
Strangely, however, even Mamoulian’s heterosexual Jekyll cannot entirely
escape the language of Stevenson’s guilty gay outlaw who has experienced the
pleasures of another world through the subterfuge of another man, Edward Hyde.
As
Jekyll begins to perceive what Hyde has done to him, his verbal responses are
not those that one might expect of a heterosexual brute who’s had a few S&M
sessions in bed with a pretty young woman, not even those of a relapsing
alcoholic of drug addict desperate to just one more time to inject the
substance which has allowed him to go places which he has never before
experienced. Or let me just suggest that if his comments do share something in
common with those beings, they more closely align, in my way of thinking, with
the denials of a man having briefly left the sexual closet for an adventure
that he is convinced he will never again need to explore, but is absolutely unable
to without denying his own existence.
I
have chosen just a few of the words uttered by March supposedly coming from the
mouth of his character Jekyll, who at times also speaks for Hyde.
Early on it appears as a kind of bravado, a sense of release as when,
having first swallowed the serum, he shouts “I’m free. Free at last,” and
addressing the absent Lanyon, “If you could see me now!”
He
comments to others, “There are no bounds.” “We may control our actions, but not
our impulses.”
While waiting in total frustration after hearing of Muriel’s voyage,
even Poole suggests he get out an enjoy himself, hinting at a world perhaps
even outside of the music hall where he finds Ivy to which the plot confines
him. Poole’s comment: “There are many amusements for a gentleman like you,”
hint at a forbidden sexual territory that does only include loose women but
perhaps other young men like himself.
Once he has begun his outside adventures, he speaks to Muriel in a
manner that suggests something far deeper than a man having nightly intercourse
with a prostitute: “I’ve walked a strange and terrible road.” To several people
he reports that he is not quite himself, that he has been “ill.”
As
the reliable Stevenson figure Poole comments about his master’s disappearance,
“It’s very queer that he’s not here.”
After he has revealed his true nature to Lanyon, the stunned observer
comments: “You are in the power of that monster you have created.” It is no
longer a man speaking of his nighttime “other self” indulging in cruel sexual
relationships or even what a murderer might say when he responds: “I’ll fight,
I’ll conquer it.”
Predictably Lanyon answers: “It has conquered you.”
But again, Jekyll answers neither like a heterosexual philanderer nor a
man caught up in a web of murderous behavior: “No. No. No. I’ll fight it. I
know it will not happen again. Help me.”
And once more, Lanyon refuses to be involved: “This is preposterous and
I’ll have nothing to do with it.”
Jekyll’s words might indeed be those of an alcoholic or a drug attic,
but we know that is not the case. His Hydean self may drink and smoke opium,
but that’s not his problem. In fact, in this film we do not observe Hyde
drinking or partaking of drugs. To me, his desperate utterances sound more like
a gay man attempting to convince himself that he can give up his sexual
desires, and that even for having participated in such behavior he is no longer
worthy of Muriel’s love and must give her up as well.
His final words are to Muriel are those of a fundamentalist who is
convinced that his sexual actions have gotten the best of him but may still be
possibly controlled, like one of the believers in “conversion therapy,” a
solution we now realize is not only unnecessary but offers the patient little
but demonizing. And even at this point Jekyll knows he cannot return to life
without carrying Hyde with him. When Muriel offers to help him, he answers: I’m
beyond help, you hear. I’m in Hell. I have no soul. I’m beyond the pale. I’m
one of the living dead.”
Today, could we possibly imagine someone like Harvey Weinstein, Bill
Cosby, or Jeffrey Epstein—all heterosexual monsters—speaking words like these,
especially if they lived in the utterly patriarchally controlled world of the
Victorian era where girls of 12, 13, and 14 years of age might easily be
purchased for sex?
In Jekyll’s words, instead, I hear the echoes of a closeted gay man
attempting to redeem a life which he knows deep within will no longer permit
his existence. The movie offers the only solution that the heterosexual society
of the day could offer these men: destroy the self you have hidden, Edward
Hyde, and put on the face that we can remember you by now that you are dead. In
short, hide the portrait of your real self in a hidden closet like Dorian Gray’s
portrait.
Los Angeles, December 1, 2021
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