by Daniel White
Conceivably one of the most pretentious movies ever made, the British Technicolor extravaganza Pandora and the Flying Dutchman (1951) is as beautiful as it is bonkers. You have to hand it to writer/director Albert Lewin, his sincerity is in the right place. Too bad everything else about this flick is so incredibly wrong.
Pandora Reynolds (Ava Gardner) is an impetuous, impulsive American party girl, killing time in a picturesque town on the Mediterranean, in Spain. Luscious, demanding and selfish, she exists merely to drive men wild. The film opens with a suicide: one more of our leading lady's victims. A race car enthusiast tosses his car off a cliff at her bidding; a matador is gored to death, obsessed with his love for Pandora. Get the picture: The broad is BAD NEWS! A black widow spider in haute couture, Pandora destroys everything she touches. However, our self-centered siren finally meets her match one day when a mysterious yacht drops anchor in this quaint, yet stylish little seaside resort. Enter The Flying Dutchman (James Mason), a tormented soul destined to sail around the globe for eternity. It seems he killed his wife several centuries ago for a supposed infidelity, only to have it turn out not to be true. And this, my friends, is his punishment: to forever ride the waves. It might have been worse, he could have been forced to watch this doozy until the end of time.
What's astonishing about this film is that it's so goddamned literal! Completely devoid of any humor, it never slips into irony or has a moment of self-awareness. I kept waiting for pretty Pandora to turn to the camera and give us a bemused wink, but alas it never happens. The film looks ravishing and that is its saving grace. Cinematographer Jack Cardiff has bathed each scene in every existing shade of soft green (the sea?) and the result is beatific.
And then there's Ava. Without a doubt one of the greatest cinema sex goddesses from the Golden Age of Hollywood (only Rita Hayworth rivals her), she is incredibly gorgeous. You literally can't take your eyes off her. Who cares if she can act (she can't), she is a screen immortal.
James Mason attempts to emote but it's a near impossibility when you are playing a cipher, a "concept." He looks moody and tortured as only he can, but it doesn't amount to anything more than a few angst-ridden grimaces. Unfortunately, he gets no help from Miss Gardner, who recites her lines like the North Carolina sharecropper's daughter that she is, minus the southern twang.
I don't know who Lewin thought would be the target audience for a malarkey laden mess such as the one he created here. Anybody with half a brain in their head is going to laugh in derision at this screwy flick. That is, if they can even sit through it. However, in spite of my well-founded misgivings, as I endured the pain of watching this glorious travesty, I began to develop a grudging admiration for Mr. Lewin. That he managed to convince the suits to back this crazy pipedream must have taken a lot of chutzpah. Like Don Quixote tilting at windmills, he may be mad but that doesn't mean he doesn't command our respect.
It should be noted that Miss Gardner looks fabulous, wearing some unbelievably exquisite outfits, courtesy of Beatrice Dawson. With the unknown Mario Cabre giving a performance of hyper-intensity that meshes perfectly with the over-the-top tone of the film, this Romulus Films production is currently streaming on Tubi. In a positively stunning restoration I should add.
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