Lost in a Lost City

A pious philanthropist is looking for a legendary lost city in the middle of the Sahara and only a guy named Joe January can get him there, if it exists. 1957's Legend of the Lost is an adventure film beautifully shot by Jack Cardiff with a great lead cast and intriguing dialogue by Ben Hecht and Robert Presnell. A beautiful prostitute who decides to tag along with the men completes the three points of tension driving the film's contemplation of morality.

Bland Italian actor Rossano Brazzi plays Paul, the philanthropist, who makes a nuisance of himself for the French authorities in Timbuktu when he starts handing out money freely in the streets. He even allows a woman named Dita to keep his pocket watch when she steals it--in gratitude, she returns his wallet, which he hadn't yet noticed missing.

Dita's played by Sophia Loren. I'm not sure what ethnicity she's supposed to be--when I google the name "Dita" results tell me it's an Albanian or a Spanish name. She also doesn't dress like any of the other women in the city. Maybe she's meant to be Italian? Anyway, Dita turns out to be one of the city's premier prostitutes, that is until Paul sits down and talks to her over a long night and convinces her to change her ways. Among those unconvinced of Paul's transformative powers is the guide he hires, a world weary American called Joe January played by John Wayne.

He's introduced making himself comfortable in a prison cell despite an open door and the fact that a shady Prefect (Kurt Kasznar) has already paid his bail. He wants no more "favours" from the Prefect since he's already two thousand in debt to him for prior arrests ordered by the same Prefect. This is just one of the amusing and effective ways Joe's canniness is established. When Paul finally lets him in on the true nature of their quest it's not 'til they've been travelling for some time in the desert--all Paul had told Joe before that point was that he was looking for his lost father's remains. Needless to say, Joe's faith in the city's existence isn't quite as firm as Paul's, but a job's a job and Joe continues so long as provisions hold out.

Trouble arises again when Dita shows up so the provisions for two now have to be split three ways. But along with the physical strain, a subtle ideological conflict starts to take hold. Dita has faith in Paul as her saviour, she unquestionably believes in the lost city. Joe only seems to have faith in food and water. What does Paul have faith in? Why is this already wealthy philanthropist seeking a city with gems as big as a fist?

I think the movie might have been stronger if we'd known exactly what it was Paul said to Dita to make her reassess her life and develop an admiration for him. But nonetheless the story is a thoughtful one about the usefulness of faith and why an incorporeal God may be a better subject for one's faith than a human being, even a dead human being like Paul's father. Which is not to say they don't find the city but naturally there are some action scenes in the climax.

Directed by Henry Hathaway and shot in Libya by Jack Cardiff, there are some splendid visuals, mostly actual location footage. But Cardiff's creative use of colour light makes even the soundstage stuff look fascinating. Legend of the Lost is available on Amazon Prime.

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A gadget glow induced a question time.
The passing cars inquire late of wheels.
A heavy glass supports a severed lime.
A flour forms a turning plate of meals.
A dusty space impounds the rusty ship.
For taxes paid a scrap of wood returned.
As faith in clustered pates does stead'ly dip.
A melted candle's ends yet firmly burned.
A crossing cat was fortune found in black.
Elusive floors began in cleaner states.
Entire trains retired 'long the track.
A flashing bar became the engine gates.
Roulette reclaimed the clock for plastic cash.
Inverted spheres revoked the dollar bash.

Too Much Gold

One thing Westerns tend to have that other genres usually don't are scenes of characters ruminating in the wilderness, seemingly shooting the breeze with topics not directly related to the plot but which can have fascinating thematic resonance. In 1954's Garden of Evil, two of the male characters spend so much time pontificating about their one female travelling companion it inevitably reveals more about them than it does about her. Sometimes the dialogue just feels odd and overwrought and I'm not sure some of the strange results were intended. But Henry Hathaway directs some wonderful vistas in Cinemascope and every line seems more significant when delivered the film's three great stars; Gary Cooper, Susan Hayward, and Richard Widmark.

Cooper and Widmark play a couple of would-be prospectors named Hooker and Fiske. They end up stranded in a small Mexican town in a bar where a gorgeous young Rita Moreno is serenading the patrons.

Then Susan Hayward walks in as Leah Fuller, offering two thousand dollars for any man who'll come help her rescue her husband who's trapped in a collapsed mine shaft. Her husband's played by Hugh Marlowe in one of his many roles as the reasonably credible rival to the main male love interest, as he does in Night and the City and Way of a Gaucho. But there's some ambiguity in this film as to just who the main male love interest is.

Hooker and Fiske are both immediately suspicious of the high price Leah is willing the pay but she won't explain, saying something about how no price is too high for a human life. Finally the two men agree to accompany her along with two other men--Luke (Cameron Mitchell) and Vicente (Victor Manuel Mendoza). Kudos to the film for actually employing Hispanic actors as Mexicans and for the extensive use of Spanish--Cooper and Hayward both come off as fluent.

Luke is kind of a hothead and he's the first one to show intentions towards Leah. He tries to assault her one night when the group is camped out and Leah sneaks away to wreck the latest marker Vicente has left so he can find his way back to the mine at a future date. Luke corners her by a river and abruptly starts talking about how he's not doing this for the money, exuding nervous energy before grabbing her.

She gets away from him and goes back to the camp where the film's central scene occurs. It's not the climax of the plot but it seems to be the thematic nexus where the issues the story had been building to come the closest to crystallising and afterwards are digested by the context of future events and decisions. It's clear to Hooker what had happened from the look on Luke's face and the scream he heard from Leah. A fight ensues with a slightly mysterious conclusion. Hooker simultaneously attributes Luke's actions to being a killer and of being only a foolish young man. It's a very grey area that Cooper's gravitas compels the viewer to ponder--Luke is a dangerous guy but they do need all the help they can get. It's also unclear how much Luke's actions are due to a truly malicious nature or are due to him being a foolish young man who's been forced by circumstance to lead a life of violence.

Less clear is why Hooker tells Leah that she bears some blame. It's hard to see the logic even through the lens of 1950s patriarchy and her reply, "What do you think you're saying?" given in an indignant tone, delivered in a way by Hayward that's every bit equal to Cooper's gravitas, is far easier to identify with as a viewer than Hooker's unexplained logic. But it fits in with all the time Hooker and Fiske have spent talking about Leah instead of talking to her while they travelled.

Fiske seems an oddly superfluous character a lot of the time. I almost felt like there was some kind of contractual obligation for Richard Widmark to be included in the film. Mainly he seemed like he was functioning as a motivation for the otherwise taciturn Hooker to speak up--though Hooker never reveals much about himself. But the persistence of Fiske in offering opinions about women, with chestnuts like, "Don't believe anything a woman says but believe everything she sings," starts to feel strange, especially since Leah really doesn't do anything for much of the film except lead the men to her trapped husband.

Then, after things settle down following the fight with Luke, Fiske and Hooker have a really obtuse exchange that I can't for the life of me interpret as anything but Fiske coming on to Hooker.

FISKE: You see how it is? Now she's got you fighting for her honour. She's got you going unarmed against a gun in the hand of a man she turned into an idiot.

HOOKER: A boy.

FISKE: It was very heroic. I admired you enormously. I'm sure she did too. Some day, like Salome, she'll have you bringing her the head of that Vicente in a frying pan.

HOOKER: Or yours.

FISKE: No, no, not mine, Hooker. Mine belongs to you. And you know what they say.

HOOKER: What do they say?

FISKE: Two heads are better than one.

Did I hear that right? Did Fiske just offer to give head to Hooker? That might explain also why Fiske talks about women so much if his homosexuality is repressed.

But all the characters spend some time trashing each other--except Leah who continues to be blamed far more than she deserves. The title of the film, Garden of Evil, evokes the Garden of Eden so maybe Leah leading them to the gold mine is meant to be like Eve leading Adam to the apple. In the latter half of the film, she takes some pretty harsh accusations of manipulation out of greed but she acquits herself pretty well. For all the recriminations and self-interest that seems to be in the dialogue, though, it becomes a story about self-sacrifice and the anti-social behaviour on display seems to be the flip side of deep guilt. Susan Hayward's tenacious performance is crucial as she becomes a kind of wall against which the illusions of bitterness from the men crash and fall back from.

The movie has some great location shots and some of the best matte shots I've ever seen. And it has a good score from Bernard Herrmann.

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A rainy cab invades the desert bait.
Pervasive dust a boon it seemed for shells.
The heated oil poured decides to wait.
Suspended doom arrests attendant bells.
A glowing claw abides in nicer homes.
A chosen hoof deserts the horseless shoe.
Recursive glimmers flatten arching bones.
With liquors late the beef was eaten true.
The acid fades for lack of air or flame.
Contortions cease ennobling facial miens.
A shorter step presaged the height of fame.
A passive bot secures aggressive means.
The red between the blues of ancient eyes
Recalls the crossing cats of nightly skies.