I’ve never met anyone remotely like Ronald Colman (1891-1958). It’s better that way.

He had an impossible to replicate, highly theatrical blend of the lighthearted and the grave that sparkled behind his brown eyes–a quality that seems to have vanished from this world. Oddly, his quiet, often surprisingly modern style, (especially when compared with his screen contemporaries), seems to be overlooked today, whether he is acting in a playful role such as his first talkie,  Bulldog Drummond (1929), playing a disillusioned husband in Cynara (1932),  the touching  amnesiac in Random Harvest (1942) or in his deeply felt part as Sydney Carton in A Tale of Two Cities (1935). His characters, which he recognized were often shadows of an earlier time in British history even as he played them with such style, have an elusive grace  that was often imitated but uniquely his own.

Even when the circumstances of his movies present him in a dramatically incredible situation, on the steppes of Tibet or Devil’s Island or the streets of Paris, his ability to underplay, make his characters react in a believably human manner and still weave the romantic illusions that comprise the plots of many of his movies, along with his dark, gentle good looks, made him an actor worth watching to this day–at least to some of us.  Understandably, some who followed him may have tried to copy his wistful manner and that mellifluous, soft voice. Others tried to affect the lightness of touch that gave his comedic and dramatic roles such panache and depth, though most good actors eventually find their own path more sure footing. Many producers, beginning with Sam Goldwyn, whose relations with Ronald Colman were often chilly, were constantly trying to talk him into appearing in one project or another. When the original couldn’t be had, they settled for trying to craft a shadowy line of actors imported to Hollywood into a second Colman on screen. Wisely, the original, who was among the few stars who became more appealing after sound was introduced seemed to understand his own value almost from the first. Some of those paler imitations of the actor were a very young Laurence Olivier, who was encouraged to grow a Ronald Colman mustache and to ape the actor’s manner and voice for his 1932 appearance in The Yellow Ticket, and, in his numerous roles as a male accessory to several Warner Brothers actresses, George Brent seems to have been a doughy knockoff of Colman, as, at various intervals were Richard Greene, Ray Milland (in the decade before The Lost Weekend), David Niven and Brian Aherne.

Colman understood that as a commodity, scarcity was to his advantage, and he avoided overexposure, preferring to pick and choose his roles selectively. Among the roles that he reportedly turned down were that of Rhett Butler in Gone With the Wind, Maxim de Winter in Rebecca, the lawyer who falls for Alida Valli in The Paradine Case, and the part ultimately played by Alec Guinness in The Bridge on the River Kwai.  Sadly, the cultural distance between his time and our brash age, as well as his selectivity and the lack of commercial release of many of his better movies on dvd, have all contributed to the general public’s unawareness of his gifted presence. Despite the man’s singular distinctiveness,  the implausible premise in more than one Colman film tries to make the audience believe that his characters had near lookalikes at every turn.

The first film role that tried to have two Ronalds in one movie was The Magic Flame (1928), directed by Henry King and featuring Vilma Banky, who was Colman‘s frequent co-star during the late silent phase of his career. This silent movie offered audiences the chance to see the actor as both a gentle clown and an evil Count, though, since only five reels of the eleven reel film are said to exist in the vaults of the International Museum of Photography and Film at George Eastman House in Rochester, we may never know how effectively he pulled off what sounds like a highly romantic dual role. The New York Time‘s Mordaunt Hall offered a tantalizing review of The Magic Flame when it was first released, found here.

Later in his career, Colman‘s alleged resemblance to Donald Wood in Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities (1935) entertained and moved audiences deeply as a drunken, cynical  barrister, Sydney Carton, whose misspent life is changed by his love for Lucy Manette (Elizabeth Allan).  Finding meaning in his ability to sacrifice himself for Lucy’s husband by using his slight resemblance to Wood to take his place at the guillotine during the French Revolution, his character of Sydney Carton discovers that he has an idealistic, noble nature as well as a base one, wasting his time in alcoholic pursuits that mask his loneliness.  After at least thirteen other versions have been produced of this story, this lavish, carefully rendered version of the classic remains the best, highlighted by the gem of an introspective performance by Colman, (set off so well by the fine characterizations of Blanche Yurka as Madame de Farge, Edna May Oliver as Pross, Basil Rathbone as the Marquis St. Evremonde and Walter Catlett as Barsad, among others). Reportedly an avid reader of Charles Dickens since boyhood, Colman‘s approach to the part of Sidney Carton is imbued with an appreciation for the character’s reflective nature, and Colman pulls off several bravura scenes of a man enmeshed in his own self-destruction, tragically self-aware as he explains when asked the rather staid Charles Darnay (Donald Wood) asks why he drinks: “You are smug, Mr. Darnay, when you ask why people drink, but I’ll tell you. So that they can stand their fellow man better, he chuckled bitterly. “After a few bottles, I might even like you.” After Darnay understandably leaves him in a huff, Colman, gazing into the mirror, asks himself reproachfully “Why treat the fellow like that? Is it because–he shows you what you have fallen away from?What you might have been…?”

Still later, on Christmas Eve, a drunken Carton meets Lucy Manette (Elizabeth Allan) and Miss Pross (Edna May Oliver) on their way to church, where he joins them at their invitaion. In the unfamiliar setting, as Elizabeth Allan lights a candle for him, his face, registering doubt, regret and painful self-knowledge. Later, in one of the most effective moments of his film career, he stands in the snow after escorting the pair home, listening to the singing of carolers singing of the “joyful and triumphant” as he broods on his failings, watching the Christmas celebrants retire, one by one to the warmth of a home he has never known. Colman‘s wistful performance, culminating in his choice to do the “far, far better thing” was not even nominated for an Academy Award. Perhaps this was because as an independent actor with some contractual ties to 20th Century Fox at the time, MGM, which produced this excellent version of the novel, did not see any corporate advantage in pushing for his well-deserved nomination. Prior to A Tale of Two Cities the actor may have gotten by in some films with his easy manner and gentlemanly charm, but the fatalism and melancholy indicated his often hidden depth. Despite his later critical success in A Double Life (1947), Sydney Carton may have been his best work and favorite role.

A year later, another role that once again exploited the appealing idea of Ronald Colman‘s duality allowed the actor to give an  equally splendid performance in novelist Anthony Hope’s then venerable 1894 warhorse, The Prisoner of Zenda (1936). Under the underrated John Cromwell‘s direction,  he played lookalike cousins, (an Englishman who had illegitimate ancestral ties to the royal house of a Ruritanian kingdom and a prince in line to ascend to the throne of this fictional European country). Despite all the preposterous episodes and broadly played characterizations inherent in such a piece, (and the frame by frame imitation of the film in 1952 version starring Stewart Granger and James Mason), this version of the story of the two Rudolfs, one a British major and another a king, is not only entertaining, but dramatically credible, thanks to Colman‘s own skeptical approach to the situation. Thanks to the star’s verve, lightness of touch and an unparalleled supporting cast, (especially Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. as Rupert), the piece becomes gradually more involving, until, inevitably, the renunciation scene between the commoner and the Princess Flavia (Madeleine Carroll), transforms the cardboard situation into a memorable moment of sharp, tender feeling, grounding the gossamer light film in something real.

Recently,  TCM ran one more rarely seen early talkie film starring Ronald Colman in a dual role in The Masquerader (1933).  His dual role in the film as a promising but troubled member of Parliament and his disaffected journalist cousin seems to have been one of the more challenging of his early sound career, as well a fine warm up for both A Tale of Two Cities and particularly The Prisoner of Zenda.

I was curious about this movie, which is based on a popular novel published in 1904 by Katherine C. Thurston, (which you can read here ) and was recently broadcast for the first time on TCM. The film was produced around the time when comments made by the producer precipitated Colman‘s final rift with his longtime employer Sam Goldwyn. After the producer intimated falsely to the press that the actor imbibed several nips prior to playing his more uninhibited scenes for the screen, his star sued the boss for libel, asking for $2 million in damages. Colman, while not a teetotaler, was a professional and understandably resentful over having himself described as a booze hound on or off the set. He broke with his long time boss, for better or worse, after a decade of simmering enmity erupted publicly between the two.  The case was eventually settled out of court, and Colman, true to his word, never worked for Goldwyn again.

Naturally diffident in public, Colman, who, by all reports was a loyal friend and enjoyed a very good time in the company of those he trusted, but the experience of a disastrous first marriage to a woman who dogged him for years and the Goldwyn attempts at publicity made him even more reluctant to step into the public spotlight off screen. Since his services as an independent player were in demand for many years after leaving Goldwyn, I’d say it was the right choice, though the role in The Masquerader certainly gave the actor a prime opportunity to show that Colman had a greater range than had previously been seen in his more restrained appearances.

As a film, The Masquerader, directed by film pioneer Richard Wallace, may belong to that school of British movies beloved by Hollywood in the 1930s, with the stylish upper crust straightening things out in society. Unlike many of the more simplistic of these types of films, this one exposes a part of reality a bit more forthrightly, utilizing alcoholism and drug addiction as well as adultery to tell its story. The film centers around a brilliant politician in Depression torn Britain, Sir John Chilcote, (Colman) who has alienated his party and his loyal wife (Elissa Landi) by his drug and alcohol use.

Ronald Colman, (left), looking a bit ragged as a drug addicted alcoholic.

The film is set in the present day 1930s England, when dire labor and economic issues are desperately in need of remedy, (sound familiar?).  Colman‘s Sir John Chilcote as a brilliant if an erratic member of his party,  begins the film, blowing a chance to address the nation’s problems in a realistically recreated House of Commons. Hellbent on seeking out his next drink and fix,  I thought that Colman realistically played an arrogant, self-pitying man whose life surreptitiously centers around the pursuit of these vices, when he is not appeasing his rather vampish mistress (Juliette Compton), a character who does everything but allow steam to escape from her ears in her portrayal of this dark and decadent–but, truthfully, hardly alluring–lady.  The character of Chilcote gives Colman a chance to play a rare, thoroughly bad apple, which he performs with a maniacal relish. Colman, who had been accused of overacting by theatrical critics during his early stage career, gives this role an overwrought edge that makes his character insufferable and unsympathetic. The fact that he plays this with such unusual glee makes me wonder if he looked upon the role as a chance to break out of his usual gentle character or if he was acting out his increasing frustration with his work under the aegis of Sam Goldwyn.

As the straight arrow cousin who takes over his responsibilities (and his wife), Colman made the character’s dilemma interesting by emphasizing his constant and frequently comical confusion when trying to find his way around his “own” house, an awkward meeting with his mistress, or in attempting to make a speech in parliament. The comic and the dramatic elements of the movie blended surprisingly well, and, as a viewer, I found myself amused and moved by the end of the 75 year old entertainment, which, in addition to Colman in a dual role also features the always artful work of cinematographer Gregg Toland.

In one of those coincidences that only seem to happen in novels and movies of the period, while wandering homeward in a dense fog, a cousin of Sir John, also played by Colman, accosts Chilcote on a foggy street, chiding him for his disgraceful lack of self-discipline in public at a moment of national crisis, setting off a chain of events that lead to Sir John holing up in a rooming house and his cousin John Loder (not the bland actor of that period,  but Ronnie in split screen), taking his place splendidly, warming the hearts of his political cronies (led by and officious David Torrance) and winning over Elissa Landi‘s love once more by his gentle sobriety.

Landi is perhaps best remembered for her role as the professional virgin in De Mille’s curious blend of the prurient and the overly reverent in The Sign of the Cross, the slightly cracked cousin of Myrna Loy in  After the Thin Man, and the beloved of Robert Donat in The Count of Monte Cristo (1934). She could play her aristocratic role in The Masquerader with a refined aplomb that may have come naturally to her since she is rumored to be either the secret child of Empress Elizabeth (Sissi) of Austria or a direct descendant of Emperor Franz Joseph of Austria, (albeit, on the wrong side of the blanket either way). In her career in Hollywood, Landi‘s lady-like restraint on screen seems to have kept her from becoming a true star, and she eventually became a novelist and poet with many books published before her early death in 1948.

As the wronged wife who falls in love–she thinks–with her husband once again after the good Ronald Colman fills in for her actual tosspot hubby, she has some scenes of fine tenderness, though, imo, Colman could play a scene with a log and make it seem a romantic revelation of nuanced feeling to most flesh and blood viewers.

Next to Colman‘s tour de force role, the work of the familiar character actor, Halliwell Hobbes, as the longtime retainer of RC‘s upper class family was exceptionally good, especially in the scenes in which he tries to protect his dissipated “master” from himself, chiding him and reminding him quite forcefully that he will not be fired since his service is part of a proud family heritage. Truthfully, the most engaging relationship in the film is between Colman and Hobbes. As the dissolute character of John Loder (no relation to the bland secondary leading man of the period), Colman berates and relies on his man Brock (Hobbes). As his sober, if disaffected cousin who impersonates the M.P., Colman again relies on Hobbes for his sound guidance. Ocasionally, during The Masquerader I wished that Brock would not try so hard to maintain  the status quo of a class ridden society, but that’s probably the anarchic American streak in me. Halliwell Hobbes, who also pursued a fifty year theatrical career, spent much of his time on screen as a butler or enabler of some sort for the upper classes, such as a rule-bound clergyman in Waterloo Bridge (1940) or a doctor with some bad news for the patient, as he did opposite Colman again in The Light That Failed (1939). My favorite role for this character actor may have been Mr. DePinna in You Can’t Take It With You (1938). He played (in a perfectly straight manner eschewing all comedic mugging), the role of one of the blithe spirits who produced dynamite in the basement of the Vanderhof’s house. You can usually spot him, because Hobbes is the guy with the pet raven on his shoulder and the bewildered expression.
I realize that to our modern ears most of the sort of roles that Halliwell Hobbes played sound obsequious and self-abnegating, but the way that Hobbes plays the character in The Masquerader denies any trace of the subservient. He is probably the most clear-eyed character in the entire production, seeing through the hypocrisy and the humbug of politics as well as the exceedingly tangled romantic lives of all the other characters while doing his duty with crisp efficiency and underlying concern for his ungrateful lord.

Refusing to give up on his depraved charge, Hobbes attends Sir John as his health falters, protecting him from himself, even while he props up the illusion of his public image, by encouraging his cousin to keep on playing Sir John. Btw, the drug addiction of Sir John Chilcote’s character is treated as a sign of moral weakness, probably brought on by his closeness to the unsavory mistress who has abetted his vice. Gradually, it becomes clear in the film that Colman‘s Sir John is hopelessly addicted to what the filmmakers, in their discretion, imply might be laudanum or might be morphine. The depiction of the outcome of this pastime is surprisingly raw for a movie of the period, though this would become harder to depict on American screens with this degree of frankness within a short time after this movie was made.

The fact that this movie was made in 1933, a year before the dead hand of the Production Code blocked all realistic (and entertaining) depictions of alleged negative human behavior on screen probably allowed Goldwyn to incorporate themes of real and implied adultery, political unrest among the working class, and addiction into this brisk 80 minute film. Since TCM was able to acquire this rare film along with such other Colman seldom broadcast movies such as Cynara in the last year for broadcast, and films such as The Prisoner of Zenda are finally being issued on dvd in recent years, I’m hoping that this is an indication of a possible renewal of interest in Ronald Colman‘s movies.

If you’d like to read a very thorough description of this film scene by scene a friend, writing under the nomme de internet of “Ann Harding” has provided one in her dual language site along with many fine screen captures from this film. You might want to visit the portion of this  beautifully composed site discussing this movie, found here.  It was a pleasure to discover a new film featuring a favorite actor. The Masquerader (1933) is only available commercially on vhs (if you can find one) in the U.S. and the U.K.

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Sources:
Aherne, Brian, A Proper Job, Houghton Mifflin, 1969.
Morley, Sheridan, Tales From the Hollywood Raj, The Viking Press, 1983.
Smith, R. Dixon, Ronald Colman, Gentleman of the Cinema, McFarland and Company, 1991.