Here we are again, all aboard the Robert Ryan Express: a one-way ticket to lands now long extinct, much to the displeasure of anyone inclined to take without asking. Where a firm kiss, precisely planted, leads to declarations of love in less time than it takes to melt the ice cube in your gin glass. The jaws, square. The glances, steely. And the men, so preposterously cocksure, they think nothing of leading with their vices lest the virtues put you to sleep. Take this exchange:
Nick: “You seen the view?”
Christabel: “Yes.”
Nick: “It looks better with me in it.”
Yessir, that’s Nick. Robert Ryan’s umpteenth take on the Portrait of the Prick as a Young Man, as if you had to ask. And no, he hadn’t known Christabel (Joan Fontaine) longer than a minute when he uttered it. Still, it’s enough. Quite enough. He’s a writer, after all. The sort you just know deals in prose so muscular you can’t take more than a paragraph of it at a time. But you keep reading. Cover to cover, because it’s a man talking. And the women of Born to Be Bad are listening. Intently, as if they had a choice. Because it’s 1950, and if women weren’t loving too much, they were loving badly, and they moved from affair to affair with such ease, it seems an insult to merely call them fickle. They go where the action is, which is money to start, and a fist to the chops for dessert. Just pay sufficient worship, and they’ll be under the covers as expected. Take Nick’s assessment of the maniacally self-involved Christabel, one of many that come to dominate their time together: “You only love one person in the world, Christabel, and it’s the love of a lifetime.” Point, set, match.
But Nick’s an idealist. Happens to believe that sexual attraction can take you from cradle to grave, provided you act on it in lieu of everything else. No couple, he reasons, ever got into trouble unless they got out of bed. The world outside, well, that’s where lies are told, compromises are made, and self-destruction lurks around every corner. The sheets cover all that up, reducing the male/female arrangement to its necessary essence. It’s limiting, but it’s honest. And he’s willing to sign a marriage license if she’ll agree to the terms. Only her terms involve the fiancé of another, which makes him infinitely more attractive than if he were single. Oh yeah, and the money doesn’t hurt. Especially when there’s a lot of it. We’re talking mansions and private clubs and the sort of soirees where being a Senator is still no guarantee of admittance.
Nick has it, whatever it is, but it still doesn’t match a drawer full of jewels. So Christabel runs off with Curtis (Zachary Scott). The practical choice for generations of females. A man’s musk can fuel a month or two, but one still has to eat. And with Nick, there’s always the risk that tough times will force her to work, and well, who’s having that? Off to paradise, with Nick left sad-eyed and lonesome. Only Nick knows. Has it all figured out. She’ll be back, because this is just that sort of broad. Every broad, if we’re avoiding illusions. Big rooms and fancy balls, yes, but the inevitable boredom. Because Curtis actually loves Christabel. The sap. He’s sweet and kind and generous, and where’s the adventure in that? When she enters a room, she wants to be kept guessing. Could be a kiss, could be a slap. Means more than hard currency any day of the week. Took a loveless honeymoon to remind her of that.
Desperate, she reaches out to Nick. Let’s arrange a meeting. Topless and horizontal, just to cover our bases. She makes promises, but they quickly fall apart. Something about being excessively vague and full of contradictions. Sure, she’ll leave Curtis, but be patient. Just give me another few decades to accumulate more shit. Maybe open a few more overseas accounts. A gal’s got to be buttoned up, after all. But Nick isn’t buying: “I don’t make dates with other men’s wives unless they bring written permission from their husbands.” Such permission, as expected, is lacking. “Sorry,” he spits, “I’m not cut out to be a backstreet boy.” Sensing no real commitment, he tosses her out with vintage Ryan force. Hopefully, she reasons, Curtis is still amenable to a deal. I mean, surely he bought her story about the dying aunt that was, in reality, an assignation with Nick. It seemed so airtight in that hastily scribbled note.
In the end, Christabel loses both Nick and Curtis. They’ve had enough. She’ll get by, given her backseat teeming with furs, and the natural born sucker type is hardly in danger of extinction. As for Nick, he too will survive. On the cusp of a decade that perfected the milquetoast, it bears repeating that he’s six-foot-four and carved from marble. And he’s also the sort armed with more one-liners than a Henny Youngman convention. Only his sting. “I love you so much I wish I liked you,” he snorts. Find me a woman who emerges unscathed from that. He thought it was Christabel. He thought wrong. A rare misstep, but one we must forgive. As expected, he’s our last chance for redemption.
Leave a Reply