[NOTE: On hiatus in New York, researching a new project. Therefore, for the time being, I am resurrecting another older piece, this one about The Lodger, which seems very apt now since the new movie version by David Ondaatje, starring Simon Baker and Hope Davis, below, opens today.]

Ladykiller: The Story of The Lodger

A tall dark stranger. Loads of London fog. A coquettish showgirl. The back streets of Whitechapel. A debonair inspector. And Jack the Ripper. These are the ingredients that have made Marie Belloc Lowndes’ novel The Lodger such an eternal favorite.

First published in McClure’s magazine in 1911, the mystery, soon issued in book form in 1913, cleverly preyed on the public’s fascination with the Ripper case, which remained unsolved (and still is, despite what Patricia Cornwell might want us to think), and played off the paranoia and hysteria that arise when a ruthless serial killer is on the loose. Lowndes was the sister of the author Hilaire Belloc. And while she may not have had his subtle flair for literature, she had the equally valuable common touch. Her book has been in print since it was first published. In fact, four films have been made based on her novel.

Recently I’ve been on something of a Lodger kick. While researching the wonderful, but now nearly forgotten, actor Laird Cregar, I discovered that the Fox film, The Lodger, was finally out on DVD and available on NetFlix. I leapt at the chance to view it. Starring some of my favorite Hollywood stars, including Merle Oberon, as the disarmingly beautiful showgirl, and George Sanders, as the devastatingly debonair detective, Fox’s 1944 version of the Lodger stands out as arguably the best in the series. But it is Laird Cregar’s performance that makes the film so worth watching. Physically a cross between Vincent Price (particularly his slightly whispered, gentleman’s voice) and Raymond Burr (especially Burr’s soulful eyes and bulk), Cregar is in a league of his own.

Breathing new life into the stereotype of Ripper as a madman, Cregar imbues his character with uncanny pathos and cunning. While it is evident from the beginning of the film that he is in fact the killer, one is drawn to him, just as Merle Oberon is, despite his ungainly physique (Cregar was over 300 pounds at this point), and bizarre personality.

Cregar starts off slow but gradually reveals his character in flashes of brilliance. There’s one scene in particular in which Cregar shows Oberon a small painting of his “brother.” It’s a self-portrait that the artist made, showing a devilishly handsome young man (who looks nothing like Cregar at all). Cregar goes off on a mad monologue about how beautiful his “brother” was, oozing a disconcertingly incestuous and homoerotic obsessiveness that isn’t really in the script. It’s all in the way Cregar delivers the lines — and in his eyes. It is a chilling scene that transports this film from being a typical Hollywood Gothic thriller into a realm of Poe-like surrealism that transcends the genre. And which also makes it uniquely ahead of its time. Blaming the cause of a serial killer’s rage against women on his repressed homosexual urges had not yet become a tired Hollywood cliche.

The same can also be said of the first two Lodger films that starred the great English musical star Ivor Novello. I could go on at length about the appeal of this amazing persona.

Little known today in America, Novello was on a par with Noel Coward in England, writing musicals, starring in films, penning unforgettable songs, producing elegant theatrical spectaculars. He even found the time to write the screenplay for the original Tarzan, The Ape Man film (starring Johnny Weissmuller)! And not only that, he was devastatingly handsome. In the 1920s, Ivor Novello was one of the most instantly recognizable faces in the world.

The first Lodger film was a stylish silent movie directed by none other than Alfred Hitchcock, in 1926. It can be seen as one of his first masterpieces. And the first in a long line of thrillers. Hitchcock had had another success with Novello in the marvelous silent Downhill. Unfortunately, because of Novello’s popularity, the Lodger story was changed, making Novello merely a suspect in the Ripper case, rather than the actual killer himself. This worked well for Hitchcock’s purposes, as he was a master at creating suspense out of ordinary daily experiences. But the story lacked some punch. Today it is best known for its striking cinematography and Novello’s riveting performance.

In 1932, Novello remade The Lodger, also starring himself. But this time he made it as a talkie. It is similar to the Hitchcock version, but lacks the ingenuity and mise-en-scene that Hitchcock first gave it. Still, it is worth watching since it is one of the few films in which we can hear Novello actually talk. And even without Hitchcock, it holds one’s attention.

A decade later, The Lodger was taken up by director John Brahm, and writer Barre Lyndon, and given the Hollywood treatment. For me this is the most satisfying version for the reasons already given. Laird Cregar’s creepy performance in the Ivor Novello role. George Sander’s unctuously couth inspector. (He would have made a brilliant Sherlock Holmes.)

And where else can one see Merle Oberon dance a can-can?! But most of all it is the brilliant direction of John Brahm, who was known for the early horror film The Undying Monster. The lighting in this version is absolutely breathtaking. When one of the victims is getting ready to go to bed in her squalid flat, she suddenly realizes there is a man in her room. The camera pushes her back against the wall and she covers her face with her hands, letting out a bloodcurdling scream. It is one of the most horrifying scenes ever caught on celluloid, similar in tone to some of the best work by James Whale.

Later, towards the end of the film, there’s a memorable scene in which Cregar is crawling along a catwalk above the stage where Merle Oberon is performing. The light thrust up between the rungs of the crosswalk illuminates Cregar’s face in a pattern of quickly moving bars, eerily reminiscent of the light cast by a silent movie projector. Is this a subtle homage to Hitchcock? Or just a brilliant device? Moments later, when Cregar is backed up against a wall, his face is framed in a painfully harsh light that reveals the tormented monster he truly is.

Brahm and Cregar went on to capitalize on the box office success of The Lodger by crafting a sequel of sorts: Hangover Square.

While not about Jack the Ripper, it tells the story of a psychopathic composer who kills uncontrollably when he suffers spells caused by shrill sounds. It’s a real hoot. And while it doesn’t quite rise to the level of The Lodger, it has some devastating moments. Cregar lost over a hundred pounds prior to taking the role. And boy does it show. He is surprisingly handsome here and the loss of extra weight seems to have freed him to act in new directions. Alas, it was because of his rapid weight loss that Cregar died shortly after making the film.

Why producers felt it necessary to remake The Lodger again in 1953 is beyond me. And why cast Jack Palance as the Ripper? He is so obviously creepy that it undermines the suspense. But this film version, called The Man in the Attic, is worth watching as a counterpoint to the other versions.

Using the same script as the Cregar version, it is almost identical in some shots. I even wondered if they had used some of the footage from the earlier film. There’s one scene where a Bobby is looking for the killer on a rooftop and is attacked by pigeons that is identical to the previous one. Even the costumes seem to have come from the same distributor. But there are very important differences. The showgirl here, played by the very beautiful Constance Smith, sings with a dubbed-in saccharine 50s voice that sounds so canned that it almost smells of sardines. And there’s a bit more flesh. It hardly seems possible that in Victorian England, an actress would strip down to her birthday suit to take a bath on stage.

One of the odder “updatings” is that the character of Smith’s dresser at the theatre is now written as a dour woman from India. Why this change? Was this some underhanded reference to Merle Oberon (seen above in one of her “exotic” moods) who starred in the previous version? Oberon’s Indian heritage was a well-known Hollywood “secret.” And as revealed in the biographical novel Queenie by Michael Korda, based on Oberon’s life, her mother posed as her servant. Perhaps if the film were better, one’s mind wouldn’t wander off on such far-fetched tangents!

The most appalling change is that here, instead of being madly in love with his “brother,” the Jack Palance character shows us a small painting of his mother, an actress who became a streetwalker in Whitechapel when she fell on hard times. The detective informs us that the Ripper’s first victim was this woman, his mother. This is an absurd twist, and a vain attempt to explain his behavior. And worse, it’s a far cry from the odd homosexual psycho-drama that plagued Cregar in his much better version.

In the Jack Palance version, Edward, the Prince of Wales, comes to hear the showgirl perform. This is an ironic touch since years later books would be written claiming that it was Edward’s son, Prince Albert, aka “Eddy” who was actually Jack the Ripper.

So my advice to anyone who cares is that the next time you take a room at a hotel on a business trip or vacation, bring along a copy of The Lodger — and any of its four (make that five) film versions — and curl up in your bed while enjoying it. But make sure to leave the light on.

Forever Spruce: The Life and Works of Beverley Nichols

One of the most curious figures of English letters is Beverley Nichols (1898-1983). A Renaissance man of the Roaring 20s and the 30s, Nichols was a handsome, debonair author and playwright, a pianist, songwriter, actor, mystery writer, gardening expert, sparkling wit, bon vivant, cat champion, children’s storyteller, and what used to be described delicately as a “confirmed bachelor,” despite a 40-year long relationship with his male companion. For decades he was inescapable on the British literary and social scene. He knew and was lauded by many of the leading lights of his day. And he outlived many of his staunchest rivals.

Having taken the glitterati by storm with the publication of his precocious memoirs Twenty-Five, coyly penned when he was just 25, after he had finished at Oxford, Nichols went on to write over 50 books, many of them bestsellers. One of my favorites is Prelude, which is set at a public school, and reminds me in some ways of Alec Waugh’s classic The Loom of Youth. It is a charming bit of fluff, with some subtle gay undertones, and proof that Nichols was as good as, if not better than his contemporaries, Michael Arlen and Max Beerbohm. (below, detail from the cover art of Prelude.)

But mention his name today and most people have no idea who you are talking about. And I am not just talking about people in America. Even in his beloved England, Nichols is now nearly forgotten. A dutiful biography by Bryan Connon went a long way to reviving interest in him, but Beverley Nichols still remains one of those singularly talented authors who has fallen unfairly through the cracks. (That’s Nichols, below, at his thatched cottage, with his pet pooch Whoops.)

And yet, what a strange, marvelous creature he was! Reading his books, one feels that Nichols would have made a terrific house guest. While he probably wouldn’t lift a finger to help set a fire, or clear the table, he’d pay his way with witty anecdotes culled from his many years cavorting with celebrities, both haut monde and demi-monde. I’d like to grill him about Nellie Melba, the great Australian opera diva. Nichols ghostwrote her memoirs and later tossed off a perfectly brilliant roman a clef, Evensong, about her. It was made into a 1934 film starring Evelyn Laye and Emlyn Williams. But it is the appearance of opera legend Conchita Supervia in it that makes it especially memorable. (photo below, from the film.)

I first stumbled upon the unusual name Beverley Nichols during one of my Somerset Maugham phases (which every young writer goes through). I came across a book entitled A Case of Human Bondage (who could avoid picking that one up at a used bookstore?) It is a scathing attack on Somerset Maugham, mostly for treating his wife, the lovely and influential interior decorator Syrie Maugham, like dirt. What is shocking about this rather short book (it is literally an idee fixe set down on paper) is how relentless it is! There is little attempt on the part of Nichols to balance his criticisms. It is mean-spirited and yet mesmerizing. And he really captures the esssence of Somerset Maugham’s darker side, although the author of Of Human Bondage liked to compliment Nichols on always looking “spruce.” (As you can see from the photo I found on the web, he indeed was!)

Most scholars and biographers bend over backwards to either prove their points or at least offer a countering opinion. Not so with Nichols, who rarely minced words, although the tone of many of his books is rather mincing to say the least. I found I could not stop re-reading sections of this vicious volume to friends. I asked a writer chum of mine in England if he had ever heard of this fellow with the odd first name, Beverley (at least on this side of the Pond, most men are not called Beverley, even with the extra “e”). My pal vaguely recalled seeing Nichols out and about, an eccentric raconteur who was a fun addition to a party. But he could not add much to my knowledge of who this man really was. Or how he came to write this wickedly fun little book.

My appetite whetted, I devoured the few more books by Nichols I could find. This was back in 1998 just as eBay was getting going. I found copies of his much-admired gardening books via Australia, Canada and Great Britain. I even ordered some from Hong Kong. It seemed as long as there was a sun setting on the former British empire, one could find a copy of a book by Beverley Nichols, even if it was dog-eared or ex-library. And for mere pennies! (Now they have become more expensive, as legitimate book dealers are now using eBay as a way to sell to foreign buyers.)

These gardening tomes, originally designed with whimsical illustrations by Rex Whistler, (and later by William McLaren) were also a revelation since they are told from the point of view of a man who clearly spent a great deal of time admiring his garden but who did very little actual gardening himself! He relied on the help of his staff, in some cases inherited from the home’s previous owners. (I hope the administrators of the wonderful website at Timber Press won’t mind my borrowing this detail, below, from a larger photograph of Nichols with two young men, if only as a teaser to their own collection of photographs — see the link at right on my favorites list.)

The tone of what might be called the “herbaceous border” series, which began beautifully with Down the Garden Path (a typically wry Nichols title) is downright delicious. Nichols pokes fun at his stuffy neighbors and prissy socialite friends, as well as excoriating his ego-crazed gardening rivals. And he does it all with stylish, effortless prose that is a joy to read. The book was a runaway bestseller and helped restore Nichols to the limelight. His star had been a bit dampened after his early brash successes by a series of less-than-stellar journalistic efforts. His diversity, however, was astonishing, ranging from books on politics and religion, to folk tales and treatises on flower arranging. I was not as enthusiastic about some of these, such as The Star Spangled Manner; Are They The Same at Home?; Women and Children Last; Uncle Samson. What one discovers here is Nichols struggling to find his niche, while being paid handsomely to do it. Ironically, he wouldn’t have been able to afford the squire lifestyle which he described so vividly in his various “country” series if he hadn’t done these rather humdrum hack jobs.

Down the Garden Path was followed by a succession of equally amusing books: A Village in a Valley and A Thatched Roof. Then Nichols traded up, buying a Georgian pile, glorified in Merry Hall and its two follow-ups: Laughter on the Stairs and Sunlight on the Lawn.

He later sold that white elephant and moved to a grim sort of row house with an ugly backyard which he tried (vainly, I believe) to improve with brick walls and lavish garden ornaments. It was written up in Green Grows the City. That is the only time I felt Nichols was faltering. (That’s him, below, gazing adoringly at his “folly” in the odd corner of his tight plot.)

He later returned to a more luxurious lifestyle with another country house, Sudbrook Cottage, this time immortalized in Garden Open Today, and later, Garden Open Tomorrow. One of the best of the later books is Down The Kitchen Sink, a culinary excursion that is filled with brittle asides about nosy neighbors, and cottage chitchat.

For my money, however, I have a special place in my heart for Nichols’ eccentric mystery novels. No Man’s Street. The Moonflower. Death to Slow Music, etc. These curious efforts began, one has to believe, as a bold attempt to cash in on the rage for Agatha Christie style whodunnits. Nichols’ take on it, however, was typically subversive and slightly wacky since his character, Mr. Green, solved crimes not with his insightful intellect or his magnifying glass, or even his snooping skills, but with his incredibly sensitive nose. He had an inordinately gifted olfactory ability, which led to some pretty startling surprises.

It’s clear reading these potboilers that Nichols was having a great deal of fun pushing the envelope of the genre, satirizing his friends (including Noel Coward and Ivor Novello, whom he considered his rivals as well), and introducing slightly risque gay themes into the plots at a time when such things were still tightly wrapped in the closet.

Beverley Nichols also had a serious side and this is evident in some of his political screeds, such as his pacifist tract: Cry Havoc!, or the immensely passe Verdict on India. And some might question his mental faculties while reading Powers That Be, a rather hodgepodge examination of psychic phenomena. No, Nichols belonged in other realms divorced from otherworldly forces or dry diplomatic diversions. Perhaps one can argue that his book on his family’s painful bouts with alcoholism, Father Figure, suffers a bit from this tendency towards being “de trop”, but who can resist its opening line? — “The first time I remember my father he was lying dead-drunk on the dining room floor.” Or this later comment? “The occasion of my third attempt to murder my father can be precisely dated and it is not a date that I am likely to forget.”

I now proudly have in my possession nearly all of Beverley Nichols’ oeuvre. I even have his little-known The Valet as Historian, which seems to have been privately printed as an advertising giveaway. I paid a lot for it on eBay. But it was worth it. It’s vintage Nichols. Deft, slightly disarming, and absolutely unforgettable.