Reviews

One of the distinctly unsung glories of the '40s studio system days were the Warner Brothers productions of director Raoul Walsh. Whether he was at the helm of a big budget western (They Died With Their Boots On), gangster dramas (High Sierra, White Heat) or turn-of-the-century dramas (Strawberry Blonde, Gentleman Jim), Walsh, at his best, explored character motivation, making his films more emotionally compelling. Walsh made films that had heart.

There was no actor with whom the director worked more often than Errol Flynn, and Walsh helped to bring out much of the best in him as a performer. Silver River was the seventh and last of their collaborations, and was a distinctly troubled production.

In his autobiography, Each Men in His Time, Walsh does not even refer to Silver River, while Flynn made only passing reference to it in his own book, My Wicked Wicked Ways. Silver River died at the 1948 box office, and has never been a film to whom fans, Flynn or otherwise, have ever paid much attention.

And that is a bit of a mystery, inasmuch as Silver River has much to offer the viewer, even upon repeat viewings. A big budget western that becomes a study of the excesses of one man's ambitious corporate greed, the film remains fascinating in many ways because of the interplay of its strongly developed main characters, as well as the unexpected casting of the normally heroic Flynn as a bitter, disillusioned man strictly out for himself. The actor responds to the material with a skilfully nuanced performance.

As Mike McComb, a Union officer unfairly cashiered from the army during the Civil War, Flynn seeks to make his own way, ready to trample upon anyone along the way, first as a gambler, later in the silver mining business, becoming an undisputed empire builder.

McComb's aggressive pursuit of whatever he wants extends to a woman, too, even though she is married. The Stephen Longstreet screenplay draws deliberate parallels to the Biblical tale of David and Bathsheba, with those characters' names being referenced in the dialogue by a drunken lawyer, Plato Beck, played by Thomas Mitchell in a role clearly inspired by his Doc Boone characterization in Ford's Stagecoach, filmed eight years before.

Silver River has several strong scenes of interaction between the actors, one of the best occurring in a bar in which Mitchell semi-drunkenly lectures Flynn on the evil of his intentions, after it becomes apparent that his character plans on sending Bruce Bennett (Ann Sheridan's husband) into Indian territory for prospecting, in the hopes that he will be killed.

Mitchell is scruffy in appearance, grand and effectively theatrical in this scene, while Flynn, by contrast, is elegantly attired and understated in his response to the accusations. But there's an intensity in the interplay between the two actors in this sequence, which marks a low point in the ruthlessness of Flynn's character, as well as establishing Mitchell as the moral conscience of the film (even, though, in reality, his character could have warned Bennett not to go to the territory, just as much as Flynn).

Flynn and Sheridan have great chemistry as a screen team, whether in the film's earlier scenes in which her character despises McComb or the later ones in which they are in love. Based on this film, Sheridan probably stands second only to Olivia de Havilland as the actor's best leading lady.

Silver River is hurt by a weak ending, which I will not divulge. That, however, takes nothing away from the dramatically compelling drama that has preceded it.

The film has one scene of lingering power towards the end. This is a sequence which takes place after McComb's financial empire (in typical Hollywood production code expectations) has come crashing down around his head.

The scene is set in McComb's palatial home which is now being cleared of its belongings by contractors for McComb's creditors. By this time Sheridan, too, has left Flynn. The only thing left of her is a giant portrait which hangs on the wall. The one time that Flynn responds to any of his possessions being taken is when a workman on a ladder touches that portrait. Flynn threatens physical violence if he touches it again and the workman withdraws.

As the contractors take his possessions, Flynn leans against a doorway, a forlorn figure reading a newspaper, seemingly indifferent to the activity around him. Flynn's McComb may have been a four flusher in many respects but now, at his moment of defeat, he is stoically taking it like a man, and the viewer can't help but feel some admiration for him in that respect.

As Flynn reads his paper, character actor Tom D'Andrea, playing his only friend at this moment, makes a conversation with him, asking him if he will try to see Sheridan again. D'Andrea then comments, "Of course, it's none of my business." "That's right," a proud Flynn responds, still looking at the paper "it's none of your business." D'Andrea departs, leaving McComb alone surrounded by these workmen. Flynn pushes himself away from the door jamb upon which he was leaning, and starts to depart the room.

He stops for a moment, though, and, almost as if by irresistible impulse, can't help but look at the wall beside him and peer upward. The camera follows Flynn's gaze and it rests upon the portrait of Sheridan.

It is a searing portrayal of loneliness and vulnerability. With all of his possessions being taken away from him at this moment, Flynn/McComb's one thought is of the wife he has lost, the woman who previously had been there for him. McComb has reached his personal bottom. He has final received his comeuppance.

It's a scene that reflects the sensitivity that director Walsh could bring to his films, as well as the beautifully understated acting of which Flynn was capable.