Gilda 4K 1946 Ultra HD 2160p

Story Movie

The cunning con artist Johnny Farrell is saved from death by the enigmatic Balin Mandson, the owner of a major casino. Johnny becomes his right-hand man, but the friendship between them begins to fall apart when Balin returns to town with his young wife, Gilda, after yet another absence. Everything suggests that Gilda and Johnny were once lovers, but now their feelings seem more like mutual hatred.

Review 4K Movie

My 764th viewing of *Gilda*, starring Rita Hayworth—the greatest woman in world cinema—in the title role, gave me an amusing thought.

The film is a fairly standard noir with plenty of silly missteps, like the completely unnecessary explanation of how Gilda’s husband saved himself—since we already know EVERYTHING about that—or the predictable and poorly executed (so that if it didn’t intrigue, it would at least keep us on edge) of the humiliated tungsten supplier. However, any such refinements might even have spoiled the picture—because all our attention is drawn to HER. By every means, and probably by these rough edges in the subplots as well. And so—thinking about all this, I realized something. But first—some memories.

In the 1930s, the Motion Picture Association of America adopted the so-called Hays Code. These were censorship guidelines defining the limits of permissible lewdness on screen, ranging from the degree of violence all the way down to kissing. And this code wasn’t just strict. It was senselessly strict—the duration of a kiss was limited to a few seconds, and adultery wasn’t allowed even in thoughts, unless the spouse was a hardened villain and deserved to be punished. That’s why murders look so… uninteresting in films of that era. Most murders, I meant to say.

During and after World War II, there were a sufficient number of directors from Europe in America who wanted to and knew how to make ARTISTIC cinema. Hitchcock, Lang, Wilder, Welles, and many others. Also, unlike poor Europe, America had money. But—America also had the CODE.

I’d venture to suggest that such restrictions only stimulated the imagination of true artists. Hitchcock honed the art of suspense, delaying the moment of some bloody denouement... or the setup, and the murder itself could be presented any way you liked—through a reflection in glasses or the fall of a fire curtain from the victim’s perspective—and it was still terrifying. The brilliant and witty dialogue in Mankiewicz or Wilder’s films skillfully sidestepped dangerous topics through hints and double entendres—dialogue you’d never hear in real life, but which sounds delightful coming from the mouths of wonderful actors. And the actors themselves, whom we love perhaps more than anyone else—Bogart,
Grant, Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn, etc., etc.—could only have emerged during that era. Actors possessing such powerful charisma that they didn’t need to flash their naked bodies in front of a steamed-up mirror or swear colorfully. One glance—and you’re defeated. But when they fell into the hands of a true director, who created the perfect psychological atmosphere for them in a perfectly conceived cinematic world, we got an absolute masterpiece. With all its flaws, blunders, miscalculations, and, frankly, mediocre acting; and all of this only adds to its charm and would never be forgiven in any modern film.

Only in the cinema of this Golden Age are all the actresses, without exception, beautiful. Beautiful precisely—as women. They excite, intrigue, delight, beckon, and appear in your life only to remain a mystery forever. Rita Hayworth in this film is right there in front of you—you remember every movement, every curl, and every glance—and yet she remains THERE, in that beautiful world, waiting for your return. She takes off her glove—just one glove—but it seems as though nothing else remains on her. No Angelina Jolie, even if she were to run naked to the music of Tom Jones, could hold a candle to her. And yet no one would argue that Angelina Jolie, as an actress, is worse than Rita Hayworth. The allure of the forbidden, the eternal glow of mystery. In modern cinema, there is no mystery. A new Rita Hayworth will never appear in modern cinema. A real Woman.

Thus, the code of prohibitions and restrictions actually gave rise to yet another creator of the film—the viewer. Directors boldly trust the viewer to imagine, fantasize, and dream up everything that happens off-screen, everything hidden behind vague lines and meaningful glances. And no censor can get inside the viewer’s head. The code of prohibitions and restrictions gave rise to a cinema filled with boundless freedom of self-expression, capable of any ruthless and terrifying murder, of letting any erotic fantasy run wild, of bringing forth real heroes and real villains. What happens on the screen is merely a door that any viewer can open. If only they want to.