Undoubtedly the best performance came from Anton Walbrook. Emeric had written the part of Lermontov, the autocratic impresario, with him in mind. He had a repressed, pent-up energy about him that was perfect for the part. Emeric thought that Lermontov was one of the best characters he ever created, but he was too readily accused of basing him on the tyrannical impresario par excellence, Sergei Diaghilev. Emeric denied the charge: ‘There is something of Diaghilev, something of Alex Korda, something of Michael and quite a bit of me’.
According to Shearer, it was only Anton Walbrook who ever persuaded Emeric to change lines, ‘because he trusted Anton more than any of us’.
Kevin MacDonald: Emeric Pressburger - the Life and Death Of A Screenwriter
There is more about Powell’s autocratic behaviour on set, but let’s not think about that (as it prompted Anton to swear to never work for the Archers again. Thankfully he relented. Imagine Oh Rosalinda!! without him! I can’t bear to.) Let’s think instead about how fucking tremendous Emeric is and how fucking tremendous Anton is too.
92. Gaslight (dir. Thorold Dickinson, UK, 1940)
A man (Anton Walbrook) schemes to drive his wife (Diana Wynyard) insane.
Less famous than the Hollywood remake. Pretty decent. There’s a scene early on where the word “queer” is like every 5th word or something, which is great because a) they’re using it in the old-fashioned sense (to mean strange, unusual) but also because b) the writer apparently had no idea about synonyms? Anyway, Anton Walbrook owns this, as per. You could do a really good modern remake where the audience keeps being pushed from one character to the other but never sure who to trust.
Verdict: pretty queer hmm - yes rather
Anton Walbrook and Martine Carol listen to director Max Ophüls on the set of Lola Montès, 1955
(via whenwewerecool)
Lawrie Knight, a young assistant on The Red Shoes, is asked by Walbrook if he can screen the rushes from the previous day’s shoot: the mirror-smashing scene. Knight hastily arranges it.
The lights got down, the image appears, but there is no sound. Knight apologizes and offers to see the projectionist, fix the problem. Walbrook demurs—it doesn’t matter. So they sit together in the whirring silence.
“Wonderful.”
The voice is a mere whisper. Knight looks around. He’s alone, except for Walbrook.
“Marvellous. Oh, wonderful. I’m fantastic.”
(via tea-with-theo)
Anton Walbrook - The Queen of Spades (1949)
(Source: joan-webster)
Then there’s this little number, perfect for brooding alone in the half-light about how your ruthless commitment to your artistic vision is destroying your life and the lives of those you love.
