Thunder on the Hill - 1951

Thunder on the Hill (1951) is a great stew of dark-and-stormy-night whodunit, character actor fest, and higher questions on what is faith and what is only fanatic assumption.  Some of these aspects, not entirely married in the stew, fall to the bottom of the pot, neglected, and some rise again and again to the surface with a little stirring.

Connie Gilchrist is the cook in this film whose constant guardianship over soups and stews makes one inevitably hungry for some, and is responsible for the above gastronomic paragraph.

The movie stars Claudette Colbert as a nun with tragedy in her past and a troubled drive for excellence that creates conflict with those around her. 

Ann Blyth is a convicted murderess on her way to the gallows, when she and practically the whole county of this rain-sodden chunk of England is forced to take refuge at the hilltop convent and hospital.

The movie was still tentatively titled Bonaventure, after the stage play by Charlotte Hastings from which the story is taken (Miss Colbert’s character name is Sr. Mary Bonaventure)—when a reporter allowed to observe a scene being filmed commented on Ann Blyth’s encounter with an on-camera breakfast.

“Spread before her is a dish of bacon and eggs, two slices of toast and a cup of tea.  As the camera rolls, Ann methodically consumes her last meal.

‘Very good,’ says Director Douglas Sirk, ‘The action of the extras in the background wasn’t all it could be, though.  I think we had better do it again.’

The prop man brings another helping of food from his portable steam table, and the scene is filmed again.  This time, something goes wrong with the sound—and again Sirk calls for another take.

As the shot is finally completed to everyone’s satisfaction, Ann slumps back in her chair and pushes away the third empty dish of bacon and eggs.

‘Now I know what they mean when they say, ‘the condemned man ate a hearty breakfast,’ she gasped.”

Unfortunately, Ann’s Herculean task of eating three helpings of bacon, eggs and toast was for naught.  The scene apparently ended up on the cutting room floor; you won’t see it in the movie.

It was filmed early in the year 1951 (the article was published in February), and by December of that year, columnist Louella Parsons noted, “Ann Blyth, bright-eyed and happy, told me that 1951 had been the most exciting year of her entire life.”

It was certainly a busy one.  Five of her films, the most in one year, were released in 1951, including I’ll Never Forget You (discussed here, and we’ll talk about it some more later on in the series), The Golden Horde, The Great Caruso, and Katie Did It (which I’m having a terrible time finding - UPDATE - FOUND IT!).  They represent a variety of roles and genres, and this was perhaps the greatest satisfaction for her.

There were also several more radio performances, including two scenes from this movie played out on the Lux Radio Theater by Ann and Claudette Colbert.  The episode covers eight films premiering in 1951.  Listen here at the Internet Archive website and scroll down to “Movietime USA”.  Their scene starts at 7:54 and afterwards is followed by a brief interview.

Ann Blyth was twenty-two years old when Thunder on the Hill was filmed, her name along with Miss Colbert’s above the title.  Her stature in Hollywood had been cemented at this young age by her talent and popularity, but top movies would prove to be a challenge to get as the changing film industry, and changing society, advanced further into the 1950s. 

Claudette Colbert, a major star for a couple decades, was a great example of both career excellence and longevity, but time and diminishing opportunities in a coming era when her "type" of the elegant and sassy woman was replaced by a new wave of younger gamines and sexpots.  Ann Blyth’s film career, despite her being much younger, would end before the decade was over for some of the same reasons.  They both represented an era of actresses who radiated class, intelligence, and dignity, but in the years would not find much of a place on film.

Author Lawrence T. Quirk in Claudette Colbert, AnIllustrated Biography, notes, “Ann Blyth recalled her work with Colbert as a delightful experience, mentioning that unlike other great stars she had appeared with…Colbert was a relaxed, down-to-earth, infinitely secure person, disciplined about the projection of her talent, gracious to all those about her.”

Gladys Cooper, who plays the Mother Superior in the film, he quoted, “Claudette is a professional, and even when the material is thin and rather pedestrian, as I thought that film unfortunately tended to be, she gives it her best efforts.”

That the plot of Thunder on the Hill seemed a “pedestrian” and standard English murder mystery, with all the suspects gathered in one place at the climax, is the most common observation on this film.  While that may be intended as a complaint, I don’t see the plot, simply because it is standard, is a downfall.  There are only so many stories out there, and none of them are new.

I would suggest that more could have been done to season the stew simply by paying more attention to ingredients that were on hand: including the superstitious and judgmental townsfolk who are uncomfortable with having a murderer take refuge with them from the storm—versus the images of clemency, salvation and redemption present in the Catholic icons of the convent and hospital.  I was quite surprised to read director Douglas Sirk, who specialized in glossy melodramas, dismiss the idea that the film should contain any reference to religion.  In an interview with author Jon Halliday in Sirk on Sirk, Mr. Sirk comments:

“I wanted this picture to have nothing to do with religion.  For me, there is one interesting theme in it: this girl (Ann Blyth) being taken to the gallows, the storm, the delay, and so on.  This should have been the only thing the picture was about.  There was no story in the Claudette Colbert part.  But for various reasons, including the fact that the producer blew most of the budget building that fantastic convent in Hollywood, when we could have gone on location somewhere, they kept pushing it towards religion the whole time.”

I think Mr. Sirk was missing the elephant in the room this time around.  The villagers are escaping a devastating flood and flee to the highest ground near them, on which sits a convent and hospital run by nuns.  They’re not going to the McDonald’s on the hill; they’re going to the convent on the hill.  Just the image of being on higher ground sets a symbolic tone to a brooding story about being right and being wrong, being guilty and being innocent, always with the image of a young woman, guilty or not, about to hopelessly face execution—and thereby face what most of the characters presume to be some kind of afterlife and further judgment. 

The director and writers would have done better to face the religious tones of the original script head-on, rather than shy away from them.  Religion is one of the most conflicting, controversial, and contentious elements of man’s experience--great kindness and great evil have been done in the name of religion--which can make it a forum for intense drama.  It becomes a forum for weak platitudes only when we let it be.

As for Mr. Sirk’s complaints about spending the budget on the set—for me, one of the best things about this movie is the magnificent set.  Though I can understand that filming on location could be more cost effective, and certainly realistic to the setting of films, I often prefer the sets Hollywood created.  I don’t regard them as artificial, but as art.

Have a look at the detail of this set, the gothic arches, the stonework.  I love how the stone steps are worn, uneven, as if they’d been trod upon for centuries.  That’s great detail.

We begin Thunder on the Hill with thunder.  On the hill.  And in the marshy lowlands where, through torrents of cold rain, a whole lot of extras got work that day sloshing through a winding muddy road, walking like desperate war refugees with carts of their belongings, and even farm animals.  It’s a dismal setting and nicely played against the opening credits that sets the eerie mood and leads us into our receiving line of characters.

Connie Gilchrist, so beloved as earthy, excitable, crusty but with a heart-of-gold types, plays the sister in charge of the kitchen.  She also becomes Claudette Colbert’s sidekick, and inevitably takes the lead in solving the mystery.  I’m not sure, but I think she gets more screen time here in this film than others she’s played. 

Gladys Cooper, who in her long stage and screen career was rarely anything less than magnificent, plays Mother Superior, dedicated administrator of this chaotic menagerie, whose fairness is a source of strength to the troubled Miss Colbert, but who also presents Miss Colbert’s greatest turmoil by challenging her conscience and accusing her of always needing to be right.

It is a complaint others in the hospital have of Colbert, including one particularly nasty nurse played by Phyllis Stanley.  Miss Colbert runs the hospital, and everything’s always got to be her way.

Robert Douglas plays the gentlemanly doctor on staff, who, like Claudette Colbert, doesn’t seem to get any sleep over the suspenseful couple of days the story plays out.  He's the kind of movie doctor who administers a lot of sedatives.  He is also worried about his wife, ill and anxiety-prone, for whom he has set up a bed his office at the hospital to keep her safe from the flood...and away from others.

She is played by Anne Crawford, and she has a tendency to wander around.

Gavin Muir is the stalwart detective sergeant who escorts the doomed Ann Blyth to the gallows, who clashes more than once with Colbert over her confounding attempts to be nice to the prisoner.

Norma Varde is the police matron who accompanies Ann Blyth everywhere, chain-smoking and generally trying to mind her own business.  She had a spectacularly long career, beginning in the early 1920s, but is most often seen, I think, in reruns of The Sound of Music (1965) as the housekeeper.

I especially like John Abbott as the officious and stuffy pharmacist.  We last saw him in his great role as Frederick Fairlie in The Woman in White (1948) here.

Miss Colbert, trying to micro-manage everybody, finally makes her way with bowls of soup for the condemned and her guards, and we meet Ann Blyth for the first time, rigid with bitterness, sarcastic, and utterly without any feeling for anybody or anything.  She is impervious to gestures of politeness as she is to feeling the cold damp of this sinister storm.

She is well known among the villagers: some remember her pleasantly in former days before she turned bad, some call her “the devil’s daughter.”  She was convicted of murdering her brother, a concert pianist and unsuccessful composer.  He had been languishing from a stroke, and she, his caretaker, poisoned him by giving him an overdose of his medicine.  He is described as mistreating her, bullying her and others, an alcoholic with a fearful temper.  Nobody’s sorry he’s dead.  Everybody writes Ann off as guilty, because not only did she have perfect opportunity and means to kill him, but nobody would blame her for doing it.

However, Ann comforts herself in the office of the Mother Superior by playing one of her brother’s compositions on a piano, and angrily tells Claudette Colbert how his talent was unappreciated.  This is one of the ingredients of the stew that sank to the bottom.  It would have been interesting for a little more on why she could still find beauty in her brother’s artistry and defend him though he was said to have treated her miserably.

Small point, but I like Ann’s piano technique.  Most likely, she is dubbed by an off-set pianist, but she actually looks like she’s engrossed in what she’s doing and is making all the proper movements.  We don’t usually see natural and realistic pantomime on faked playing in films of this era.  She’s really “in the moment” in this scene.

Ann Blyth manages a creditable English accent in this film, and Connie Gilchrist whips out her trusty Irish brogue.  All the others accents are genuine, except for Claudette Colbert, who does not attempt to sound like anything but the usual “mid-Atlantic” speech that worked for her in all her films.

Colbert sees something in Ann’s intense playing, in her defense of her brother, as clues to her innocence, and the thought that she cannot help this woman so shortly to die haunts her, bringing back an old and never-ending emotional torment: the suicide of her sister, despondent over the lover who Claudette would not let her see.  Claudette interfered in her sister’s relationship with a man we are led to believe was no good, but though her intentions were, she thought, for the best, it ended in tragedy.  Feeling guilty, Claudette left the outside world, joined the convent, and in a few years was running things.  She’s disciplined, and devoted to detail.  She has a need for control.

These qualities make her a bit of a fanatic, something against Mother Superior warns her.  They also make her a good person to have in your corner if you’re going to the gallows.

This being a mystery, I won’t do the play-by-play, but we soon discover that the principle people involved in Ann’s murder case, witnesses at her trial, all happen to be here—taking refuge from the storm.  Including Willie the handyman, played wonderfully by Michael Pate, who is the slow, so-called “half-wit” who, though awkward in the company of people, knows his way around a bog. 

He wrangles a rowboat and takes Claudette to the village to bring back Ann’s fiancé, played by Philip Friend.  Ann requested Colbert to fetch him in a sarcastic taunt to perform a miracle for her, refusing any spiritual comfort just as she refuses the steaming bowl of Connie Gilchrist’s soup.

There is a parallel here with Claudette’s refusal to allow her sister’s romance and the guilt she feels for it.  Her nighttime adventure through the flood with Willie is a way for her to take control of that guilt and re-create the moment she most regrets, to play it over and change it.  She once refused her sister to have contact with her lover.  So she braves the flood and brings Ann hers.  As they glide through the dry ice fog of the soundstage, you’d think the Phantom of the Opera was going to pop out any minute and start singing about the Music of the Night.

If you filmed that on location, it wouldn’t be half so mystical or fun to watch.

I like Willie’s description that the fog “be thick and ghost-like.”

The fiancé, played by Philip Friend, is relegated to a sort of dishwater role, and I’m not sure if the weakness is in his portrayal, the script, or the direction.  On the one hand, I think it’s a great device that he, though deeply in love with Ann, actually thinks that she’s guilty, because like everybody else, he wouldn’t blame her for bumping off her creep of a brother.  But his turmoil only takes the form of him drinking in a pub, drowning his sorrows, where Willie and Claudette Colbert find him.  To be sure, at the end of the movie he admirably comes to Claudette’s aid (she is attacked in the bell tower by the real murderer—shades of Vertigo), but I think we’re looking for someone less self-pitying so we can empathize with Ann’s loss of a future life with her beloved. 

Ann Blyth is relegated to a passive role simply because she is a prisoner and her reality is that she is unable to save herself, others must do it for her.  She can only wait for either rescue or hanging.  All she can do as an actress is maintain the intensity of her seething resentment, broken occasionally by waves of panic, and she does that very well.

The action is left to Connie Gilchrist and Claudette Colbert.  Miss Gilchrist is a hoarder, who never throws away newspapers.  She has papered every shelf in the convent and hospital with them, and I like her line about loving the  Sunday Times because, “It has such a nice gray effect on my shift.”  Sister Nancy Drew and Sister Miss Marple spend the spooky evening hunting through all the closets, retrieving newspapers to re-read the trial transcripts.  Other clues pop up, like a stolen letter, but Claudette Colbert’s sleuthing is halted by Gladys Cooper, who forces her in accusatory terms to examine her own conscience.  Does she really believe this girl is innocent because she wants her to be?  Is she just trying to manufacture a case so that, once again, she can be right and everybody else wrong?

A compelling argument, and it is late in the game when Connie Gilchrist, and the fuddy-duddy pharmacist, supply the final clue to raise the most suspicion.

There is a climactic violent scene in the bell tower.  I like that the murderer is apprehended and will face the same course of plodding justice that Ann Blyth faced in her trial and failed appeal.  Too often movies, then and now, use a quick instant death to remove the villain, and that is just lazy.  It is like a deus ex machina to take our troubles away from us when we should be solving them ourselves.

It is regrettable, however, that we have only a brief look of happiness shared between Ann and Philip Friend at the movie’s conclusion.  It would have been more dramatic for the audience to witness the moment Ann is told she has been vindicated.  It’s the miracle she had taunted Claudette Colbert about early in the film.  Despite the religious aspects to the script and setting that made director Sirk uncomfortable, he missed a few opportunities, as did the writers of the screenplay, to fan the drama that was already there, inherent in the story.  It’s not that drama wasn’t there; it’s that they turned away from it.  They should have taken Sr. Connie Gilchrist’s advice and not wasted anything.

Some favorite scenes:  When Ann appears jolted when she is told the dike has collapsed and they will not be able to take her to the gallows tomorrow.  It’s going to have to wait a few more days.  Rather than relief, she is horrified.  It only prolongs her misery.  Nothing in life has worked out.  She took care of her creepy brother, and this is the thanks she got.  The law failed her.  The community turned its back on her.  Her boyfriend thinks she’s guilty.  All she wants now is to leave this hilltop haven, head back out into the icy rain and end this miserable life.

Then she melts into hysterics when she realizes with black humor that her execution is going to be postponed because of rain—“Like a cricket match.”

The moment where Claudette Colbert brings Ann’s fiancé to her, and Ann, humbled and grateful, tells Colbert, “I want you to know you did this for an innocent woman.  I make you a gift of it, my innocence.”  (Not only does this make Colbert’s wanton act of obstruction of justice raised to a spiritual level—it makes her right.  We may smile and debate which is the more important to this nun.)

I like Willie’s devotion to those who are kind to him, and the gallantry he displays to ladies, except Nurse Philips, whom he has threatened to smack more than once.

I like this shot here where we see Connie Gilchrist from under the table telling Michael Pate as Willie not to eat like a pig.

An interesting scene where, after a difficult birth, a baby is being aspirated manually by the doctor and by Claudette Colbert by sucking gunk out of his throat with a straw.  I don’t know how effective, or accurate this is, but it’s another look at the medicine of the day.

The scene where Ann tells Philip Friend she knows he thinks she’s guilty, always knew it, and forgives him, tells him to go on and live his life and not memorialize her.  Only a moment later, she panics and recants, wanting desperately to live, jealous of anyone he may love in the future.

When Claudette prays for help, making the intimate confession to God, if to no one else, that she doesn’t what to do and it scares her.

Enjoyably atmospheric and moody, whether in the rain-soaked foggy bog, or under the glare of a naked light bulb peering at the Sunday Times in the middle of the night in the dark recess of an ancient abbey, Thunder on the Hill creates a little world where all take refuge, but some aren’t safe.  It is available on DVD, fortunately, and I’d love to hear your take on it.  Have some soup or stew while you’re watching it.  Or three helpings of bacon, eggs, and toast.

Come back next Thursday when we lighten things up considerably with what I think is one of the funniest comedies of the era.  Ann Blyth woos a nervous Robert Montgomery in Once More, My Darling (1949) directed by Robert Montgomery in one of his last screen roles.

Did you notice if this post was long?  I wasn’t paying attention.  You shouldn’t talk on your cell phone and blog at the same time.  That’s how accidents happen.

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Dick, Bernard F. Claudette Colbert: She Walks in Beauty.  (University Press of Mississippi, 2008), p. 198.

Lux Radio Theater – “Movietime USA” episode September 24, 1951.

Quirk, Lawrence T. Claudette Colbert: An Illustrated Biography (NY: Crown Publishers, Inc., 1985) pp. 163-165.

Sirk, Douglas and Jon Halliday. Sirk on Sirk (Viking Press, 1972).

St. Joseph (Missouri) News-Press, syndicated article by Louella Parsons, December 16, 1951, p. 4D.

Toledo Blade, syndicated article, February 5, 1951, p. 35.

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UPDATE:  This series on Ann Blyth is now a book - ANN BLYTH: ACTRESS. SINGER. STAR. -

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The audio book for Ann Blyth: Actress. Singer. Star. is now for sale on Audible.com, and on Amazon and iTunes.

Also in paperback and eBook from Amazon, CreateSpace, and my Etsy shop: LynchTwinsPublishing.

 "Lynch’s book is organized and well-written – and has plenty of amusing observations – but when it comes to describing Blyth’s movies, Lynch’s writing sparkles." - Ruth Kerr, Silver Screenings

"Jacqueline T. Lynch creates a poignant and thoroughly-researched mosaic of memories of a fine, upstanding human being who also happens to be a legendary entertainer." - Deborah Thomas, Java's Journey

"One of the great strengths of Ann Blyth: Actress. Singer. Star. is that Lynch not only gives an excellent overview of Blyth's career -- she offers detailed analyses of each of Blyth's roles -- but she puts them in the context of the larger issues of the day."- Amanda Garrett, Old Hollywood Films

"Jacqueline's book will hopefully cause many more people to take a look at this multitalented woman whose career encompassed just about every possible aspect of 20th Century entertainment." - Laura Grieve, Laura's Miscellaneous Musings''

"Jacqueline T. Lynch’s Ann Blyth: Actress. Singer. Star. is an extremely well researched undertaking that is a must for all Blyth fans." - Annette Bochenek, Hometowns to Hollywood

Ann Blyth: Actress. Singer. Star. 
by Jacqueline T. Lynch

The first book on the career of actress Ann Blyth. Multitalented and remarkably versatile, Blyth began on radio as a child, appeared on Broadway at the age of twelve in Lillian Hellman's Watch on the Rhine, and enjoyed a long and diverse career in films, theatre, television, and concerts. A sensitive dramatic actress, the youngest at the time to be nominated for her role in Mildred Pierce (1945), she also displayed a gift for comedy, and was especially endeared to fans for her expressive and exquisite lyric soprano, which was showcased in many film and stage musicals. Still a popular guest at film festivals, lovely Ms. Blyth remains a treasure of the Hollywood's golden age.

The eBook and paperback are available from Amazon and CreateSpace, which is the printer.  You can also order it from my Etsy shop. It is also available at the Broadside Bookshop, 247 Main Street, Northampton, Massachusetts.

If you wish a signed copy, then email me at JacquelineTLynch@gmail.com and I'll get back to you with the details.

Bette Davis, Dick Cavett, and Character Actors

During her appearance on the “Dick Cavett Show” November 18, 1971, Bette Davis reflected on the great loss to the world of theatre and film with the death only the previous evening of Gladys Cooper. The remarkable Gladys Cooper had played Davis’ mother in “Now, Voyager” (1944).

Perhaps some of you saw the rerun of this, one of Cavett’s iconic interviews, over the weekend on TCM. Miss Davis also mourned as a great loss to films Walter Huston, who had died some twenty years previously. She made the observation, as so many of old movie buffs have since, that the character actors were a mainstay of the industry, and that with their loss films would never be the same. She got that right.

It’s interesting that she made this remark nearly 40 years ago, when the studio system was still a fresh memory if no longer an influence in the 1970s film industry, and when the greats of the golden age were retiring, grasping at TV show guest spots and regional dinner theatre, or dying in stages. These days film blogs note with alarming frequency the deaths of celebrities of decades past, but when Bette Davis perched herself on the set of Dick Cavett’s talk show with her cigarettes, the era between then and now was only just being delineated. Most of them weren’t dead yet, but they sure weren’t fighting off film offers. Yet in the 1930s and 1940s, elderly actors were seen in many films. They were character actors. They had spent a lifetime moving from the role of Juliet to the role of Juliet’s nurse, and the earned every penny and end credit, if the accolades were few.

Miss Davis also made the intriguing remark that Huston’s death was a big loss in part because filmmakers would no longer create parts for someone like Huston because Huston was gone. There would be no more (paraphrasing here) “write me a Walter Huston type, or get me a Walter Huston type”, because future generations who have no idea who Walter Huston was, or what his type was supposed to be, or why it might be a great addition to a film.

Is the dearth of character parts and favorite character actors in this movie era of blockbuster stardom, where the only character parts seem to be voiceover roles in animated features, a reflection of the death of Walter Huston, and Reginald Gardiner, and Mary Wickes (who acted right up until the end of her life, bless her and bless the people who hired her)?

Which came first, the character actor, or the character actor roles? Which died first? What are your thoughts?

The Song of Bernadette (1943)

“The Song of Bernadette” (1943) pits man against miracle in a many-layered universe. The first layer of this complicated universe is the historical 19th century event on which the story is based. Then, there is the book by Franz Werfel and the World War II climate under which that book was written and published. Finally, there is Hollywood, that tries diplomatically to be both pious and frank, spiritual and temporal, to present a money-making story, and yet present it under the auspices of a religious experience.

By filming a story about a miracle, Hollywood created something of a miracle in its own craftsmanship just by what it accomplished and how.


On this Easter Monday, we take a look at Hollywood’s presentation of a miracle and the ironically realistic way it chose to present it. Man is by nature a creature which believes. We have religions and sometimes complicated protocols of faith. We have superstitions, and we have good luck and bad luck, and we have worries and fears and paranoia, and that is all part of what we willingly believe without proof. On the opposite side of man’s nature is an innate skepticism.

Someone who believes in the efficacy of the prayers of his own faith, may disbelieve the efficacy of prayers of another faith. An atheist may disbelieve the efficacy of any prayer at all, and yet wholeheartedly believe in luck, or horoscopes, or that a co-worker who gives him a dirty look is out to get him. It may be the co-worker is just in a bad mood, but that does not shake the belief of the paranoid. A lot of logical, sensible people knock on wood. Even people who believe in nothing believe in something, even if it is only the superiority of their own opinions.

So, we believe, regularly, commonly, without proof. It may be part of our DNA. But at the same time we are skeptical over someone else’s experiences. “The Song of Bernadette” shows these disparate sides of human nature and the clinging onto of human dignity more than it puts forward of one belief over another, or promotes miracles. The film begins with the narrative,

“For those who believe in God, no explanation is necessary. For those who do not believe in God, no explanation is possible.”

But this is not merely a disclaimer to placate a general movie-going audience of mostly Christians, albeit demographically mostly non-Roman Catholics. It is a simple analysis of human nature. Belief and skepticism may be at opposite poles, in life and in this movie, but they do not represent good and bad. There is nothing bad in skepticism. Skepticism is healthy and beneficial, except when it becomes distorted as a tool for manipulation. The same may be said for belief. It is healthy and beneficial, except when it becomes distorted as a tool for manipulation. This film is remarkably and consciously clear in demonstrating that.

It is the telling of the story, and not the miracle, that is the subject of this post. Such care was taken in the historical accuracy of the southern French village (a realistic set of stone which was also used, I believe, for “How Green Was My Valley”?), in the soaring and evocative music by Alfred Newman, in the clothes, the everyday life of the poor-as-dirt peasantry, in the meaty, articulate script, in the camera work which plays on light and dark with such soul-baring intimacy. This film is an example of craftsmanship at its best. Stark, unflinching, and yet remarkably empathetic craftsmanship. The studio, and all those involved evidently wanted to make not just a money-making film, but a great film. So often we have seen so-called blockbuster movies made at this period, and especially today, where a truckload of money is thrown into a project, but what results is only lumbering over-produced garbage. This film shines with the obviously meticulous care put into it.

The cast is a collection of some of the best character actors of the day, along with a flock of extras as villagers, and a young Jennifer Jones in the title role that made her a star, and won her an Academy Award. About the only weak links are the child actors playing her younger siblings, who seem by the way they speak and carry themselves to resemble 20th century American kids rather than 19th Century European children, but the rest of the cast are true and believable.


Anne Revere and Roman Bohnen play the parents of Jennifer Jones’ Bernadette. Miss Revere was commonly cast in hardscrabble mother roles. How much was due to her scrubbed complexion mottled with freckles and her strong jaw and the flint in her eyes that suddenly turned soft and sympathetic can be guessed at. Most actors are chosen for their roles because of their looks, and sometimes their height. Other actresses habitually played mothers on screen, but did not have Miss Revere’s quality of appearing genuine. Other screen mothers were often only superficially mothers, the kind who came out of the kitchen with milk and cookies. Revere gives us the impression she actually changed diapers, wiped noses, was the hand that rocked the cradle, and sometimes the backhand to the cheek or slap on the bottom.


Roman Bohnen played Jones’ father, an out-of-work peasant at his wits end, beyond hope and failing strength. He is downtrodden and resentful, petty and frustrated, but we see the depth of his love for his daughter when he desperately promises to let her return to the grotto, after having already forbid it, and when he scrambles fearfully into the Royal Prosecutor’s office, where Jones has been taken for questioning, to claim her and take her home. From the time we see him rise up early to beg for a job dumping hospital waste, to the point where he must say a final goodbye to his daughter, in every action, this man’s heart is breaking.

Charles Bickford is the Dean of Lourdes, the village priest who, in his dashing Cavalier-like hat and cape looks something like a superhero before the ragged villagers. The sash on his cassock is cinched firmly about his waist, making the line of his body look lean and rugged, with broad shoulders and he takes his long strides with a lordly bearing. Mr. Bickford, last seen here as Jane Wyman’s father in “Johnny Belinda” (1948), played tough, commanding men who kept their own counsel, and whose role here as the scornful priest who doubts Bernadette and later becomes her staunchest ally, demonstrates his formidable screen presence.

Vincent Price heads the local magistrates who connive to discredit Bernadette. He is the self-important and dangerously ambitious Royal Prosecutor. It is a role perfect for Mr. Price, whose elegant disdain so completely captures this highly intelligent, highly skeptical man. There is a particular facet about his character that is especially memorable, and that is his constant flourishing of a voluminous handkerchief, dabbing at his nose as he makes a gesture or a point about the foolish Jennifer Jones and the idiot townspeople.

“What do you expect from a peasantry fed on dogmas and superstitious nonsense?”

At times he looks foppish waving the hanky, and at other times, it is as if he is using it to steal scenes, and it becomes an almost funny prop, along with his ever-present allergy symptoms. It is only late in the film we notice with an ominous sense of foreboding that his voice has grown hoarse, and that his raw throat and troublesome sinuses, which he writes off as influenza, is actually a serious illness. Contrasting the lighter earlier scenes of the scene-stealing foppish hanky, it is a shock to learn now he has throat cancer.

Charles Dingle, so delightfully wicked as the rascal older brother in “The Little Foxes” (1941) plays another devious role here as the chief of police, and Lee J. Cobb as the kindly and scrupulously objective village doctor rounds out a very strong supportive cast of town officials.


Gladys Cooper, so impressive here as the envious, bitter nun who first presents as Bernadette’s stern school teacher, and then her mistress of novices in the convent, conducts a master class on acting just in the convent scenes alone when she confronts Jennifer Jones about her supposed sightings of the Lady. Miss Cooper’s dark eyes burn in her wan face, emitting her particular venom for Jones through those eyes. Then a convulsion of emotion rips out of those remarkable eyes as we see Cooper has an epiphany of her own when Jones reveals proof of her agonizing illness that she has borne with quiet patience. Miss Cooper’s character takes a complete turn, and she melts almost like the Wicked Witch of the West, but not from water, from the sickening knowledge of her own deformed reflection in the mirror of her soul.


Jennifer Jones is Bernadette, from every nuance cast in stillness, even from her screen test. It is a famous Hollywood anecdote that among all the actresses trying out for this much-sought-after role and who were told to gaze at a stick held above the camera, Jennifer Jones, according to the director, was the only one who saw the Lady.

We can easily believe it. Her quiet sense of wonder is exquisite in this film. In the scene where she sees the Lady for the first time, there is a really very long moment of her fixated, unblinking stare into a kind of paranormal light cast during the Lady’s presence. In subsequent encounters, Jones’ child-like characterization is so complete that her fascinated gaze reminds one of the way a child will turn, eyes wide and unblinking, to the TV, absolutely absorbed by a toy commercial. If you’ve ever tried to talk to a child when a toy commercial is on, you know how exasperated Bernadette’s parents are when they cannot make her disregard her rapture for the Lady.

But her stillness, her economy of gesture and movement does not keep her from growing as a character, and this is another remarkable aspect to her work in this movie. She begins as a somewhat diffident, frail girl, a poor student who everyone, including herself, refers to as stupid. Her personality enlivens under the presence of the Lady, and we begin to see in her a sense of joy, a sense of wonder, and an occasionally comical common sense.

When questioned by the authorities on her lunatic behavior of pretending to wash herself with dirt, and falling to her knees, eating wild scrub plants like “an animal”, Bernadette replies, “Do you act like an animal when you eat salad?”


It is another Hollywood anecdote that when it came time to film the scene where the Lady asks Bernadette to wash her hands and face in a stream which does not exist, and eat some nearby plants, director Henry King wanted Jones to only pretend. Miss Jones insisted on digging into the ground with her hands, smearing dirt on her face and shoving the weeds into her mouth and eating them.


There was some debate at the time as to whether the film should show an image of the Virgin Mary to whom Bernadette is speaking, or, since nobody but Bernadette saw the vision, to leave it out. There is probably equal logic and merit on both sides, but having the movie-going audience see the vision as Bernadette sees it at least steers the story away from having us, along with the villagers, believe Bernadette is a lunatic. We are then free to focus on the villagers’ and the Church’s skepticism, and not our own.

Nobody believes her, and she is harassed not only by civil authorities, but most especially by the Roman Catholic Church. Even Charles Bickford, the priest who begins by threatening her with a broom and later becomes her protector, never really swallows the story completely. He is at last convinced of her sincerity and her innocence, but to believe that the Virgin would deign to make an appearance in such a lowly, filthy place to such a miserably nobody of a girl, is ridiculous. He is skeptical.

“Christ was born in a stable,” counters Bernadette’s formidable aunt, who chastises her parents for their lack of support and demands that the girl be allowed to visit the makeshift grotto in the town dump. When the spring water that wasn’t there suddenly appears, and a couple of people are healed by washing in it, a horde of people needing to believe in something show up, and keep showing up, and so do the concessionaires. The town prospers in the parasitic cycle of public relations and commerce.

Miss Jones is at last made to understand that through the tumult she has caused, her life can never be the same again. She is offered both sanctuary and grinding servitude in a convent, and we see another aspect of her growing maturity as she says goodbye to the village boy who appears to have a crush on her. There is no fully developed romance between them, but the film intimates that there would be if only Bernadette could be left alone. A sweet, and deeply sad moment, when he stops her carriage with an armload of flowers as she is leaving for the convent, (that appear to be cherry blossoms?) and vows that he, too, will never marry. She snaps off a sprig of pure white blossoms and hands it back to him, and it is almost as if they are blessing each other in a kind of wedding ceremony for a chaste marriage.


When Bernadette arrives at the convent, she meets up with her old nemesis Gladys Cooper, and when that mean little nun walks through the door, we are perhaps even more shocked and depressed about it than Bernadette is. There is another wonderfully still, yet evocative moment, when left in her room alone, her “cell”, Jones glances around with a frozen expression and limpid eyes that gaze with a different, more foreboding sort of wonder. The cell is actually far more clean and comfortable than the home she grew up in, but here we see she is terrifyingly alone. We see a crucifix mounted on the bare whitewashed wall over her shoulder, and we wonder if the Lady has left her all alone forever, too.

We might comment with amusement that the vision of the Lady was actually played by a pregnant Linda Darnell, but that’s been noted so often that I think all of the really clever jokes and remarks have already been made, certainly nothing I can top.

Even here in the convent, Bernadette is still brought before Church commissions, made to testify over and over to what she saw. Even Peter denied Christ three times before the cock crowed, but Bernadette is more steadfast. She insists she saw what she saw. It is not a martyr’s courage that makes her declare this, only her simplicity and a lack of street smarts in knowing how to lie.

At the very end of the film, as Bernadette lay dying, she finally sees her Lady again, who beckons as if coming to her for a hug. Miss Jones once again makes us believe everything in her heart when she calls out to the vision that nobody else sees, “I love you…I love you!”

The musical score, a beautiful piece of art in itself, is suddenly covered by a male voice over at the end with a recitation from the “Song of Solomon”, which I always thought was a rather odd way to the end the movie. It’s one of the more beautiful passages from the Bible, but it never seemed appropriate to me to use here, at least until listening to the bonus track of commentary from the 2003 restoration DVD of this film. It is explained that the composer of the score, Alfred Newman, saw in his mind that the movie was really a love story between Bernadette and her Lady. A sweet way to look at it, and makes the words from the Song of Solomon as Bernadette is being encouraged by the Lady at the end of the film,

“Arise my love, my fair one, and come away….”

seem well used.

A note on this commentary track: we’ve commented before on this blog about how disappointing some DVD commentary tracks are, but this is not one of them. Delivered by historian Donald Spoto, Newman biographer Jon Burlingame, and Jones biographer Edward Z. Epstein, the commentary to this film is truly excellent. Mr. Burlingame covers the towering score by Alfred Newman, Spoto covers the historical setting, and their remarks are scholarly, spoken with clarity and articulate passion, as well as in voices, particularly in Mr. Spoto’s case, that are resonant and pleasing. It’s always enjoyable to hear someone speak well. Mr. Epstein’s comments are more superficial, but if one is unfamiliar with the life and career of Jennifer Jones, he provides a useful background. All three gentlemen’s remarks dovetail neatly.

Bonus tracks aside, the restoration of the film on this DVD (available from Amazon here) is worth the price alone, so vivid and sharp is the visual quality compared to any old television screenings you may have seen in the past.

The commentary underscores the idea that this film represents a many-layered universe, in this case, history and Hollywood. They ruminate on Franz Werfel, a Jew escaping the Nazis who on his escape route discovered the story of Lourdes and wrote a book on Bernadette, who had been canonized as a saint only fairly recently, in 1933. The notice at the very end of the film reminding us to buy war bonds is actually jarring; so deeply have we been sent into the19th century that a reminder of the present is a shock.


The film shows realities of poverty, of religious leaders who dismiss the idea that a sign of heavenly grace can be bestowed on anyone other than themselves, and of civil authorities who are threatened by the raising up of a peasant class until they find their own way to exploit it. These are realities as ancient as mankind, and as current as today’s headlines.

“She’s a religious fanatic, and every time religious fanaticism steps forward, mankind steps backward,” Vincent Price declares in this marvelously literate script. We may agree.

“You should be thankful, Bernadette, you did not live in former times” a spiteful Gladys Cooper tells her with delicious malice, because she would have surely been burned at the stake. Very true.

And Miss Cooper asks the most meaningful, the most fatal question of all, the same question all the clergy and all the authorities, and all the villagers ask quietly to themselves in their most private thoughts,

“Why then should God choose you, not me?”

Bernadette doesn’t have an answer to that one, and 20th Century Fox wisely refrains from providing one, but we don’t really need an answer. The question itself is thought-provoking enough.