BETTE NOIR

by Melodie Johnson Howe

The handgun is one of the oldest props in Hollywood. When I think of a gun in movieland terms I don’t imagine a hard inanimate object that can, with one slip of the finger, come suddenly to life and blow someone’s head off. No, I remember the actors wielding the guns such as Edward G Robinson, James Cagney, Humphrey Bogart, and Robert Mitchum. Of course there are others; but for me, these guys are the crème de la crème. Except for the one actor who can shoot and kill better than any of them put together: Bette Davis.

Why Bette? Physical presence. She moves forward while relentlessly mptying her revolver into her target. The gun is an extension of her arm. In the movie, The Letter, the viewer first encounters her swiftly coming through a bungalow door, onto a porch, and down a few steps, while all the time steadily pumping bullets into her lover. (Cleverly he is never seen.) The viewer knows, without a doubt, that she means for him to die. There is strength and clarity in her every forceful movement. This image of Davis haunts the viewer through the rest of the movie, darkening every nuance of her performance. If you haven’t seen this film, I highly recommend it. It was taken from the Somerset Maugham play of the same title.

Deception is a mushy mess of a movie, except for the star turns of Bette Davis and Claude Raines. Again she’s in top shooter form. When these two colossal actors confront one another on the elegant stairs of Raines’ brownstone, the filmgoer knows someone is going to die. Bette is in a mink coat. A gun is tucked in her pocket. She has on gloves and holds a handbag. Of course she wears high heels. I think Claude Raines is in a tuxedo. (I am writing this from memory.) I forget the stupid convoluted reason why she must kill him – something to do with wimpy Paul Henreid, infidelity, and a concerto. Claude Raines is at his caustic, ironic best. When Bette whips the gun from her pocket he never loses his aplomb. Bette appears to physically grow in stature to equal the power of her weapon. She moves forward and fires. These two brilliant actors stare at one another. Neither shows astonishment. Only a wry acceptance. She fires again. Claude begins to lose his ironic edge. She puts another bullet in him. He literally crumbles before our eyes. And Bette? She never looks at the gun as if it just suddenly appeared in her grasp. Her free hand doesn’t come to her mouth to stifle a feminine sob. Her eyes never widen in horror at what she has done. Not Bette. She surveys the scene. She slips the gun back in her pocket, and hurries down the steps. And yet the viewer senses that it wasn’t just Claude Rains who died on that grand staircase.

If Joan Crawford had been playing that scene she would’ve turned it into a neurotic moment. She’d want the filmgoer to see how conflicted she is about pulling the trigger. There would be tears in her eyes. She would be making sure that her fans would still love her. But not Bette. When she pulled the trigger she understood the mechanical efficiency of a gun, and its purpose.

In regard to physical action in a scene, Bette Davis said, “I don’t sit on a sofa. I make love to it.” Well, in my book, she doesn’t just shoot a gun. She absorbs its power with her entire being while still wearing high heels, a hat, mink coat, gloves and carrying a purse. My four favorite male shooters only had to worry about trench coats. And in Edward G. Robinson’s case — a cigar.