The Night of the Iguana

It's a shame that Richard Burton never played Shannon in "Night of the Iguana" on stage - ditto Deborah Kerr and Ava Gardner - because all three are perfect casting for Tennessee Williams' wonderful play, on which this film is based.

The story concerns a man of the cloth - well, sort of - Shannon, who, after an accusation of fornication and the nervous breakdown that followed, is locked out of his church and forced to take work as a tour guide for a cheap touring company.

He is taking a group of Baptist women through Mexico showing them religious places when, while fighting off the advances of an underaged girl on the trip (Sue Lyon), he is accused by her chaperone (Grayson Hall) of giving into them.

In order to keep her from reporting him to the tour company, he steals the bus distributor and holes up with them at the hotel of his friend, Maxine (Gardner). It is there that he meets the gentle artist, Hannah Jelks, and her aged poet grandfather Nonno.

Under a dark Mexican sky, as an iguana being fattened for dinner is tethered below, the three confront their demons.

Knowing the actual play as well as I do, and having seen it performed, it's a little hard for me to judge this film, except that the acting across the board is marvelous. Gardner is fabulous as Maxine, the no-nonsense, earthy owner of the hotel who hankers after Shannon and isn't above a little jealousy.

This is a role originated on Broadway by Bette Davis. It is rarely cast with someone as sexy and beautiful as Gardner, but those qualities make great additions to the role.

Kerr as the spinster Jelks, facing a life of loneliness once her grandfather dies, is exquisite in the role, bringing to the role an analytical quality that normally isn't as apparent.

Shannon could have been written for Burton - funny, drunk, with an underlying kindness, he is handsome, spirited, and a little nuts.

The additional characters of the underaged girl and the bus driver seem unnecessary additions, though Lyon was very good in a well-written role. Grayson Fall was great, but why was the recurring line she yells at Shannon - "Please take your hand OFF my arm!" removed from the script?

Somehow the stage version is funnier and moves faster, though if you haven't seen it, you will still find this version amusing in sections and thought-provoking in others. The ending is changed as well.

The play is a little heavier, a little more compelling, a little sadder, a little better and, naturally, pure Williams. But you couldn't ask for a better cast.

It is possible to watch a film on a wide range of emotional and intellectual levels. One can pay attention only to the visuals, only to the minute trivia related to actors and actresses, to the most obvious displays of physical action, to appeals to one's sympathies, or to the underlying content and profundity trying to be expressed and communicated to the viewer. Thus, films can be judged to fail on the one hand when they succeed on the other, and this, I think, explains the lukewarm response to what is the finest films ever made in the English language. Whether or not Richard Burton always plays a drunk, whether or not it should have been in colour, are not in the least bit relevant to the significance, the concepts and the issues at play in this brilliant film, this monument to the resilience of human souls, to the compassion that can bring such succour on long, tortured nights, to the precious decency that is for some a perpetual struggle to attain, and the search, the life-long search, for belief, love and light.

The backdrop to the exploration of these issues that are so fundamental to individual lives is a Mexican coastal hotel. The central character is a de-frocked and unstable priest, T. Lawrence Shannon (Richard Burton) who, like the iguana that is tethered up in preparation to being eaten, is at the end of his rope. He walks alone, without the crutch of facile beliefs or human companionship beyond sterile physical conquests which only serve to heighten his own self-loathing and isolation. He arrives at the hotel in search of sanctuary in light of his mental deterioration. On his arrival he meets his old friend, the lascivious but no less desperate Maxine (Ava Gardner), a poet on the verge of death who is nevertheless striving for one last creative act, one last stab at beautiful self-expression, and his grand-daughter Hannah (Deborah Kerr), a resilient woman painfully trying to reconcile herself to loss, loneliness and the bitter struggle she faces with her own personal demons. They are united in that they are divided, in that they are all tortured souls seeking beauty, life, meaning and engaged in battles to stand tall, to live with integrity and love. On a hot, cloying night, a night of the iguana, when all their ropes snap taut, they meet.

The pivotal and most crucial part of this film is the conversation between Lawrence and Hannah. The former is in the throes of a nervous breakdown, the latter has survived and endured through the same. They are kindred souls that aid one another through the therapy of human connection, of empathy in the long, lonely walk. It is in this conversation that Tennessee Williams explores the issues make this film so important: through his characters, who are throughout depicted not as mere shallow cliches but individuals with histories and feelings that run deep, with subtleties that bring them to life, he meditates upon the struggle to find meaning in one's life, the need for companionship, the importance of compassion, and the way in which people endure, all the time grasping at what dignity they may have, and which may be forever threatened by trials, doubts and pain. These are not issues that date, that diminish in relevance, or that relate only to certain people - they are concepts that are universal, that speak to each individual and relate to fundamental facets of the human mind and spirit.

Because Night of the Iguana sets out to tackle such issues, it is elevated far beyond the level of most films. It is profound, but also deeply emotional, made more so by the superb characterisations (aided, in addition, by universally superb performances). One is afforded an insight into characters, into people, who live, breath, cry, shout, scream, and endure. They are fallible, capable of spite, caprice, and baseness, but they are also thoughtful, courageous and strangely noble. To watch them interact, thrown together as they are on a Mexican veranda, is affecting both emotionally and intellectually, and it is this interaction which is responsible for creating a film that stands (tall and dignified) above nearly all others.

A sultry and marvelously atmospheric screen adaptation of the Tennessee Williams play.

Richard Burton plays a defrocked priest who holes up in an isolated Mexican hotel with a group of religious biddies for whom he is serving as tour guide. The group's leader, a strident harpy played by Grayson Hall, wants to report Burton to the authorities for his inappropriate behavior with her young charge, played by the flirty Sue Lyon (yes, of "Lolita" fame). In response, he practically takes the women hostage, disabling their vehicle so that they can't leave the hotel. The hotel's owner, played by a sexy Ava Gardner, is an old friend of Burton, and she becomes a sort of accomplice to his actions. Williams uses the tension created by this situation and these characters to explore the dark nights of the soul that each of us is bound to go through at one point or another in the course of our lives, and the salvation humans can find in one another.

I'm not sure how closely the film follows the original stage play, but as presented here, this is one of Williams' more hopeful and optimistic stories. Richard Burton and Ava Gardner share some sweet moments, during which each allows him/herself to be emotionally vulnerable to the other, and receive some solace from the interaction. And there's a wonderful character played by Deborah Kerr, a spinster painter who shows up with her doddering grandfather in tow and whose vague past hints at some dark nights of her own. She is able to help the Burton character learn how to navigate his crisis and emerge relatively unscathed on the other side.

The film is directed by John Huston, and it takes a pretty frank approach to some of the dicey subject matter, a much more frank approach than some of the other Williams adaptations that had been made into films around the same time as this one.

Grade: A

Watched this film recently for the seventh or eighth time -it' always a delight. Classic Burton hamming it up just enough. . . calm, cool Kerr proping up "Shannon's" sanity. . . free-spirited Gardner charging around trying to keep her sanity and reaching out for Shannon. . .Lyon, the "precocious" seductress. . . all were amazingly believable. I didn't have a problem with the black and white, in fact, I think it added to impact of the film, leaving it up to the actors to pull out the heart of William's magnificent play without the benefit of color, although I'm not sure color would have made any difference anyway. The final dialogue between Kerr and Burton was spellbinding: the meeting of two souls, if only for the moment.

Kerr, Burton, and Gardner were at their finest in this film.

This film, all and all, only gets better with each viewing. I first saw it as a child, and thought it odd and amusing. Yet even then I sensed something magical was going on in it, though I lacked then the adult realism to penetrate the world of Tennessee Williams. Subsequent viewings have only reinforced my feeling that this film may be the greatest film of the twentieth century. I say that not because it is an epic, or because William's play is so grand, but just because this play seems to so perfectly capture the age in which we live. We live, just as the Reverend Shannon does, torn between the desire to believe in an absolute, and the perils of such belief, between a reductionist 'realism' and an equally reductionist indulgence. The actors Kerr, Gardener, and especially Richard Burton, have sensed this, and their roles are so nuanced as to make one believe that what one is seeing is REALITY and not a theatrical performance. The emotional climax of the film comes at the moment when the old poet completes his poem and asks over and over again, in a paroxysm of painful joy---"Is it good? is it good?"---- Then he dies. Only the genius of Tennessee Williams come make such melodrama seem utterly convincing. For the artist who wrote this play has been complimented by the artists who directed and acted it. Great art leaves everything opened but nothing settled--- creating the sense that justice has been fully achieved. Here, all too rarely for the art of cinema, both grace and justice have indeed been fully achieved.