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TCMFF 2015: ‘The Sea Hawk’, Swashbuckling for Pre-War Pro-British Politics

TCMFF 2015: ‘The Sea Hawk’, Swashbuckling for Pre-War Pro-British Politics

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The Sea Hawk

Written by Howard Koch and Seton I. Miller

Directed by Michael Curtiz

U.S.A., 1940

Under the Warner Brothers banner, Errol Flynn leaps, bounds and rouses hearts to the tune of Erich Wolfgang Korngold’s winning score and the direction of taskmaster Michael Curtiz. Following on the coattails of Captain Blood (1935) and The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938), it’s easy to dismiss The Sea Hawk (1940) as just a studio swashbuckler, another outing of a tried and true formula that Bosley Crowther called, “an overdressed ‘spectacle’ film which derives much more from the sword than the pen.” Admittedly, this loose adaptation owes more to the seafaring adventures of Sir Francis Drake than the original Rafael Sabatini novel of the same name, but it owes even more to the politics surrounding its production. On closer examination, the film stands as a testament not only to Flynn in his booming prime and the money-making machinations of the studio system, but also as blatant propaganda in period piece clothing, albeit on the right side of history.

In the wake of England entering World War II, The Sea Hawk is a rallying cry for nationalist pride and a civic duty to stand up against tyrants, no matter how great and powerful. Whereas The Adventures of Robin Hood had been criticized for socialist leanings (“Steal from the rich, give to the poor? Bah, humbug!”) in the blossom of Hollywood’s red scare, The Sea Hawk quakes from beginning to end with the need for action and resistance in the face of tyranny while the U.S. was teetering on the line of pre-Pearl Harbor isolationism. It’s little wonder that Winston Churchill cited the film as a personal favorite, as noted by Rory Flynn (Errol’s daughter) at the film’s TCMFF screening, or that the film got a second wind of box office success internationally in its re-cut 1947 reissue, which was the version presented at TCMFF to the grumbles of purist audience members.

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The film opens in King Philip II of Spain’s ominously lit war room, stocked with large maps and imposing advisors. In a blatant allusion to Adolf Hitler, the king discusses his plans for the upcoming Armada invasion of England and his long-term goals of world domination (“With England conquered, nothing can stand in our way.”). Under the guise of pre-war diplomacy, he dispatches Don Alvarez (a menacingly mustachioed Claude Rains) as ambassador to deliver Alvarez’s niece, Dona Maria (a pleasant enough Brenda Marshall), as a lady-in-waiting for Queen Elizabeth I of England. Cut to the en-route ship, where Alvarez looms over Dona Maria tossing a ball with her English duena (Una O’Connor and her incomparable shriek) while English prisoners row and toil below to the beating drum and cracking whip. Tyranny, injustice and ulterior motives; whatever can be done to save England from these tan, slickly dark-haired villains?

Enter the crew of The Albatross, an English galleon in Her Majesty’s secret service of Spanish gold-stealing pirates, and its dashing captain, Geoffrey Thorpe, a Sir Francis Drake-type with shades of Captain Blood’s sense of civil injustice. After sitting through the above Spanish scene, Curtiz continues to tantalize Flynn fans by allowing more exposition to unravel between the crewsmen before First Mate Pitt (the ever-solid Alan Hale) turns to ask the Captain his opinion on taking the Spanish ship. And in one fell swoop, the camera pans to an in-command Errol Flynn, both of screen and of ship. With a glint in his eye under a determined brow on a markedly (and marketable) handsome figure, this is our hero and England’s hope against the Spanish threat. Thorpe takes the ship and frees the prisoners, and a romantic spark flies between him and Dona Maria as his men plunder her jewels. Take that, Spanish government officials transporting dignitaries and goods across international waters!

The plot continues down its natural course: Dona Maria falls for Thorpe after a safe landing and safe return of her jewels, Thorpe goes in and out of Spanish shackles and British favor, the ambassador (Rains) is replaced with cowardly English turncoat-informant Lord Wolfingham (loathsome-to-a-tee Henry Daniell) as the real baddie, and Elizabeth (a gloriously domineering, over-6-foot Flora Robson) stands steadfastly for her country and by her countrymen. Highlights include high stakes on-sea action sequences (the closer shots actually produced on the Warner Bros. lot), onscreen swordsmanship rivaled only by Flynn’s other swashbucklers and Scaramouche, and sea-misted close-ups of Flynn at his dashing prime booming orders at his crew and rousing the spirits of fellow political prisoners.

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In the midst of the film’s sword-laden valor and political intrigue, one of the film’s strongest scenes thematically involves Una O’Connor. As Wolfingham-ordered English guards come knocking at Dona Maria’s door for the “traitor” Thorpe, her dutiful duena (O’Connor) answers and refuses to let them in. They threaten to come in by force and rather than acquiescing to their booming threats, this daintily-sized, mightily-hearted woman tells them to go ahead. While the men ram the door in, she determinedly goes to her needlepoint. Even as they charge through her domestic domain, she does not waiver from that needlepoint, revealing a pointedly English, stiff upper lip strength which rivals the men’s swordplay and Queen Elizabeth’s political platitudes and trumps the armed guards’ brute force.

Rather than ending on the leading couple riding off into the figurative sunset, the film concludes with a resonating speech from Queen Elizabeth calling for naval armament (“a mighty fleet, hewn out of the forests of England”) against the Spanish threat and the tyrant King Philip II (“the ruthless ambition of a man threatens to engulf the world”) while Thorpe and Dona Maria look on and First Mate Pitt cheers “To England, and the Queen!” Even though using Tudor rulers as an allegory for modern politics was nothing new (see the “Ships, ships and then more ships!” scene from Alexander Korda’s The Private Life of Henry VIII (1933)), The Sea Hawk’s political stance bursts from its swashbuckler tapestry with the blatant panache of Flynn’s sword swish and landed in front of American audiences on the precipice of war, putting a handsome face and stirring words on an impending conflict in favor of the British cause.

As noted above, the version screened for the TCMFF audience was the 1947 reissue, which is roughly 18 minutes shorter than the original. Comparing the two, the most marked difference is the reduction of Donald Crisp’s role as staunch English advisor Sir John Burleson and a few slight pauses at out-of-time-feeling cuts. While later VHS releases were colorized, this version is still in crisp, Oscar-nominated black-and-white, and sepia tone for the scenes set in Panama (actually shot in Point Magu, California). The reissue was a massive hit in Europe, being the most popular film in France in 1947. This success led to Warner Bros. going ahead with the troubled-in-script-phase Adventures of Don Juan in 1948. Yet another showcase for Flynn’s swashbuckling talents, Adventures of Don Juan is more concerned with the fluttering hearts of women than the strong-arms of men and country targeted in The Sea Hawk.

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