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Swanky apartments that boast sweeping panoramas of the Manhattan skyline swell with sound and emotion. Arenas in which the players capitulate to their most intense desires and inhibitions, much like they do for a living– yet without an audience to influence their behaviors. In a way, it’s a space in which the truth of the artist can fully emerge, despite the fact that it is often overshadowed by the dazzling lights of the main stage that commands artistry and reverence. Two very different yet similar environments, each one rapt with carnal intensity that vacillates between melodic and cacophonic. The deep yet hypnotic hum emanating from a bass, contrasted against the shrill and oft sweet melodies of the violin. Torrid love affairs which parallel and give credence to the sweeping melodies that envelope and define, each tinged with a touch of noir.
Christine, an accomplished pianist, performs a piece at her wedding — it ultimately evokes violent emotions from her former lover (Rains).
The above description summarizes two films put out by Warner Brothers in 1946, Deception and Humoresque. Though both concern the doomed romances of virtuosos in New York, the similarities end just about there. One film boasts an impressive, electric screenplay ripe with witticisms and dialogue that, though choppy and dissonant, works mellifluously in tandem with every other aspect of the film. The other instead employs the unimaginative and mundane, making an already laughable premise even harder to swallow — a shame, since perhaps a strong screenplay could have helped to redeem it.
Both films, in addition, boasted the studio’s two biggest female stars at the time. Deception features studio veteran Bette Davis in the role of Christine, a pianist who eventually falls victim to her own web of prevarication. Humoresque headlines Joan Crawford, who was riding high on the wave of her second comeback after winning Best Actress for Mildred Pierce. Like Davis’ Christine, Joan’s Helen is elegant and refined and at the mercy of her nerves, though she is no musician. Both women — for very different reasons — find themselves unwillingly centered in a love triangle destined for doom.
Helen watches on as Paul showcases his talent — their very first meeting.
While Helen is described as being “a patroness of the arts,” a quip by lover Paul (John Garfield) that encapsulates her character to perfection, Christine is just the opposite. That is to say, that she is the one being pampered and sponsored. Her benefactor, the composer Hollenius (Claude Rains) is the one who foots the bill of her luxurious lifestyle. She is the kept woman that is the foil to Garfield, who is, essentially, a kept man. While Christine relishes and enjoys the largesse of her lover, Paul becomes spiteful and resentful.
Of course, no romance is without its obstacles: marriage acting as the blocking offense in both cases. Helen is married to Victor Wright, a wealthy socialite of high stature. By her own admission, he is her third husband — and naturally, upon falling for the tempestuous and self-interested Paul, she wants to abandon him in favor of a fourth marriage. All odds, unfortunately, work against her favor: not only would such a scandal ruin her prestigious reputation, but in addition the humble Boray family resents the idea of a thrice divorced cougar taking up with their prodigal son.
The benefactress and her object of affection: Joan Crawford and John Garfield in Humoresque
While Helen’s obstacle lies within getting out of a marriage, Christine’s, is by contrast, just the opposite. She discovers that her lover (Henreid), presumed dead for years, is in fact alive and playing a concert in the city. Overcome with emotion and fervor, she doesn’t even hesitate before ushering him back to her lofty apartment and declaring that “everything she owns is his, too.” The two are almost immediately married, despite apprehension on Karel’s side that begins with the first of many lies Christine plants: that she is a struggling artist barely paying the bills. Her claims are quickly rendered ridiculous upon the initial reveal of her abode, which is sprawling and expansive, packed with mink furs and exotic decor. Certainly not the markings of a struggling woman, as Karel wisely observes.
Tension ensues between newlyweds Karel (Henreid) and Christine (Davis)
Both women are responsible for their own respective downfall, though each plays out incredibly differently. Helen abandons her hardened exterior in favor of a love that cannot last, and Christine, on the other hand, crafts a narrative so far fetched from her own truth that she must resort to destruction in order to protect and cover her tracks. Crawford does wonders in her portrayal of the wounded Helen through world-weary sighs and pained expressions that convey more than words possibly could, calling back to her talents as a silent actress. She makes it a point to communicate Helen’s humanity, evoking pity and sympathy for the woman who seemingly has it all but is, in fact, incomplete. Davis gives an equally impressive performance as Christine — delivering her lines in clipped staccato, eyes bulging and hands swinging wildly as she conducts her own demise. The dramatization she employs helps the viewer to actively disdain her character.
John Garfield and Joan Crawford as Paul Boray and Helen Wright in Humoresque
The use of music and intentionality as a driving device ultimately works better in Humoresque, with the entirety of its soundtrack composed of evocative, emotive classical pieces that play to the heightened emotions of pivotal scenes. Perhaps this was partially thanks to the insight of Oscar Levant, who, being a classically trained musician offered his insight on multiple occasions. While thematically present, music in Deception feels far less central to the plot: sure, Christine and her husband are instrumentalists and Hollenius a composer, but there are relatively few scenes that focus exclusively on performance. The central musical piece in question is one that Hollenius composes, a piece purposefully designed to showcase the talents of a cellist.
Davis alongside Paul Henreid and Claude Rains in Deception
Looking outside the constraints of both films is as fascinating and critical as it is telling. 1946 was an important year for both Davis and Crawford, serving as the year in which the two ladies finally eclipsed one another at Warner’s. Davis, having been a player for fourteen years, at the beginning of what would be the end of her tenure. Deception was her first box-office failure since 1932. It was a harbinger that set the tone for the rest of her run with Warner’s, all mediocre vehicles that failed to draw crowds and revenue. Crawford, on the other hand, would enjoy relative success with the studio until the early ‘50s, going on to garner her second Oscar nomination for her performance in 1947’s Possessed.
As Crawford continued to ride her second wind, Davis slipped into a slow descent. She’d enjoy one final hoorah — arguably her magnum opus — with her role as Margo Channing in the highly acclaimed All About Eve. However, that watershed moment was not to occur for another four years tumultuous years, in which Davis endured an ill-fated, abusive marriage and the birth of her first and only biological child, B.D. Interestingly enough, Crawford’s personal life would follow a parallel path of sorts over the next four years: outside of her successes on screen, she too would weather a divorce and welcome new children into her family.
On left: Crawford in a photograph dated 1950 with twin girls, Cathy and Cindy. Right: Bette Davis with third husband William Grant Sherry and daughter B.D. at her christening in 1948.
While Humoresque emerges the superior picture all around, both films are essential viewings for fans of Crawford and Davis alike. Both women effortlessly dominate in their performances, creating additional depth and interest that stands as a testament to their talent and legacies.
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