The Lady from Shanghai

Why isn’t Shanghai Express available on domestic DVD?

Tony Dayoub

The collaboration between director Josef von Sternberg and his muse, Marlene Dietrich, is one of cinema’s most fruitful. One can actually see Von Sternberg build the slight, tentative Dietrich from a starlet to a tempestuous, formidable screen icon over the course of seven films between 1930 and 1935. And neither would quite hit the career highs they did when they worked with each other. Von Sternberg would only be credited with eight more films before retiring in the late fifties. Dietrich would appear in many more, but her output was a relatively paltry one compared to actors of her day.

For Von Sternberg, his exacting methods of shooting and fussing over lighting (the director often shot much of his films even when not credited as the cinematographer) were frequently described as torturous even by his most ardent admirers and no doubt contributed to his marginalization. In Dietrich’s case, the angular quality of her face — always softened immensely by Von Sternberg’s flattering lighting setups — grew harsher as she aged, proving problematic as she transitioned from star to supporting player in films. The exoticism which Von Sternberg captured from Dietrich became less mysterious and more threatening.

Just compare her enticing allure in their first collaboration, The Blue Angel (1930) — in which her cabaret dancer accidentally seduces a respected teacher (Emil Jannings) — with her lethal severity as the Spanish Concha in The Devil Is a Woman (1935), Dietrich and Von Sternberg’s final outing together. Concha plays a man-eater who delights in the figurative castration of her male suitors. Dietrich’s carefully made-up lips (painted thicker to mimic fullness) and thinly penciled eyebrows — applied at an exaggeratedly high angle — enhance the natural angularity of her face, which looks like it could cut glass here. One can’t help but wonder if the evolution of Dietrich’s screen persona reflected the relationship between actor and director. In any case, as Von Sternberg’s star was falling, Dietrich’s ascended. And five of these seven films are easily obtainable in the US, so I do recommend watching them to get a sense of what I’m talking about.

Of the two that have not been released domestically — Dishonored (1931) and Shanghai Express (1932) — the latter is the most easily available for viewing. I first watched Shanghai Express at a Miami Beach revival house last year, and it often shows up on the Turner Classic Movies schedule. (It’s again scheduled to broadcast during a day-long tribute to Dietrich, at 6:30 p.m., on August 31.) It is a bit surprising, however, that Shanghai Express has yet to be released in America. Being the very middle film, the fourth in Von Sternberg’s seven-film partnership with Dietrich, Shanghai Express is the creative zenith of their shared filmography. Shanghai Express is equal parts style and substance — its chiaroscuro cinematography, elaborate production design, and gorgeous costuming all perfectly utilized as a vehicle for its quite uncomplicated plot.

Various characters are thrown together on a train traveling from Peking to Shanghai: British officer and medic Donald “Doc” Harvey; the mysterious and corpulent Henry Chang; professional gambler Sam Salt; arrogant minister Mr. Carmichael; judgmental busybody Mrs. Haggerty; and Major Lenard, who doesn’t speak anything but French. Each has their own reasons for braving the treacherous tracks to Shanghai, a journey often interrupted by bandits. Into this motley mix comes the beautiful but enigmatic Shanghai Lily (Dietrich), a woman of “ill-repute” traveling with the even more exotic and mysterious Hui Fei (Anna May Wong). Doctor Harvey recognizes Lily as Madeline, the woman who once broke his heart years ago. Lily, née Madeline, admits she still loves him, and that it was their breakup that led her into prostitution. The rest of the passengers are mortified that the notorious Lily and fellow prostitute Hui Fei are traveling aboard their train — particularly Reverend Carmichael, who wishes to be reassigned when he finds out he’s sharing cabins with Hui Fei (who doesn’t seem too happy in her line of work anyway). The self-righteous Carmichael finds something to scold in each of the passengers eventually, whether it is Salt’s habit of placing bets on even the most minor turn of events or Mrs. Haggerty’s tendency to fill silence with needless chatter. Only the clueless Major Lenard is able to escape the bickering and banter that fills the train. Things get livelier when the train is stopped by government agents who arrest a revolutionary traveling without a passport.

Soon after, the erudite Chang reveals that he is, in fact, a leader of the anti-government fighters. Detaining the train, Chang starts interviewing each passenger to find one of value who he can trade for his incarcerated operative. As things get tense — with Chang branding a hostage with a hot poker, and even attempting to rape Lily and her employee — Lily and Harvey grow closer, though still unable to leave the adversarial banter behind them. Warner Oland, who would achieve stardom as screen detective Charlie Chan, plays Chang with an intimidating menace. What he lacks in an imposing physique is more than made up for in his sharp wits, as he hones in on the medic Harvey — on his way to treat an important Shanghai official — as his ideal prisoner to trade. Lily, a woman used to getting what she wants through careful application of her feminine wiles, is forced to admit that she is powerless to help Harvey. It is this hopelessness which causes the cranky Carmichael to empathize with Lily for the first time, and give her the key to Harvey’s salvation.

Veteran cinematographer Lee Garmes (The Lusty Men) perfectly balances the hypnotic dreaminess of this strange, cinematic version of China with a richly detailed visual texture that seems to crystallize the significance of each moment. For instance, the way station that Chang hijacks for his interrogation is rife with decaying wooden slats doubling as blinds. Pools of light are crisscrossed with shadow in the background, causing any film extras (supposedly this movie counted 1000 extra players) who walk towards the back of the set to recede and be enveloped by the shadows; and the lead cast is dressed either in extremely dark or light colors, causing them to pop against the same backdrop. (Garmes won an Oscar for his work on Shanghai Express.) Von Sternberg’s tendency to place objects in the foreground of each shot gives each setup even more depth. And Travis Banton’s stark, black gowns for Dietrich single her out even more prominently than the rest of the cast. Even in the darkest room, and wearing the blackest gown, Dietrich still stands out because of the unnatural white glow of her face, lit as if from a heaven-sent spotlight by Von Sternberg and Garmes.

Dietrich is transcendent as Lily, fulfilling the promise seen in her earlier role as Amy Jolly in Von Sternberg’s Morocco (1931). This is a loose woman, yes, but one who still longs to be a part of someone’s world even if the rest of society has made her an outsider. That this someone she’d like to share her life with, Doc Harvey, is played by the wooden Clive Brook is a disappointment. I thought Brook’s stiffness in an earlier film, Von Sternberg’s 1927 silent Underworld, could be attributed to that period’s prevailing acting style. But no, Brook is indeed flat, achieving what I would have once thought impossible: making the stoic Gary Cooper (Dietrich’s costar in Morocco) look positively hammy in comparison. Oh, what Dietrich might have been like opposite Cooper, once a rumored lover. Still, she is at her most enchanting in Shanghai Express, playing the epitome of the kind of broken-but-still-tenacious woman she would always play for Von Sternberg.

As is generally the case, one is often left to ponder who really has the upper hand in any romantic brinksmanship involving a Dietrich character. Late in the film, when Dietrich gives in to the temptation to visit Harvey’s cabin after essentially dismissing him from her life a scene earlier, it seems that Harvey is winning. “You appear to be nervous. Sleep would do you more good,” prescribes the good doctor.

Lily, dressed in a seductive black nightgown, responds, “What makes you think I’m nervous?”

“For one thing, your hands are trembling.”

“It’s because you touched me, Doc,” says Lily, before rolling her eyes and leaving Harvey, who is now a sweaty puddle of regret.

Back in her own cabin, Lily shuts off the light, and Dietrich’s silvery tresses glow with an unattributable backlight. She raises a cigarette to her mouth, inhales and then blows the gauzy smoke out, as her hand begins to tremble even more intensely.