Artist: Benjamin Frankel / Lee Ramos
LP: The Night of the Iguana
Song: "The Night of the Iguana Theme" by Benjamin Frankel
[ listen ]
Song: "Flor De Azalea" by Lee Ramos
[ listen ]
Song: "The Night of the Iguana Theme" by Benjamin Frankel
[ listen ]
Song: "Flor De Azalea" by Lee Ramos
[ listen ]
Earlier this year my friend Mark in L.A. recommended I see John Huston's 1964 film, The Night of the Iguana. I rented the DVD and enjoyed one of my most memorable movie-watching experiences of 2009. The film immediately became one of my all-time favorites and sparked a mini-obsession with the cinematic adaptations of the works of Tennessee Williams. The notes from the back of the film's soundtrack are included here, followed by a thoughtful review copied from The Night of the Iguana's comments page on IMDB. You can find additional trivia, links and info about the film on Wikipedia here.
"The Night of the Iguana" — reviewed by Ruvi Simmons, London
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 (one of) 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 rele-
vant 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 defrocked 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 granddaughter 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 (that) 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 The 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 character-
isations (aided, in addition, by universally superb performances).
One is afforded an insight into characters, into people, who live,
breathe, 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.
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 (one of) 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 rele-
vant 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 defrocked 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 granddaughter 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 (that) 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 The 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 character-
isations (aided, in addition, by universally superb performances).
One is afforded an insight into characters, into people, who live,
breathe, 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.
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