Cult Movies # 8 - Mata Hari (1932)

An early MGM talkie, Mata Hari serves up big budget opulence and empty-headed posturing in this fictionalized version of the notorious Dutch dancer's last tango in Paris. Set amidst the chaos and intrigue of World War I, the movie follows Mata's various manipulations (and a few miscalculations) as she vamps her way through the glam Parisian nightlife collecting intel for the Germans and thoroughly discombobulating any man foolish enough to fall into her trap. Eventually, of course, Mata crosses the wrong person and is summarily trotted off to a tryst with the firing squad. 

As a showcase for enigmatic screen legend Greta Garbo, Mata Hari doesn't scrimp on production values. The sets are sumptuous and exquisitely detailed, the black and white cinematography lushly romantic, evoking memories less of Paris than the dawning of the golden age of Hollywood film studios. Whatever: the film never adds up to much anyway. Indeed, the plot is so loopy, the script such a mess, that it should be much more fun than it actually is. If, for instance, von Sternberg had directed Mata Hari, it might still have been a mess but, oh, what a glorious mess! Instead, George Fitzmaurice (!) directs Mata Hari with a somber earnestness that prevents the film from really cutting loose and transcending its inherent falseness. 

Everyone onscreen seems to be playing at being a MOVIE STAR on a movie set rather than actually playing a role. I have to say that Garbo's lasting, legendary allure is simply lost on me. True, she has a strange, almost surreal quality that some have considered bewitching, but I find her onscreen persona to be odd and off-putting: I've never thought much of her as an actress. Even so, she brings presence to the role of Mata Hari, I'll give her that, but she doesn't give so much a performance as an impersonation. She brings no depth to her character but then there's no depth to any of the others, either. 

The costume designer, Adrian, must have fallen out with Garbo before filming started because he decks her out in some of the most stupefyingly god-awful outfits worn by an actor since the invention of.... well....acting. Those hideous boxy hats alone should have resulted in Adrian being hauled off the set in handcuffs. Garbo's hair is completely tucked away under those hats for almost the entire movie, so it's quite right to wonder whether or not she even has hair. Too bad, really, because Garbo did have an interesting face but, without her hair to frame it, she looks more like a deranged pixie than a sexed-up dancing queen. 

Having said this, I did enjoy the movie's opening dance number although it's clearly Garbo's body double performing in the long shots. This number has a seductive frisson which suggests that the movie will be something more than it turns out to be. Part of this may be attributed to MGM's insistence that all the naughty bits in the film be trimmed; apparently, Mata Hari proved too titillating for studio suits (looking at you Louis B. Mayer!), who were--allegedly--appalled by a post-coital pillow talk scene between Garbo and her co-star, Ramon Novarro (the original Ben-Hur). 

Ah, Mexican-born Ramon, bless his gorgeous little soul, is cast as Mata's Russian aviator/one true love and he looks great: Russian or not, he's probably better suited to his role than Garbo is to hers. He's charming and believably naive, although that may owe less to performance than to circumstance. Sweet as he is, Novarro seems to be checking off all the boxes as he goes through the movie. 

As Novarro's superior officer (and one of Garbo's cucks), grandfatherly Lionel Barrymore (Drew's great-uncle)--also allegedly Russian--sounds like a midwestern college professor addressing a classroom. Simultaneously genial and cranky, he becomes increasingly unhinged as he realizes Mata is two- three- and four- timing him. 

I've seen Barrymore give finer performances in much better movies, and while he maintains a certain professional dignity, he seems to be on hand just to collect a paycheck. As the German spymaster, Lewis Stone (later to achieve movie fame playing Andy Hardy's father) is spookily calm as he orders--and carries out--the most dastardly deeds with an almost paternal gravitas: he's the essence of the banality of evil, and gives the best performance in the movie, even if he's not entirely convincing as a German.  

Mata Hari was never going to be a true film classic, but it had a genuine, if unrealized, potential to become a memorable camp classic (like Shanghai Express). Instead, it comes across as a wasted opportunity unable to conjure up true movie magic. However, there is one immortal line of dialogue spoken by Novarro--What's the matter, Mata?--that may have helped this movie to attain cult status. Or maybe it's the audacity of Adrian and those damn hats. 

And now, for your edification, here's a nude photo of Ramon Novarro in Ben-Hur. You're welcome. 

An earlier version of this post appeared in amazon reviews.