There never was an historical figure named Svengali, nor a hypnotized Trilby on whom he worked his will. The novel was written in the late 1800s. The book was a big smash in those days, when people still read, so the name and the relationship became icons of vernacular culture.
Barrymore is Svengali, a pianist and teacher of music, who lives in a decrepit boarding house in Paris with a couple of other half-starved artists. (The novel devoted a lot of time to a description of la vie Boheme on the Left Bank.) A young artist's model, Marian Marsh, falls in love with Billie (Fletcher) but falls under the hypnotic spell of the older Svengali. Well, it's more than hypnosis really. He can enter her head from across the city.
Under his spell, Trilby becomes a famous soprano. Svengali fakes her death and whisks her off elsewhere. Svengali marries her. She becomes the toast of Europe with her soprano. The only thing that Svengali can't get past is her love for Billie. He has to hypnotize her to get her to cooperate in the boudoir and by the end, he's disgusted with himself for making love to a marionette. He longs for her love and gets it in the end, though it costs him dearly.
There are a couple of good reasons for watching this old flick if the opportunity arises. For one thing, the direction, performances, and sets are pretty good for their time. In particular, a traveling shot across a miniature Paris is right out of German expressionism. And rooms are filled with dark, angular shadows.
Then there's the way the story is shot. This was before the imposition of the infamous code, so there are scenes that wouldn't have made it past the censors a few years later. There's a semi-nude scene, for instance, which suggests that Trilby looks good all over.
And then there's the dialog. Svengali has been described by his neighbors as "a Polish scavenger." Indeed, he's unkempt and clomps slowly about. I think he once played Rasputin, the Mad Monk. If he didn't, he should have. But, what with his hypnotic eyeballs, he has this power over women. When a rich woman enters his studio for her music lesson at the beginning, he asks, "What did we do last?" The woman replies, "Don't you remember?" And he says, "Ahh, yes, but I meant the music." The wealthy woman then tells him, "I worship you, Svengali. I have left my husband for good." And Svengali squints thoughtfully and says, "Yes, but how much did he leave YOU?" When he discovers that she came to him without a penny, he throws her out and she commits suicide. "Her body was found in the river!" Svengali: "Ah, that is impossible -- in this weather." Later, fighting Trilby's love for Billie, he dismisses Billie as "that stiff-necked Englander, the head of the Purity Brigade." Barrymore plays all this with a comic relish, like Richard III. He revels in his exercise of evil.
Marian Marsh, on the other hand, is one of the most beautiful young woman to appear in the screen in the early 30s. She doesn't have Garbo's knowing languour, although she's equally attractive, but rather the winsome eagerness of a child. She's like a porcelain doll with perfect features and a smile that has the same effect on a viewer as Svengali's glowing eyeballs.
I wonder how many of today's kids would recognize the name of Svengali. (Never mind Trilby.) He may be disappearing along with much of the rest of our shared data base in vernacular culture. I once asked my college class if they had heard of Sinbad the Sailor. Forget it.
Barrymore is Svengali, a pianist and teacher of music, who lives in a decrepit boarding house in Paris with a couple of other half-starved artists. (The novel devoted a lot of time to a description of la vie Boheme on the Left Bank.) A young artist's model, Marian Marsh, falls in love with Billie (Fletcher) but falls under the hypnotic spell of the older Svengali. Well, it's more than hypnosis really. He can enter her head from across the city.
Under his spell, Trilby becomes a famous soprano. Svengali fakes her death and whisks her off elsewhere. Svengali marries her. She becomes the toast of Europe with her soprano. The only thing that Svengali can't get past is her love for Billie. He has to hypnotize her to get her to cooperate in the boudoir and by the end, he's disgusted with himself for making love to a marionette. He longs for her love and gets it in the end, though it costs him dearly.
There are a couple of good reasons for watching this old flick if the opportunity arises. For one thing, the direction, performances, and sets are pretty good for their time. In particular, a traveling shot across a miniature Paris is right out of German expressionism. And rooms are filled with dark, angular shadows.
Then there's the way the story is shot. This was before the imposition of the infamous code, so there are scenes that wouldn't have made it past the censors a few years later. There's a semi-nude scene, for instance, which suggests that Trilby looks good all over.
And then there's the dialog. Svengali has been described by his neighbors as "a Polish scavenger." Indeed, he's unkempt and clomps slowly about. I think he once played Rasputin, the Mad Monk. If he didn't, he should have. But, what with his hypnotic eyeballs, he has this power over women. When a rich woman enters his studio for her music lesson at the beginning, he asks, "What did we do last?" The woman replies, "Don't you remember?" And he says, "Ahh, yes, but I meant the music." The wealthy woman then tells him, "I worship you, Svengali. I have left my husband for good." And Svengali squints thoughtfully and says, "Yes, but how much did he leave YOU?" When he discovers that she came to him without a penny, he throws her out and she commits suicide. "Her body was found in the river!" Svengali: "Ah, that is impossible -- in this weather." Later, fighting Trilby's love for Billie, he dismisses Billie as "that stiff-necked Englander, the head of the Purity Brigade." Barrymore plays all this with a comic relish, like Richard III. He revels in his exercise of evil.
Marian Marsh, on the other hand, is one of the most beautiful young woman to appear in the screen in the early 30s. She doesn't have Garbo's knowing languour, although she's equally attractive, but rather the winsome eagerness of a child. She's like a porcelain doll with perfect features and a smile that has the same effect on a viewer as Svengali's glowing eyeballs.
I wonder how many of today's kids would recognize the name of Svengali. (Never mind Trilby.) He may be disappearing along with much of the rest of our shared data base in vernacular culture. I once asked my college class if they had heard of Sinbad the Sailor. Forget it.