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(1908-1958). German director.
Directed and produced: Rocketship X-M (and co-wrote with Orville
H. Hampton and, uncredited, Dalton Trumbo) (1950); She Devil (and
co-wrote with Carroll Young) (1957); Kronos (1957); The Fly (1958).
Directed and associate producer: Tarzan and the Amazons (1945);
Tarzan and the Leopard Women (1946); Tarzan and the Huntress (1947).
Associate producer: Tarzan's Desert Mystery (Wilhelm Thiele 1943).
Wrote: Dracula's
Daughter (story, uncredited, with John
BALDERSTON; idea, David O. Selznick; screenplay Garrett Fort) (Lambert Hillyer 1936).
One might further theorize that that
strange, sedate, fascinating film had autobiographical resonances for Neumann;
for it is, after all, the story of a brilliant and talented man who makes one
little mistake and is consequently doomed to a life so horrific as to finally
drive him to instruct his wife to kill him. But what would Neumann have
identified as the mistake that ruined his life? The initial
decision to leave Germany in
the 1930s and come to Hollywood
to make German-language versions of American films? His inability to keep the promised job of
directing The Bride of Frankenstein
(reassigned to original Frankenstein director
James WHALE), which might have been an important boost to his career? His
consistent willingness to accept directing jobs which he knew would result in
awful films? And in 1958, what seemed so horrific
about Neumann's life as to motivate his suicide? Did he worry that the failure
of The Fly would drive him back to
boring westerns and crime dramas, or even lead to unemployment? Did he fear
that the success of The Fly would
permanently doom him to a life of directing low-budget horror and science
fiction films?
Perhaps, then, Neumann's life story might
turn out to be as fascinating as the story of George REEVES, whose 1959 suicide
has sparked ongoing research and controversy and even an uneven biopic, Holywoodland (2006). But nobody knows or cares about
Neumann, so the biographical record will probably never be complete. And while
critics can indulge in idle ruminations, eventually one must turn to the task
of assessing his contributions to science fiction film, which are a matter of
public record.
Neumann might have had a better career if,
from the start, he had been allowed to specialize in horror films; as is, one
can only imagine how he might have handled The
Bride of Frankenstein and note that he made uncredited
contributions to the two best vampire movies of the era, Dracula's Daughter and The
Return of the Vampire (and yes, I am remembering the original Dracula when I make that statement). All
in all, he probably would have done a little bit better than Curt SIODMAK if he
had inherited the task of keeping the Universal horror franchises alive during
the 1940s. Instead, he was given the chore of overseeing another durable
property—Tarzan—during its period of steady decline, and he did so about as
well as could be expected.
Yet Neumann will forever be most famous for the four
science-fiction movies he directed in the 1950s. Rocketship X-M, as everyone concedes, was far more exciting and adventurous
than the more ponderous film it was imitating and exploiting, Destination Moon, and its surprising
unhappy ending—the entire crew is killed—again suggests an unhappy director
at work. Critics regularly eviscerate She
Devil, but based on my one viewing of the film, many years ago, I think it
is better than published reports would suggest, and is in fact reasonable
faithful in story and spirit to its source material, Stanley G. Weinbaum's story "The Adaptive Ultimate" (1935). But
understandably more prominent is Kronos, featuring a unique, energy-absorbing, ever-expanding
robot rampaging across the countryside as well as (while it not saying much)
Jeff MORROW's best acting performance. It is the sort
of film that is literally unforgettable; indeed, I recently fielded a query
from a reader who, decades after watching the film, vividly remembered its
metallic menace even if he could not recall its name.
Still, Neumann's masterpiece is unquestionably The Fly, which shrewdly recruited the
perpetually unpersuasive Vincent PRICE to lure in audiences and then forcefully
shoved him to the sidelines to focus on an actor who could at least
intermittently convey a sense of conviction, David HEDISON. And its simultaneously
ludicrous and poignant conclusion—the tiny, human-headed fly screaming "HELP
ME" before it is killed—has to qualify as one of the most striking images in
the history of science fiction film. (It is yet another sign of Price's
inadequacies as a horror film icon that, as he reports, the filming of this
scene required numerous takes because he couldn't stop himself from laughing.) Was
this, then, how Neumann ultimately visualized himself? A tiny, helpless figure
in Hollywood, a
talent destined to always be overlooked while trapped in marginalized films,
his cries for help forever unheard? One likes to imagine that a genuinely
tragic tale, a rarity in science fiction films, must stem from a genuinely
tragic life. But I guess we will never know for sure.
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