To discuss any aspect of the life and career of George Sanders is a never-ending joy for me. What can I say? I love the guy. He's one of those rare few who could stand in front of a white void for two hours and royally entertain you by reading the Manhattan phone directory. Perfectly adept as hero or villain, Sanders was the master of smug, snarky commentary; his bemused distain for the human condition could be defined by a wry glance followed by an audible “Hmmmm...” It was a put-down one could never recover from. Is it any wonder why I idolize him? His often cruel reactions to situations – dire and mundane – made him the ideal what-if candidate for James Bond (frequent bandied-about folk like Cary Grant are way too nice); this ability to remain likeable while doling out cold punishment seemed tailor-made for portraying author Leslie Charteris' dubious rogue Simon Templar (aka The Saint) when RKO decided to enter the B-movie detective arena in 1939 (RKO's eagerness to cash in on the mystery series was due to Columbia's extraordinary success with Boston Blackie, The Lone Wolf, Ellery Queen and others).
Sanders’ suave personae and ability to play both sides of good dude/bad dude fence proved a natural. His appearance alone boosted these movies’ production values and, indeed, while they supported A-product, fans often far preferred to see Sanders sleuthing rather than Irene Dunne’s or Ginger Rogers' emoting, and duly swarmed to their local nabes whenever a new installment debuted. The Warners Archive Collection, the incredibly popular library of made-to-order DVD-Rs, has just released the entire Sanders/Saint output in a two-disc set, appropriately entitled, THE GEORGE SANDERS SAINT MOVIES COLLECTION. That said, no discourse on any Sanders project can be fully appreciated without some highlights of his own remarkable life, which never ceased to top whatever on-screen exploit the debonair star enacted – no matter how exciting the celluloid evocation could be (FYI, for full enjoyment of this last line, do your best to read it in his addictive melodious purr).
George Sanders, as elusive in real life as in reel life, was thought to be the ultimate result of English aristocracy. In actuality, he was of Russian origin – born in 1906 and raised in St. Petersburg until the 1917 revolution. It was then that he and his older brother and younger sister were hastened to the UK, where he quickly adapted to his new country. Extremely brilliant but easily bored, Sanders tolerated the world around him – always searching for the quickest way to achieve great wealth without having to do too much to attain it. In 1929, whilst employed at an advertising agency, a cute teenaged receptionist told her tall 6' 3 ½ ” good looking fellow employee that he should entertain the prospect of becoming an actor. This seemed like an absolutely outrageous way to earn a living, so he took her advice...and the rest is history. That the teen too embarked on a similar road proved equally rewarding for her; as Greer Garson she would become one of MGM's top attractions throughout the 1930s and 40s.
Sanders seemed to excel at everything he attempted, but rarely took himself seriously. This penchant for self-deprecation added to his acid-tongue wit endeared him to a plethora of major directors – many renowned as difficult. Throughout his career, Sanders was in constant demand by such taskmasters as Fritz Lang, Henry Hathaway, Otto Preminger, John Ford, Alfred Hitchcock, Edgar G. Ulmer and Douglas Sirk, many of whom became close friends.
He was also a great favorite of the ladies. The beautiful actress Barbara Shelley (with whom he co-starred in the 1960 sci-fi classic Village of the Damned) had a standing arrangement with her agent that any project with Sanders attached was a “go.” No reading of a script necessary. When Ronald Colman passed away in 1958, Sanders inquired as to widow Benita Hume's financial status. “Very well off” was the reply; the next day he appeared at her doorstep, flowers in hand. This amused her as much as it delighted her suitor. Their marriage lasted until her death in 1967, and, by all reports, was a happy one. Sanders’ most famous romantic liaison however was his connection with the Gabors. He married two of them – Magda and, more prominently, Zsa Zsa. Although this Zsa Zsa-Sanders union lasted a mere five years (1949-1954), it had a lasting impression on both of them. To this day, the numerously-wed Zsa Zsa laments that Sanders “...vas za only man I effer loft.” Sanders, in his hilarious 1960 autobiography, Memoirs of a Professional Cad, recounted that as a spouse, Zsa Zsa left much to be desired (relegating him to a prized objet d'art/beloved house pet), but as a fun date – no one could match her: “During the five years I was married to Zsa Zsa…, I lived in her sumptuous Bel-Air mansion as sort of a paying house guest...I was allotted a small room in which I was permitted to keep my personal effects until such time as more space was needed to store her ever-mounting stacks of press clippings and photographs.” The later (1970) Magda splicing was largely orchestrated by Zsa Zsa, who, according to Sanders “...was determined to have me back in the Gabor family.”
Sanders’ overall lackluster interest in both his personal and professional life were due to his aforementioned rapidity at becoming bored. Sometimes that proved to be a good thing. When once approached by pal Brian Aherne, the actor was vigorously scribbling notes on a lined-steno pad. “What are you doing?” asked Aherne. Sanders pensively paused, took a deep breath, stopping writing and replied, “I'm outlining the prospect of taking over a third world country, installing myself as ruler, reaping the natural resources and living like a rajah.” He wasn't kidding.
There were non-dictatorial forays as well. When contracted by Universal to star in Robert Siodmak's 1945 noir thriller The Strange Affair of Uncle Harry, Sanders agreed with a proviso: his character was fascinated by astronomy (so was Sanders). He'd play the part if he were given funds to build his own telescope. Amazingly, the usually frugal studio approved this request, and Sanders not only designed a new type of instrument, utilizing nine optic lenses, but insisted the finished piece be given notable screen time. Several observatories were intrigued by the invention and reportedly bought the rights (supposedly they are still in use today). When asked to serve on their scientific boards, Sanders, shocked to gills, adamantly refused. It was now past history and he was already bored with the whole process.
Another incident arose involving the Los Angeles Opera Company. Hearing they were mounting their most elaborate season ever, Sanders wandered into their auditions offering his services as a singer. Thinking it was an elaborate joke, the head impresario asked the actor about his experience. “The shower,” he blithely replied. They were stunned when then began belting out an aria worthy of Caruso. True to Sanders form, he had never had a lesson and was self-taught. As the grueling rehearsals proceeded, Sanders started to suffer from butterflies – appearing in front of large audiences genuinely unnerved him, and, all of a sudden, play acting for a handful of people on a soundstage before a camera seemed like the best job in the world. He bowed out before previews – much to the dismay of the producers, who knew the actor's participation would have resulted in 100% box office. While the butterflies excuse was partially the case, more than likely it was the old bugaboo of boredom that spiked his operatic career.
Sanders’ fleeing from the first Gabor marriage was also due to routine – but also by his increased fascination with the growing popularity of foreign films and their huge influence on American cinema. To quote Sanders: “...there was a time when I felt I simply had to get away. Providence came to my assistance in the form of the great Italian director Roberto Rossellini to do a picture in Italy, co-starring with Ingrid Bergman...I sought out Zsa Zsa to inform her of my decision. I found her under the hair dryer going over the guest list for her next party. I managed to attract her attention by waving my passport in front of her and conveyed my intention of leaving...in sign language – the noise of the...dryer precluding conversation. She regarded me indulgently for a long moment and then with a sunny social smile returned to the sober scrutiny of her guest list.”
Once on Italian soil, Sanders was stunned to discover that Rossellini rarely relied on such trivialities as a script. This accelerated the boredom factor, and soon Sanders was sending daily telexes to his therapist in L.A. demanding that the shrink cable a doctor's note to Rossellini insisting that unless the actor returned to the States immediately there would be terrible health repercussions. Rossellini sloughed this off, and one day, while the rotund director was squeezing himself into a newly-purchased wet suit, Sanders confronted him with the brutal facts: “Maestro, this movie is total excrement,” he stated. Rossellini sucked his teeth, put his hand on Sanders' shoulder and replied, “Who cares? You're George Sanders!” With that he zipped himself up, grabbed some scuba gear, dived into a sports car (charged to the film company) and drove off – leaving the cast and crew stranded for days. The final result, Voyage to Italy, chronicling the dissolving marriage of Sanders and Bergman, largely consists of the couple motoring through Italy insulting each other. It is quite possibly one of the greatest movies ever made!
Sanders, who deservedly won a Best Supporting Actor Oscar for his 1950 portrayal as theater critic Addison DeWitt in All About Eve, continued to work in movies and TV throughout the 1950s and 1960s. Parallel to Sanders busy schedule was his regaling Aherne of his romantic trysts with fortysomething Mexican senoritas in Tijuana. By 1972 even this could no longer suffice. Upon completing Death Wheelies, a British horror flick about a zombie motorcycle gang, Sanders quietly checked into a hotel room near Barcelona and, armed with five bottles of Nembutal, took his own life. He left behind a fantastic body of work and perhaps the most memorable suicide note in history. “I am leaving because I'm bored,” it began non-surprisingly. “I am leaving you with your worries in this sweet cesspool. Good luck.”
The DVDs:
Even with the series’ most high-profile director (John Farrow), 1939's THE SAINT STRIKES BACK is a rather inauspicious intro to the quintet. The forced comic by-play of co-stars Barry Fitzgerald and James Burke doesn't help. Director Farrow (on his way up) and former matinee idol Neil Hamilton (on his way down) make no bones about their slumming. Sophisticated female lead Wendy Barrie (who appeared in three of the five Saints – but as different characters) has good rapport with Sanders. Jonathan Hale as the long-suffering Inspector Fernack does not; hard to believe that he and Templar could ever be the frenemies their roles call for. Sanders, however, wholeheartedly embraced the longevity factor of playing an on-going character and deemed Simon Templar a lucrative enterprise.
Sanders was on a working vacation in the UK when RKO chose Saint creator Leslie Charteris' short story The Million Pound Day as the perfect vehicle for the newest Templar adventure. Released as THE SAINT IN LONDON, under John Paddy Carstairs smooth direction, this second entry remains perhaps the most engaging of series. Gorgeous Brit actress Sally Gray co-stars and comic sidekick relief is provided by New Yorker David Burns, best remembered as the original Horace Vandergelder in the 1960s Broadway musical Hello Dolly!
By the third outing, 1940's THE SAINT'S DOUBLE TROUBLE, the bloom was already off the rose and Sanders was regretting his mercenary decision. He started complaining about the quality of the scripts and of the character himself – pegging Templar as “implausible and ridiculous.” This attracted the ire of author Charteris, who verbally attacked Sanders’ comments. The RKO brass, who knew that The Saint's success was wholly due to their lead actor, became frantic. When Charteris suggested they get someone else, RKO delicately explained that Sanders' acting was a key factor. Sanders, who nearly sided with the enraged writer, responded with “Acting is like roller skating. Once you know how to do it, it’s neither stimulating nor exciting.” Yet they tried to burn the candle at both ends – by having their star do Patty/Cathy duty, impersonating the charming Templar as well as his evil look-a-like, criminal mastermind Duke Plato. While not the high point of the series, it is certainly the most interesting. After all, any movie that opens with Bela Lugosi attempting to mail a coffin from a local Egyptian post office can't be all bad. Regrettably, Lugosi is given stooge duty, portraying just another thug – receiving middle-of-the-card supporting billing (not unlike his credit in RKO's The Body Snatcher). It's a thankless part – unintentionally hysterically-heightened by the Hungarian's reunion encounter with a crippled member of the gang (“Hell-o, Limpy,” Bela enunciates in his trademark elongated in-your-face delivery). Sad.
1940's THE SAINT TAKES OVER, eschewed Charteris' available catalogue of Templar stories and commissioned an original screenplay by Lynn Root and Frank Fenton. The plot, surrounding a slew of brutal revenge killings (and, especially, with the unmasking of the murderer), makes this the cream of the crop. Nevertheless Sanders, now to the point of agony, was screaming to get out of role – which only further fueled the fire between him, RKO and Charteris.
With 1941's THE SAINT IN PALM SPRINGS, set in the lavish vacation resort, Sanders let it be known that when Templar literally rides into the sunset at the fade-out, so would he. True to his word, he breathed a sigh of relief, but soon fretted that the killing of his cash cow might have been a bit premature. He intimated to RKO that another series might not be a bad idea. RKO, delighted to hear this – as well as being free from Charteris – concocted another Templar-esque crime-solving rascal, christened The Falcon. Sanders once again signed on, and history repeated itself. Although more lively than The Saint series, The Falcon which had the unlikely but enjoyable teaming of Sanders with comic cohort Allen Jenkins, soon opened old wounds. By the second Falcon saga, their bored star was bitching about the low grade quality of the productions. When even the third effort (the uninspired titled The Falcon Takes Over), a nifty B-movie adaptation of Raymond Chandler's Farewell, My Lovely, failed to win over Sanders...the writing was on the wall. The star was itching to get out – and an inventive exit was planned. The sleuthing scalawag would be bumped off, and his brother would take over. Thus was hatched 1942's The Falcon's Brother – starring Sanders real-life sib, Tom Conway (co-star of several RKO Val Lewton pictures), who continued to play the character into the mid-1940s (The Sanders Falcons are also available as a separate WB Archive set).
The five movies in this collection are in reasonably good shape. Like the pics themselves, the transfers are a bit on the murky side, but perfectly acceptable. Albeit no way near as much fun as the fast-paced Columbia detective series or Fox's Lloyd Nolan/Michael Shayne Bs, The SANDERS SAINTS are worth owning just for the presence of its star. It's a terrific example of Hollywood candle power, and, if you are additionally a George Sanders fan, an absolute must.
THE GEORGE SANDERS SAINT MOVIES COLLECTION. B&W. Full frame. DVD-R. Single layer. SRP: $29.95.
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