Michael Curtiz directed one of the most beloved movies of any era, Casablanca (1942). The Hungarian-born filmmaker was also responsible for one of the most sophisticated films noir, a move that has only accumulated esteem over time, Mildred Pierce (1945). During his long career he also directed perennial favorites such as The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938), Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942) and White Christmas (1954).
Although he won an Oscar, he never won respect among the generations of film critics who wrote the history of cinema in the ‘60s and’70s. The reason, Alan K. Rode writes in Michael Curtiz: A Life in Film, is that the director didn’t easily fit the auteur theory of great directors (Alfred Hitchcock, Howard Hawks) with authorial signatures in style and subject. Curtiz was not deemed as an artist but as an artisan, a skilled craftsman who knocked out any project the moguls handed him.
And they handed him plenty: Rode counts nearly 190 titles in Curtiz’s filmography, including some 74 made in Hungary and Austria before he immigrated to Hollywood. Curtiz was on hand for the birth of Hungarian film and, ironically, as an early film critic he sketched out the essence of the auteur theory whose latter-day exponents would marginalize him. To make his way in Hollywood, Curtiz tirelessly applied himself to westerns and musicals, crime pictures and romance, horror and historical spectacles, comedy and drama. He did it all and became, in Rode’s words, “the anti-auteur.”
For the longest time Casablanca was Curtiz’s claim on history. The chapter on that classic appears halfway into Rode’s book and as the author correctly states, everyone involved tried to own a piece of the credit. And in fact, it was—like virtually all Hollywood movies of the era—factory job assembled by many hands. The excellence of the final product resulted from many happy accidents. Curtiz was an important factor, pushing for Dooley Wilson as Sam and helping mold the screenplay and its visualization into its final shape. “One can’t help but wonder if Curtiz’s formative years in Budapest cafes influenced his vision of Rick’s,” Rode writes.
He continued working, scarcely slowing his pace through the end of the ‘50s. Among his last movies was Elvis’ best picture, King Creole (1958). The director expected the worst from the King of Rock and Roll but found, instead, a cooperative young man with all his lines memorized. Curtiz allowed Elvis to “exercise his own imagination.” Colonel Parker stayed away.
Rode’s book is entertaining and informative as it takes measure of a director who has received less credit than he deserves.
