Gilda (1946) is a tense, dialog-driven film illustrating at least two woes – soured love and greed – and how they can ruin the lives of those whose decisions lead to such woes. Rita Hayworth, Glenn Ford, and George Macready lead a great cast, sometimes luxuriating in lines with a double meaning, sometimes spitting them out in frustration and rage, as Ballin (Macready) rescues Johnny (Ford) from a hold-up in Buenos Aires, and offers him a job on the spot at his casino. Johnny works his way up the ladder to right-hand man, until one day Ballin goes away and returns with a wife, Gilda (Hayworth).
Johnny becomes a little sour, but nothing like Gilda, who’s a spitfire with poison for bullets. Ballin stands in the background, taking it all in, while juggling the management of the (illegal) casino which is actually a cover for another, vastly more important, operation. As events force characters to choose allegiances, both they and the audience entertain paranoid interpretations. Revenge on soured love leads our anti-heroes down paths better never trodden, until a climax which surprises us with its force and choice.
It’s difficult to fault any facet of the movie. Perhaps Johnny could have been more complex, and yet Ford’s few hints at just a character that I wonder if I just missed more hints. Hayworth, on the other hand, glories in her part, until my Arts Editor muttered, “She’s what we call poison!” Macready is more than adequate, concealing important clues until just the right moment to drop them. Even so, the mysteries of his backstory tantalize and leave the audience wanting more.
Strongly recommended.
