American publisher Robert Cummings is in Venice. He is tracking down love letters written by a long-dead poet to his lover -- played by Agnes Moorhead with a creaky voice and made up as a horrific-looking 105. He inserts himself into her household as an aspiring novelist and searches for the letters. It's not only Miss Moorhead he must deal with, but Susan Hayward, Moorhead's.... great-niece? .... who during the day is a cold piece of work, but at night puts down her hair and believes she is her aunt, and Cummings is her lover.
Director Martin Gabel had never appeared in a movie before this, and never directed another. It contains the usual spooky-house look and lighting that Henry James' ponderous "The Aspern Letters", which I had to slog my weary way through in college, seems to demand, at least given the rather Gothic adaptation of the script. Apparently James had written it based on a story he had heard about about love letters that Shelley had written to Claire Clairmont -- who also had an affair with Byron, producing a daughter.
Some of the casting choices seem odd nowadays; making up Agnes Moorhead as a 105-year-old woman must have required hours in makeup, and the charm of Robert Cummings is lost on me; he always seemed to be acting, so his acting as an unscrupulous publisher acting the part of an aspiring novelist seems, except for a very few moments, rather monotonous. Still, the backlot Venice on view for a minute or two, and the lushness of the production and music score add a richness to this movie that Hollywood could impart when Tinseltown was dealing with an important work.
Director Martin Gabel had never appeared in a movie before this, and never directed another. It contains the usual spooky-house look and lighting that Henry James' ponderous "The Aspern Letters", which I had to slog my weary way through in college, seems to demand, at least given the rather Gothic adaptation of the script. Apparently James had written it based on a story he had heard about about love letters that Shelley had written to Claire Clairmont -- who also had an affair with Byron, producing a daughter.
Some of the casting choices seem odd nowadays; making up Agnes Moorhead as a 105-year-old woman must have required hours in makeup, and the charm of Robert Cummings is lost on me; he always seemed to be acting, so his acting as an unscrupulous publisher acting the part of an aspiring novelist seems, except for a very few moments, rather monotonous. Still, the backlot Venice on view for a minute or two, and the lushness of the production and music score add a richness to this movie that Hollywood could impart when Tinseltown was dealing with an important work.