Burt-Man of Alcatraz
After the dazzling pyrotechnics and flim-flamming showmanship of his deservedly Oscar-winning title-role performance in Elmer Gantry (1960), Burt Lancaster decisively shifted gears, soon accepting two markedly restrained roles. In Judgment at Nuremburg (1961), he’s one of the defendants, a judge on trial for Nazi war crimes. Clearly too young (in his late forties) for his 63-year-old role, Lancaster stoically tried to underplay (but couldn’t quite relax enough to do so). He fared much better in Birdman of Alcatraz (1962), all the way to another Best Actor Oscar nomination. Lancaster has been gone since 1994, dying at age 80, and he would have turned 100 this past weekend (on November 2nd).
Birdman of Alcatraz contains one of Lancaster’s all-time best performances. And that’s saying something, considering the range and frequent high-quality of the films in which he displayed his skills as a serious-minded actor, a romantic leading man, a magnetic movie star, even an accomplished acrobat. In the years between his 1946 screen debut and the 1962 Birdman, here’s some of what he was up to: top-notch film-noir beauties (The Killers, Criss Cross); playful costume romps (The Flame and the Arrow, The Crimson Pirate); groundbreakingly adult dramas (From Here to Eternity, Sweet Smell of Success); colorful Americana (The Rainmaker, Gunfight at the O.K. Corral). Not to mention films based on works by Arthur Miller (All My Sons), William Inge (Come Back, Little Sheba), Tennessee Williams (The Rose Tattoo), Terence Rattigan (Separate Tables), even George Bernard Shaw (The Devil’s Disciple). He wasn’t always good, or properly cast, but he was never less than fully committed, always willing to risk looking like a fool. Who couldn’t respect such daring? Add the fact that he often was good, or better than good, and, well, you should not only respect but admire him.
A somewhat fictionalized biopic of longtime prison inmate Robert Stroud, Birdman of Alcatraz is a fine drama from director John Frankenheimer, richly photographed in black and white by an Oscar-nominated Burnett Guffey. But it rests primarily on its central component: Lancaster’s performance as Stroud. The actor comes through with an impressively subdued characterization that quietly accumulates into an unsually thoughtful and grounded piece of screen acting. Yes, he starts off as larger-than-life “Burt Lancaster,” streaked with anger and a flair for violence, sent away for murder, then killing a guard during his imprisonment. He gets “life” for the guard’s death, after his mother (Oscar-nominated Thelma Ritter) fights successfully to stop his execution. Stroud will spend more than a half-century in prison, with the majority of the movie set at Leavenworth (in Kansas).
The best section of this movie is its middle, the part about his becoming ”birdman,” which starts from his cell window. He cares for, and then trains, a baby sparrow. Canaries soon find their way to him. The birds humanize him, make him gentler, and, most significantly, give him a purpose. Soon he’s building cages, tending to more babies, eventually curing diseases. He creates an aviary, publishes articles, and goes into business with a woman (Betty Field) who sells his remedies as “Stroud’s Specifics.” Talk about rehabilitation! He marries his business partner, even though he’ll remain incarcerated. Though completely self-taught, he becomes an authority on birds, proven by his book about their diseases. When moved to Alcatraz, at nearly two hours into the movie, he’s not allowed to bring his birds or equipment. This not only makes the title seem inaccurate—it should be called Birdman of Leavenworth (which admittedly doesn’t have the same zing as “Alcatraz”)—but it means that the movie loses its core. With no birds, Lancaster is suddenly without his most essential co-stars. Nothing that follows—Stroud’s book about the prison system, a 1946 riot, his final scenes with the warden—can compare with the compelling simplicity of Lancaster’s scenes with those birds.
Though Frankenheimer’s film is commendably low-key, there’s no question that it’s simply too long, nearly two-and-a-half hours. Memorable? Yes. Absorbing? Certainly. But undeniably long. Also in the cast are Karl Malden as Lancaster’s prison-warden nemesis; Neville Brand, as a friendly guard; Oscar-nominated Telly Savalas, as another inmate (a likable mug); and Edmond O’Brien, overacting as Stroud’s biographer.
Birdman of Alcatraz was one of five Lancaster-Frankenheimer collaborations, with the other two standouts both crackerjack thrillers: Seven Days in May (1964), in which Lancaster, as a right-wing four-star general and chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, plots a military takeover of the U.S. government; and The Train (1965), in which he, as part of the French Resistance, tries to protect the artworks of Paris from the Nazis. (The Train is one of five war films featured in my book Screen Savers.) These two films used Lancaster in different ways. In Seven Days, he is the Oscar-winning actor, contained yet still electric as a megalomaniac villain, while in The Train he’s employed for his movie-star services, specifically of the action-star variety (leaving the acting chores to co-star Paul Scofield).
Elmer Gantry and Birdman of Alcatraz would make a perfect Lancaster double bill, especially designed to show off the scope of his acting prowess. (You’ll be in for a rather long evening, so I’d recommend making it a two-night affair.) It’s a treat to watch him tear up the screen as con-man evangelist Gantry, so charismatic, so devilishly manipulative, the epitome of an irresistible (both funny and sexy) scoundrel. With eyes ablaze, a teeth-flashing smile, and that melodious laugh, his energy astounds. It’s Burt Lancaster at full throttle, gleefully devouring his role, which is why his Robert Stroud is the ideal alternative companion piece. Lancaster’s concentrated intensity remains intact, but in Birdman it’s tenderly focused on fragile winged creatures rather than aimed beamingly at crowds of Gantry “believers.” It’s all about knowing your audience, something at which Burt Lancaster excelled for almost five decades.
