It may be difficult to believe, but Frank Capra did not always make films in which an ultimately good hero triumphs over a bureaucratic system by holding fast to American values and displaying an “awe shucks” charm. To be fair, his best and most well-known films are full of depth far greater than what I’ve just described, but he did not always helm the “Capra-Corny” projects which his few detractors often decry. For evidence of this fact, one need look no further than The Bitter Tea of General Yen (1933).
Bride-to-be and missionary Megan Davis (Barabara Stanwyck) arrives in Shanghai as the Chinese civil war rages. She intends to marry her childhood sweetheart who has already been working in the field for several years. Their wedding is to be just after her arrival, but when a fire started during the battle for the city threatens an orphanage, both matrimonial candidates offer their help. To cross safely into this zone of the city Megan’s fiancé must ask for a written pass from the despised warlord General Yen (Nils Asther). Knowing the man does not understand written mandarin, the general simply writes a note detailing what he believes is the idiocy of the effort. Though the couple reaches the stranded children, their passage back to the safe zone is not guaranteed. The faulty pass is taken by Megan, still believing it ensures her safety, just before she is separated from the group.
Knocked unconscious by a blow, she awakens hours later on a train headed away from the city. She’s been “rescued” by a man she met briefly on her journey, who unbeknownst to her is the devious Yen. She arrives at his provincial palace, the ill-gotten gains of genocide, only to realize that she is his prisoner. Reserved, she is confined to her room until she agrees to dine with her host. From her terrace, she witnesses the execution of prisoners; each firing squad volly galvanizing her hatred of the general. Yet she believes that she can soften his heart and turn him away from evil. After all, that’s what she came to China to do; evangelize to the Chinese, peasant or warlord.
When she observes goings on at the palace that she was not intended to, it becomes clear that she holds some limited sway within the household. Eventually she is convinced to join the party of frequent dinner guests, and is surprised to see another American within their ranks. The general’s financial manager is as unscrupulous as they come, but is still a comfort for Megan. She slowly begins to grow close as well to her assigned servant, Mah-li (Toshia Mori). Though her relationships with the general himself remains standoffish, she can’t help but be drawn to romanticizing the Chinese heritage of which he speaks so richly.
In a fantastic dream sequence, that undoubtedly would raise eyebrows and possibly tempers in the P.C. present, a caricature of Chinese stereotypes resembling the general attacks Megan in her bedroom. Unable to fight off his advances, she is rescued just in time by a masked figure who the audience assumes is her fiancé. However, when she removes the mask to kiss the figure, it is again General Yen. Unable to stop herself, she kisses him passionately, awaking just as the genuine Yen stands above her on her balcony chair. Suddenly she fears the worst; that she has fallen for this despised foreigner.
Ultimately their relationship progresses down this path, as they engage in deep discussions of meanings and beliefs on the value of human life. Megan even volunteers her own life, as assurance that Mah-li will not betray the general’s trust to a rival warlord. As dramatic tension builds, it becomes clear that either the war, or the relationships, or both will destroy the house of Yen. The film’s final sequences are beautiful, and anything but standard Capra, particularly the final conversation between Megan and the debunked financial advisor.
It’s somewhat coincidental that I saw this film so soon after Shanghai Express (1932; #127). Both films cast a screen legend in a story set across the backdrop of the Chinese revolution, and though neither is particularly political, they do both raise questions about the time in which they were produced. Both cast European males as Chinese villains, and specifically note an attitude of the lack of value placed on life in the orient. Watching them now, it’s clear that they likely, though unwittingly, promoted an attitude of Asian xenophobia in the U.S.
Both Shanghai Express and Bitter Tea are great films, employing magnificent lighting and Mise en scène; each displaying the power of studio techniques. While I preferred Shanghai Express for its script and set pieces, I must admit that overall I’m partial to Stanwyck over Dietrich. This is strange roll for her. She doesn’t yet have the charisma she’d display in The Lady Eve (1941) and Double Indemnity (1944). Those are her two best performances, and two of the greatest pictures ever made, and here you can just see that spark starting to glow beneath the surface.
Language: English (primary)
Runtime: 88 Minutes
Available @ Youtube.com
Grade: 3.5 Hats Off
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