Jane Wyman stars as Cary Scott, a widower who lives in an almost comically depressing WASP-verse composed of country-club functions, strained politeness, and empty opulence. She falls in love with Ron Kirby (Rock Hudson), a rugged, affable blue-collar type who is (a) immune to the hollow vanities of the upper-middle class, and (b) younger than her by a walk. Not only is Cary’s social circle aghast at the development, but her children (Gloria Talbott and William Reynolds) are clearly not pleased that she’s even thinking about moving on with her life. Ultimately, this is your garden variety tale of a woman having to choose between happiness and acceptance, but it’s presented with a compelling mix of unabashed earnestness and sumptuous production design.
The word “camp” comes up often in the discussion of Sirk’s work, but All That Heaven Allows too overtly earnest and poignant to qualify as camp. Even when Hudson, the very embodiment of macho leading-man camp, hand-feeds a deer on the edge of the woods, it feels more like a natural outgrowth of character rather than a moment of sublime silliness. The same goes for when Wyman and Talbott share a cry in a darkened room, lit only by ray of light filtered though a piece of stained glass that wouldn’t feel out of place in a church. One of the film’s great successes is its ability to toe the line of kitsch or camp, while firmly staying on the side of expressionism. The film’s empathy for Wyman is its secret weapon, and an empathetic viewing is essential to the film’s success, which is probably why it was swept under the rug as a mere weepie when it first came out.
When it comes to melodrama, outsized emotions come with the territory. But in All That Heaven Allows, emotional outbursts aren’t confined to performances or actions. They spill out onto the screen in bold Technicolor, or they manifest themselves in the lighting choices. Whole exchanges happen in ill-lit, midnight-coloured rooms, as if to draw a clear difference between what is said and what is meant or felt. Special attention is given to how each interior is decorated; the Scott household feels like a museum, wide-open and stuffy. Kirby’s re-purposed mill is 100% rustic chic, an inviting clash of cool blues and warm earth tones. If anything, All That Heaven Allows is a film rich with symbolism (mirrors vs. windows, the deer motif), but not all of it is as nuanced as the set design or lighting cues. The film’s at its weakest when it practically outlines its themes for the audience; Talbott’s baffling detours into Psychology 101 blather and the on-the-nose appearance of Henry David Thoreau’s Walden being the most glaring examples. But even if the movie still sometimes has the thematic subtlety of a sack of wet bricks (small towns are terrible, we treat our parents like garbage, the rat race will erode your soul), the key to getting the most of it isn’t paying attention what’s being said, but how it’s framed. Words sound different in the light than they do in the dark.
Criterion have been slowly going back their back catalogue and releasing exemplary DVD/Blu-Ray combo sets of old favourites. This release of the All That Heaven Allows, an update of Criterion’s own 2001 DVD edition, now stands as the film’s definitive release. The transfer itself is immaculate, accentuating Sirk’s and DP Russell Metty’s use of crisp colour palettes, while the special features are expectedly solid. Chief among them is the entirety of Michael Rappaport’s 1992 film Rock Husdon’s Home Movies, and an hour-long BBC interview from 1979 with Sirk himself. So if you either wanted to replace your old copy of the film or wanted to see what Douglas Sirk has to offer, this release would be an excellent place to start.