Montgomery Clift, A Place in the Sun

Montgomery Clift has a face that was meant to be gazed at. As if by the grace of God, his matinee idol looks pull you in, commanding you to pay attention.

The camera knows this. The opening seconds of A Place in the Sun is that of an opening long shot of Monty, his back to us. His turn to the camera is accompanied with a swell in the score, as if we've experienced some sort of dramatic reveal. It then closes in on Monty's face, very close. Too close? This happens on a number of occasions throughout the film, the camera encroaching rather tightly into Monty's personal space and lingering its focus on that mug of his for our collective gaze.

I start off focusing on Monty’s beauty because I believe it to be a key reason as why this performance works, and why it works so potently. This is a film that is infatuated with beauty; that's why the camera closes in on Monty and Liz Taylor as often as it does. That's why we’re conditioned to root against the more homely Alice Tripp. Beauty is a primary reason as to why we are to celebrate and root for George and Angela’s romance. But most crucially, it's the beauty that largely allows us to overlook the fact that George isn’t a good person - after all, it is he who actively (and nearly predatorily) pursues Alice, before impregnating her, deserting her, even entertaining the thought of murdering her.

So I do believe there is a layer of superficiality within the enjoyment of Monty, of Liz, and of A Place in the Sun. If the performance were to have been played exactly the same by say, Arthur Kennedy, would it be as impactful?

My guess is no. If this is a movie that glorifies beauty, it is also one which seems to glamorize this idea of feeling. The aggressive close-ups are not only a chance for us to admire how beautiful Monty and Liz are, but are also for us to get a sense of what and how they're feeling at a given moment. Monty has a serene vulnerability on display here, and it immediately strikes as unusual. Handsome movie stars are a dime a dozen, but often times looks are bundled with arrogance and pride (I’m thinking Kirk Douglas, Richard Todd in The Hasty Heart or Marlon Brando). Hell, even the winners of the Best Actor trophy from 1949-1950, while not ones of whom we might deem as traditionally "handsome," play characters who are full of arrogance and pride. Needless to say, Monty's George is a weird presence.

It’s not often you find good looks tied to deep wells of introversion, of timidity, fragility. You are summoned to admire Monty not only because he is a beautiful man, but you look at him because he is a queer presence. Queer because he speaks so little yet thinks so much. Queer because he carries himself awkwardly through much of the film, uttering out nervous dialogue at actors with an uneasy, muted reserve. Queer because he doesn't really do anything to command your attention, but there you are, paying attention.

"Reserved" is a good word to describe the performance in full. George doesn't talk much, but he's wrought with a pensiveness that Monty controls impeccably. Take his phone scene with Alice for example - he's barely audible as he speaks to her. Another actor might've acted out the material more literally. But this restraint, coupled with his looks, creates a mystery around George that's compelling to watch. What George feels - about his past, about Angela, about Alice, about what happens to Alice, about his fate - and how he internalizes it is what makes this quiet performance so vibrant.

I struggle to formulate in words why I like Monty as much as I do in this film. He's unlike any other leading man of his time - he has not a single ounce of bravado on display here and yet, inexplicably, compels your attention as though he has all the swagger in the world. Perhaps it's because the camera takes us into his personal space so often that you can't help but feel some sort of connection to George. I continue to be in awe of him in that boat scene, or the scene where he listens to the radio about the deaths at the lake. I continue to think about those graceful, troubled eyes, gazing off, lost in thought.