Review of Ivanhoe (1952) by Blake P — 17 Aug 2016

In which everyone around him enunciates like a Shakespearean pro but Robert Taylor (aka the Saxon Wilfred of Ivanhoe) maintains a manner of speech that makes him sound less High Middle Ages hero and more Lux Radio personality named Jack or Johnny. Indeed 1952's "Ivanhoe" is a whole lot of self-important spectacle without the tongue-in-cheek fragrances of 1948's similarly minded "The Three Musketeers," but as much as I'd like to poke fun at MGM's Quantity Is Synonymous With Quality temperament, I can't. Say what you will about Taylor's stone-faced colorlessness - his popularity during the Hollywood Golden Age is increasingly baffling as the decades pass - or the way its throwback design never sells. In "Ivanhoe" we have an ambrosial extravaganza of action infused with big-headed ego - we're left with an ornate blockbuster with more heart than head, which isn't all too bad the more you let your guard down and let its simple joys sink in.

And because I like (and like looking at) Elizabeth Taylor, Technicolor-lensed swashbuckler tales, and deadly serious actioners that somehow get the job done, it's impossible for me to resist "Ivanhoe," which is undoubtably 1952's equivalent of a Vin Diesel movie that doesn't revolve around him being fast and furious. Its 106 minutes revolve around our titular hero's searching for the kidnapped Richard the Lionhearted (Norman Wooland) upon his return from the Crusades, along with the inevitable attempts to overthrow Prince John (a deliciously scheming Guy Rolfe), who's taken Richard's place as a ruler.

Involved in his quest for justice are a couple of lady loves (Joan Fontaine is his soulmate and Taylor is the ingenue that thirsts for but will never get his attention), plentiful jousting matches that boast Ivanhoe's machismo, and even Robin Hood (Harold Warrender) and his devoted entourage of men in tights. Not a minute of the film overcomes strict artifice - even characters in anguish look like they're posing for a spread in Photoplay (just look at how regal the violet-eyed Taylor is when her Rebecca comes close to being burned at the stake) - but not a minute isn't seasoned by breezy guilty pleasure benefits, either. It's unavoidable for an effective sense of fun to win out over inauthenticity.

Save for Bob's leaden persona and "Ivanhoe" is a strapping blowout both off-putting and lovable in its colorful self-regard. Nobody does beautiful manipulation better than MGM, and the film is, as a result, commercial bait with dignity. Maybe Errol Flynn's entire oeuvre seems intellectual by comparison, but you won't be thinking about "The Adventures of Robin Hood" nor "Captain Blood" as you scarf down "Ivanhoe's" old-fashioned thrills (until it's over and your weariness makes a comeback).