The absolute summum of the oeuvre of that crafty Dane Douglas Sirk (born Detlef Sierck), Written on the Wind compels our prurient attention in every gaudy frame. From its justly famous opening sequence, with the leaves blowing into the baronial foyer of a Texas mansion and the wind riffling the pages of the calendar into a flashback, the movie compresses into its 99 minutes all the familial intrigue that was to fuel such later, little-screen knockoffs as Dallas, Dynasty and Falcon Crest over their years-long runs.
The combination of wealth and dysfunction is a theme Americans, in our dollar-based society, find irresistible. Brother and sister Robert Stack and Dorothy Malone are the spoiled, troubled heirs to the Hadly oil fortune; boyhood chum Rock Hudson and new bride Lauren Bacall are the sane outsiders who try to keep the lid on the roiling cauldron. (It's been rumored that the story was based on Libby Holmann's marriage into Reynolds tobacco money.) As always, the misfits get all the scenery to chew -- and the best lines to spit out (Malone, in her Oscar-nabbing performance as the boozing nymphomaniac with a jones for Hudson, gets to detonate a whole fireworks display of them). Hudson, while good, can't compete with all this over-the-top emoting; Bacall starts out strong but grows recessive, a mere plot convenience. No matter; with a succession of set-pieces shot in extravagant hues, Sirk gives an object lesson in how to turn out overwrought melodrama set in the lush consumer paradise of late-50s America. Nobody ever did it better.
The combination of wealth and dysfunction is a theme Americans, in our dollar-based society, find irresistible. Brother and sister Robert Stack and Dorothy Malone are the spoiled, troubled heirs to the Hadly oil fortune; boyhood chum Rock Hudson and new bride Lauren Bacall are the sane outsiders who try to keep the lid on the roiling cauldron. (It's been rumored that the story was based on Libby Holmann's marriage into Reynolds tobacco money.) As always, the misfits get all the scenery to chew -- and the best lines to spit out (Malone, in her Oscar-nabbing performance as the boozing nymphomaniac with a jones for Hudson, gets to detonate a whole fireworks display of them). Hudson, while good, can't compete with all this over-the-top emoting; Bacall starts out strong but grows recessive, a mere plot convenience. No matter; with a succession of set-pieces shot in extravagant hues, Sirk gives an object lesson in how to turn out overwrought melodrama set in the lush consumer paradise of late-50s America. Nobody ever did it better.