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Really three films in one, Now, Voyager is an absolutely intoxicating experience. One part breathless romance, one part character transformation and one part kindred-spirit-soothes-all-wounds weepie, this is the Warner Brother’s melodrama to end them all. A towering acting achievement in Bette Davis’ illustrious crown in which she changes from dowdy and neurotic to glamorous and confident socialite. It’s also one hell of a move, a fine example of the phrase “They don’t make ‘em like they used to.”
Now, Voyager sees Charlotte Vale start life with her elderly domineering shrew of a mother (Gladys Cooper). Because of her mother’s manipulations and constant put-downs, Charlotte is half a person. Davis obviously relishes this section of the film – she’s padded out in a fat suit, crackling with intense neurosis and a unibrow for the ages. She never overdoes it, but that gleam in her eye is obvious to anyone who can spot it. Inset Claude Raines, one of the two men who could have stood before Davis and not get swallowed whole, as the kindly psychiatrist. He gives her the tools and the softness needed for her transformation to take effect. And so closes Act I.
Act II begins on a pleasure cruise that Vale takes in order to try out her new personality and outlook on life. She must meet-and-greet and come out of her shell. She must be confident and glamorous. Here she meets Paul Henreid, the other man who could go toe-to-toe with Davis and not lose, and begins a complicated romance for the ages. Armed with a fledging self-worth and a lot of smarts, Vale tries out her newly acquired people skills on Henreid’s Jerry, a debonair man with baggage in the form of a ball-busting wife and two daughters, who seems receptive to her charms and ashamed by the very same fact. Their romance is destined to trials and tribulations, doomed to an eternity of staring at each other from across the room and never being able to embrace. And in an ingenious bit of improvisation on Henreid’s part, Jerry lights two cigarettes and hands one to Vale. This reoccurs numerous times, and each time it’s the closet the two of them can come to making love, kissing, touching, being together.
Act III sees Vale becoming a surrogate mother to Jerry’s youngest daughter – a younger doppelganger for Vale’s character and an act that allows for her to project and act out the wants and needs she has with Jerry. She all but adopts the poor thing in a passive aggressive way to keep Jerry in her life. But she does it out of genuine concern and love for the distraught girl mainly, and for the love of Jerry secondly. She has already bonded and adored the girl long before she discovers who her parents really are. And it all climaxes in a scene, in a line so poetically beautiful and heartbreakingly romantic that can, and should, be used as an example of the kind of magic and power that only movies can generate in us.
But how do these three separate strands connect and intertwine more cleanly? I will not tell you. That is for you to discover. It’s a wonderful journey, made all the more wonderful by each of the performances. Davis forsakes her usual twitches and tics, her normally bitchy demeanor and relish in darkness on the outskirts of a role. Instead, she remains strong and steadfast throughout, but she is softer and gentler here. Not since Dark Victory had she played a character so likable and audience-rousing. We want her to find true love, to escape with Henreid and take his youngest daughter with them. It is a remarkable performance that garnered her sixth Academy Award nomination. Also recognized by the Academy that year was Gladys Cooper as her domineering, demanding and abusive mother. It’s a harpy of a character and Cooper nails it. Raines is a nice balm for all scars, and truly Davis’ greatest frequent co-star. He knew that she was the star and to get out of her way. He also knew that a smaller supporting performance could go a long way. Henreid is as perfect as her right Mr. Right that not much more can be said. One can forgive him for being slightly stiff in Casablanca.
Now, Voyager is a melodrama to its very core, but one so intoxicating in its presentation and atmosphere that you can’t help but get swept up in it all. Davis steers the film and gives one of her greatest performances, but everything is so meticulous and finely performed that it’s a real treat for even the smallest of performances. A valentine of a film with a fantastic parting line, and, no, I won’t repeat it for you.
