Above is a promo poster made for the Jane Russell drama The Revolt of Mamie Stover, which premiered in Honolulu today in 1956, and was sourced from William Bradford Huie’s novel, a book we discussed at length some months back. The movie was directed by Raoul Walsh of Casablanca fame. He’s properly credited on the above art, but for some reason on the second poster, which you’ll find below, his name appears as Walsh Raoul. It’s a weird mistake to get past so many studio eyes, but things like that happen, we guess. The U.S. art is uncredited, but the third poster, also below, was made for the film’s British release and that was painted by Jock Hinchcliffe. He wasn’t a noted stylist whose work is especially sought after today, but he did paint numerous posters, and he signed the piece below. Anyone who did that gets singled out here, because so few artists were credited by the studios.
Regarding the movie, needless to say, the challenging themes of Huie’s novel were turned on their head by Hollywood. Mamie is no longer a racist toward Hawaiian islanders—in fact, the one islander character who gets to speak is bigoted against her. And she’s no longer a prostitute but a hostess who induces men who frequent Honolulu’s Bungalow Club to buy more booze and pay extra for private time. That private time takes place in a rattan decorated sideroom, but there’s no bed evident. Instead there’s a table and two chairs, so apparently men pay just to chat with Mamie, and the other women at the club. There’s a sexual implication, but of the barest sort, because obviously Twentieth Century Fox could not have made a movie about Jane Russell prostituting herself 51,840 times—the exact number given in the book.
The Revolt of Mamie Stover is another example of suppressed sexual themes during the mid-century era, which is a big reason why we extend our purview at Pulp Intl. into erotic films and imagery—because in our era the previously unshown can be shown and openly examined. We’ve discussed this before. If you watch the movie, it’s interesting to ponder the presumed maturity of book readers, who were asked point blank to consider a prolific prostitute the protagonist of the story, as opposed to cinemagoers, who were never presented with the possibility. In any case, the screen version of Stover, while not a sex worker, is at least a very knowing character, and Russell certainly has the sneer needed to pull off portraying a romantically cynical money worshipper determined to reach the top tax bracket no matter what it costs—her or others.
We figure anyone who has what it takes to get rich for simply, er, chatting with men deserves wealth, and indeed Mamie gets her money. That’s not a spoiler, because it’s never in doubt. It’s part of the revolt—her resistance against forced membership in the underclass. The question is whether she can retain her newly gained higher status, and whether she can preserve the love she’s stumbled upon along the way, because in American cinema moneyseeking characters must choose between their fortunes and their souls. That choice is supposed to supply the drama, but we think the movie is more interesting for its proto-feminist feel and class discussion. It’s pretty good on all fronts, though, except that co-star Richard Egan is a bit of an empty shell. But he doesn’t ruin it. How can he? He has Russell to carry him the entire ninety-three minutes.
