A Girl in every Port

Howard Hawks’s A Girl in Every Port (1928) is one of those early silent films whose apparent simplicity proves deceptive the closer one examines it. On the surface, it is a rollicking maritime comedy populated by sailors, romantic escapades, fistfights and adventures in far-flung ports. Yet beneath this exuberant exterior lies a surprisingly perceptive study of masculine rivalry, companionship and the curious ways in which male friendship may emerge from the very competitiveness that initially threatens it. Starring Victor McLaglen, Robert Armstrong and Louise Brooks, and directed by the then relatively young Howard Hawks for Fox Film Corporation, the film offers an illuminating glimpse of a filmmaker already beginning to develop the characteristic preoccupations that would recur throughout his career.

At the centre of the story is Spike Madden (Victor McLaglen), a hulking, swaggering sailor whose travels from port to port have furnished him with an enviable catalogue of romantic conquests. Spike operates according to a wonderfully uncomplicated philosophy: wherever his ship drops anchor, there will be another woman awaiting his attentions. His confidence, however, receives an increasingly comic series of shocks when he discovers that many of the women he encounters have already been romantically “claimed” by another sailor. The telltale sign is a distinctive heart-and-anchor emblem associated with his mysterious rival. What begins as wounded masculine pride gradually becomes an obsession, until Spike finally encounters the man responsible — Bill, nicknamed “Salami” (Robert Armstrong).

Their initial encounter is, predictably, anything but cordial. Each man regards the other as a rival whose reputation must be challenged, and their antagonism rapidly degenerates into physical combat. Yet here Hawks introduces one of the film’s most delightful ironies. Following their altercation, and an accident involving the water in which Spike’s inability to swim becomes consequential, Salami rescues him. The supposed adversary is suddenly revealed to be a potential friend. In one of those beautifully abrupt transformations characteristic of Hawks’s masculine world, hostility gives way to camaraderie, and the two men become inseparable companions, roaming the globe together and converting their former rivalry into an unlikely but remarkably durable friendship.

Indeed, it is this friendship rather than the romantic plot that ultimately supplies the film with its emotional centre. The arrival of Marie, or Mademoiselle Godiva, portrayed by Louise Brooks, introduces the obvious possibility of a conventional romantic triangle. Marie is a high-diving performer, independent, self-possessed and sexually confident, and she promptly becomes the object of both men’s attention. Yet Hawks is less interested in asking which man will win the woman than in examining what their mutual desire for her might do to the bond they have forged. The romantic competition consequently becomes almost a secondary narrative, functioning principally as a test of masculine loyalty.

Victor McLaglen is ideally cast as Spike. Possessing an imposing physical presence and an exuberant screen personality, McLaglen manages the difficult feat of making Spike simultaneously intimidating and endearing. He is a character of limited sophistication and even more limited emotional vocabulary, yet there is an appealing innocence beneath his swagger. Spike experiences the world physically: anger manifests itself in combat, happiness in laughter, affection in loyalty. McLaglen understands that the character’s apparent brutality conceals a rather uncomplicated emotional directness, and this gives Spike considerably more charm than his womanising bravado might initially suggest.

Robert Armstrong provides an excellent counterpoint. Salami lacks some of Spike’s sheer physical bulk, but compensates with competitiveness, ingenuity and an understated confidence of his own. Armstrong’s comparatively restrained performance complements McLaglen’s exuberance, and their contrasting personalities generate much of the film’s comic vitality. More importantly, the two actors make their friendship convincing precisely because Hawks refuses to sentimentalise it. These are not men inclined towards declarations of affection or emotional introspection. Their attachment is expressed through companionship, loyalty, shared danger and the simple fact of being there for one another. In Hawks’s masculine universe, friendship is something demonstrated rather than articulated.

Louise Brooks, meanwhile, is the film’s most strikingly modern presence. Even at this early stage of her career, Brooks possesses that extraordinary combination of beauty, intelligence and self-possession that would make her one of the defining figures of silent cinema. As Marie, she is not merely a decorative object around whom the men conduct their rivalry. She possesses agency, confidence and an evident understanding of the masculine appetites surrounding her. She knows how men behave, knows how to exploit their desires, and appears entirely comfortable within the theatrical and competitive world she inhabits. Brooks therefore brings to the film a measure of sophistication that prevents its female protagonist from becoming merely another trophy in the sailors’ collection.

Perhaps the most fascinating aspect of A Girl in Every Port from a contemporary perspective is its treatment of masculinity. Hawks takes the traditional ingredients of masculine behaviour — fighting, drinking, boasting, womanising and competition — and converts them into a comic vocabulary. Spike and Salami treat their romantic reputations almost as though they were military honours. Each woman associated with the other becomes a challenge to masculine prestige. Yet the film’s underlying joke is that this relentless competition ultimately produces something far more substantial than either man initially sought: genuine friendship.

There is, in this respect, an unmistakably Hawksian paradox at work. The men begin by defining themselves through rivalry, only to discover that their strongest bond is forged through precisely the physical contests that should have kept them apart. Their friendship is neither refined nor sentimental; it is rough-edged, impulsive and occasionally absurd. Yet it possesses a sincerity that the romantic encounters surrounding them often lack. The women may come and go, but the male companionship endures.

Hawks’s direction is equally notable for its economy. Although the narrative carries the sailors across a succession of exotic ports, the director shows little inclination to indulge in the picturesque possibilities of international travel merely for their own sake. The locations are functional rather than ornamental: they are arenas in which desire, rivalry and adventure can unfold. Hawks is interested less in geography than in behaviour, and this concentration on character rather than spectacle gives the film an impressive narrative momentum.

The humour, unsurprisingly for a silent comedy of the period, is largely physical. Fights erupt with astonishing suddenness; bodies collide, men chase, wrestle, fall and scramble, while situations frequently escalate into chaos before the protagonists have fully comprehended what has happened. Yet beneath the slapstick lies a shrewd comic principle: Spike and Salami possess enormous confidence in their own masculine prowess, and Hawks repeatedly derives amusement from placing these swaggering figures in circumstances that expose the absurdity of their self-image.

Even the title, A Girl in Every Port, carries a certain provocative ambiguity. It perfectly encapsulates Spike’s philosophy of romance while simultaneously revealing the limitations of the film’s treatment of women. The sailors frequently regard women as trophies, conquests or symbols of masculine accomplishment; the heart-and-anchor emblem becomes almost a heraldic insignia in their competition. The film is therefore very much a product of its era, and its treatment of gender can hardly be separated from the conventions and assumptions of 1920s popular cinema.

Yet it would be reductive to regard the film merely through that limitation. What gives A Girl in Every Port its enduring appeal is the vitality with which Hawks transforms these familiar conventions into something more playful and unexpectedly human. Beneath the womanising, the brawling and the comic bravado lies a story about two men who discover that the companionship they never knew they needed is ultimately more meaningful than the romantic conquests they once regarded as the measure of their worth.

A Girl in Every Port is consequently far more than an amusing relic of late silent cinema. It is an energetic and remarkably assured early work from a director whose cinematic personality was already beginning to emerge. Its brisk pacing, physical humour, vivid characters and adventurous atmosphere make it thoroughly entertaining, while the extraordinary rapport between Victor McLaglen and Robert Armstrong provides the film with its real emotional warmth. Louise Brooks contributes glamour, independence and an unmistakable modernity, lending the proceedings an additional charge of sophistication.

What is perhaps most appealing, however, is the film’s sheer exuberance. Hawks does not burden his material with unnecessary solemnity; instead, he allows comedy, adventure, romance and camaraderie to coexist with an effortless lightness of touch. Nearly a century after its release, A Girl in Every Port remains a spirited, charming and thoroughly enjoyable silent film — a fascinating early showcase for Howard Hawks’s developing directorial sensibility, an excellent demonstration of McLaglen and Armstrong’s comic chemistry, and yet another reminder of Louise Brooks’s extraordinary screen magnetism. More importantly, it remains a film that is genuinely pleasurable to watch: lively, mischievous, affectionate in its own rough-hewn fashion, and possessed of the irrepressible sense of fun that enables the best silent comedies to transcend their age.