Welcome to Steve's film reviews page. Steve has written 1201 reviews and rated 8398 films.
Hugely commercial comedy-western loosely inspired by a pair of real old time outlaws. Paul Newman (Cassidy) and Robert Redford discovered the formula for thousands of future buddy pictures with the none too smart leader matched with a constantly bellyaching sidekick.
And it’s their chemistry which is the best part of the film. There isn’t any period realism or interesting thematic dimension, it’s just a fun action-adventure. It hardly feels like a western at all with Burt Bacharach's pop soundtrack- including the incongruous hit Raindrops Keep Falling On my Head.
George Roy Hill had surely been studying the Nouvelle vague- this takes plenty from Jules et Jim (1962) in particular. Maybe the bicycle was intended as disclosure! But, despite its New Hollywood credentials, this is really a throwback to the knockabout western spoofs of Howard Hawks.
It is episodic and the lack of a compelling narrative makes for occasional drag, though the sketches usually work. It won a deserved Oscar for cinematography, among seven nominations. There was nothing for the stars, but it’s the combo of Newman and Redford at their peak which is the main reason to watch.
First runout for Clint Eastwood as the iconoclastic Harry Callaghan, the impassive detective who keeps San Francisco safe for effete liberals while impeded by their rulebook. With his .44 Magnum he’s like a lawman from a western. And for a while, there was public controversy over his right wing fundamentalism.
Which now feels exaggerated. Though Harry is likely to tickle the prejudices of those who don’t like how the world changes. And this is an incredibly sleazy America. Like Pottersville actually happened. Harry is from the generation who missed out, while the kids turned on and tuned in.
So he works, while they play. And now he’s chasing a serial killer while the law protects the criminal. Andrew Robinson is memorable as Scorpio, the whiny psychopath who knows his rights. And it’s suspenseful and expertly directed by Don Siegel. Though it all gets a little absurd towards the climax.
It’s astonishing how far the crime film evolved in the decade since Siegel’s earliest noirs. This city of freaks, dropouts and junkies is unrecognisable. With the urban decay, Lalo Schifrin’s sensational jazz-funk score and the laconic star, this landed at just the right time and became a phenomenon.
This picturesque Italian sex comedy/political allegory is probably going to be too provocative for modern audiences. It’s an update of JM Barrie’s Admirable Crichton but with (tasteful) nudity and profanity. A super-rich female boss browbeats the poorly paid male staff on her yacht.
But when she and one of her lowly flunkies are washed up on a deserted island, of course the positions are reversed. Only this time the man demands compensation for past wrongs, which isn’t so much sex as her absolute submission. Which she discovers is her ultimate fulfilment.
Naturally, this is intended to represent the conflict between capital and labour, but the erotic content will stimulate a variety of responses. Personally, the male on female violence isn’t acceptable, however symbolic. This is supposed to be comedy and the situations are grotesquely exaggerated, though never actually funny.
Giancarlo Giannini as the grubby socialist and Mariangela Melota as the sexy fascist play it as farce, and it eventually gets a little tiresome. But this is a really well directed film set in gorgeous locations on the coast of Sardinia. And though the sexual politics is dated, the class warfare is still relevant.
Gorgeous looking post-noir with the familiar setup of a vulnerable woman menaced by an unknown male assassin. Lee Remick is a bank worker living with her school age sister (Stefanie Powers). An assailant who can only be identified by his asthmatic breathing says they will both be brutally murdered unless the clerk robs her employer of $100,000.
And don't tell the cops... So she immediately calls the FBI… and Glenn Ford throws a huge team behind her protection, which climaxes with the wheezy psycho gunned down on the outfield of the LA Dodgers. So the first casualty of the investigation is logic.
It's unlikely the bureau would commit extensive, around the clock resources to protect a single tax payer for a crime that hasn't happened. And it's implausible that the maniac who threatens to kill her if she tells anyone, and has her entire life staked out, doesn't notice there are a dozen G Men watching every move
Unfortunately this also undermines the suspense as it makes the stalker a bit of an idiot. However, the b&w photography is a knockout with cool camera effects and impressive locations (including the set piece at Candlestick Park). It never gets as tense as promised in the early scenes but still, it's an entertaining thriller with attractive stars.
Dignified anti-war allegory set in (what was) Burma at the end of WWII. The Japanese surrender and their army departs for home. But a lone soldier (Shôji Yasui) steals the robes of a Buddhist monk and endeavours to bury the thousands of corpses left behind by the conflict.
Most obviously this is to repair the land and peace of the occupied country. But is also open to interpretation. Is this a kind of penance for Japanese guilt? Though this isn’t much explored. Arguably, the the soldier is literally burying the evidence of war atrocities…
Still, there is a clear message that Japan must build a future free from military nationalism. Kon Ichikawa uses music to express our shared humanity quite movingly, and creates ambience from the eternal farms and mountains. There are striking scenes filmed among Buddhist temples.
Though it’s a shame the director doesn’t yet use his favoured widescreen format. This is a stately, solemn critics’ favourite; a meditative, spiritual film, which sometimes meanders and maybe lacks focus. Yet it is intelligent, unconventional and profoundly humanistic.
Lightweight gothic horror-comedy which is most of interest to golden age aficionados because it is a sound remake of the lost Lon Chaney silent, London After Midnight (1927), also directed by Tod Browning. It’s among a handful of decent scare pictures made by MGM in the mid-30s.
Though its production values reflect those of Universal studios, with the foggy graveyards and rudimentary effects. There’s a proper star in Lionel Barrymore as a vampire hunter investigating the supernatural possession of a rural estate in middle Europe. Bela Lugosi reprises his performance from Dracula (1931).
Except, there’s a twist, which isn’t inspired and negates everything that happened before. And it means the film only really works once. In fact, a second viewing makes no sense at all. Still, it’s good ‘30s horror escapism with a fun cast…
Carol Borland is a standout a kind of proto-goth. Lugosi camps it up as the undead and Lionel Atwill plays it straight as a bristling policeman. It’s a loose spoof of Browning’s Dracula and while no masterpiece, its curiosity value makes it a must-see for studio era horror fans. But only once.
Slight psychological thriller which serenely unfolds towards a satisfying final twist. Michel Bouchet plays a wealthy, middle aged art dealer who takes his beautiful, younger wife (Stéphane Audran) for granted. Frustrated by his flickering sex drive, she conducts a quiet affair with a strikingly similar divorced writer (Maurice Ronet).
When the two men meet, the panicked husband kills the lover. Which at least shifts him from the rut of his usual humdrum comfort zone! The stunned murderer is out of condition, and his sedentary lifestyle is clearly no preparation for adventure. Stéphane stays sexy, while Michel gets a paunch.
The visual design creates an impression of how tasteless French style is at the fag end of the ‘60s. The ugly clothes, the beige interiors and the tacky bistro and disco. And how much they smoke and drink… Ronet comments that bourbon is the best whisky for mornings!
Claude Chabrol also illustrates how sexist is this environment; there is an abundance of satire. The characters don’t discuss their feelings, yet the actors convey these nuances with considerable skill. It’s a subdued suspense picture, but also a subtle exploration of the middle years of a marriage.
IT'S LOVE AGAIN.
Classy screwball musical from Gaumont which is bathed in the lustre of Jessie Matthews' stellar performance. She (yet again) plays a singer/dancer struggling to break into showbiz. Co-star Robert Young is a gossip columnist who fills space with made-up stories about a madcap socialite called Mrs Smythe-Smythe.
Jessie steps into the role of the fake celebrity and becomes famous for being famous. She performs a few excellent song and dance numbers in cute '30s fashions. The costume and set design is by veterans of German cinema and some of the crew would later get Oscar recognition. This brims with quality.
The actors squeeze all the laughs out of a witty screwball script. Jessie is superb at the comedy and matched by a decent leading man. There's the obvious influence of Hollywood musicals. It was released in the US, but these scanty costumes must have challenged the censorship.
Matthews' elocution lessons left her with an old fashioned faux-posh speaking voice and her high vocal range was already dated in the age of jazz. But she has charisma to burn; and one of cinema's most adorable overbites! It's the pick of '30s British musicals, and compares with the best of Hollywood too.
WALTZES FROM VIENNA.
This is a real oddity, a musical from the Master of Suspense. Alfred Hitchcock described it as the lowest point in his career, and yet it was released earlier the same year his long gestation as director finally matured with The Man Who Knew too Much. At the time it was more of a vehicle for British musical star, Jessie Matthews.
Only Hitch cut her songs- save one- and she has no dance routines. They hated each other, which is a shame because she would have been ideal in his '30s screwball-thrillers. What this is, most of all, is one of many classical biopics made in Britain in the early ‘30s.
There's a fictional account of Johann Strauss jr’s composition of the Blue Danube in 19th century Vienna, and a comic love triangle with Matthews as a precocious baker’s daughter and Fay Compton as an aristocrat looking to sponsor male talent… Esmond Knight lacks charm as the king of the waltz. Edmund Gwenn barely registers as Strauss sr.
Only Jessie catches the eye with her gift for comedy, and she looks lovely in the romantic gowns. There are a couple of visual flourishes from Hitch. The sets and costumes are lavish and this is decent compared with other period musicals made in Britain in the ‘30s. But it is the best work of no one involved. Maybe an ok time-killer for fans of the music.
****/*
For 15 years after WWII, UK cinema told its war stories, usually in b&w with a cast of great British stalwarts. In the ’60s, the Hollywood studios remade them as blockbusters. This is in Deluxe colour and Panavision. John Sturges is a major US director of action films leading a lavish production, shot in genuine locations.
And there’s a big Hollywood star in Steve McQueen. The narrative is actually more satisfying than those ‘50s UK films. It’s a loose adaptation of a non fiction book about a mass breakout from a German POW camp; but isn’t grim realism. The mood is sometimes quite cartoonish, yet the US screenwriters create a coherent environment
It sustains interest over an epic three hours of skilful storytelling, sardonic comedy and slow burning suspense. Credit is also due to Elmer Bernstein for his famous score which skilfully sets the tone so the darker moods don't prevail. What UK cinema contributes is that phenomenal support company of actors.
My pick is Donald Pleasence as the self-effacing forger, going blind. The only casting blunder is James Coburn as an Aussie larrikin. Everyone remembers the action climax with McQueen hanging from the wire on the Swiss border, but it’s the relationships which most endure. Sure, it’s Hollywoodised- but still a heartfelt tribute to the prisoners’ bravery and ingenuity.
Ambitious adaptation of Henri Charrière’s bestseller relating his escapes from draconian French penal colonies between the wars. His claimed innocence is hardly a factor; this is an unusually sadistic punishment for anyone. For an hour or so, Franklin J. Schaffner authentically conveys a formidable impression of its dehumanising horror.
It was shot in Jamaica and some actual locations in French Guiana. And it looks extremely convincing. It begins as a polemic against the cruelty of the system, and a tribute to the indomitable spirit of one man who refuses to give in… Which was irresistible to what remained of the late ’60s counterculture.
This was a huge box office success, though less popular with the critics. Steve McQueen in the title role contributes what is usually regarded the best acting of his career. Yet, while he’s an iconic film star, he hasn’t the gravity to sustain the performance and so, when the narrative unravels in the later scenes, he becomes absurd. The director’s exploration of the heroes’ interior life is clumsy.
Dustin Hoffman plays the supporting part of Papillon’s friend as a broad caricature. The screenplay (co-written by Dalton Trumbo) is uncomfortably comical as if they lost their nerve over how grim all of this really is. Eventually it feels incongruously like an early ‘70s buddy picture. This is a sincere adaptation, meticulously produced. But the years have not been kind.
Evocative period adaptation of Raymond Chandler’s classic crime novel which makes one really odd creative decision; the screenplay remains faithful to the author's chaotic, convoluted narrative, but leaves out most of the celebrated dialogue. Still the plot* is tided up effectively, and the new wisecracks and voiceover are witty, and suitably Chandleresque.
Impossible not to compare this with Edward Dmytryk’s version. This approximates the atmosphere of the 1944 film noir, with the neon and the muted colour palette. And everything happens at night. The support performances are better in Murder, My Sweet, but they’re ok here, with Jack O’Halloran a decent Moose Malloy.
The femme fatale role is diminished, but Charlotte Rampling is fair exchange for Claire Trevor. Robert Mitchum is perfect casting as Chandler’s legendary detective. He was born to wear the trenchcoat; but this is 20 years too late. It’s a tired performance, yet this suits Philip Marlowe's pessimism. And the star is a master at the tough, sardonic dialogue.
This version captures Chandler’s vision of Los Angeles, with its social division and corruption and phoney glamour; where bums and drifters and call girls come to reinvent themselves. It’s ideal for fans of the novel and adapted with visual style and a cool jazz score. It’s mostly forgotten, but one of the better neo-noirs of the ’70s.
*There is some period racism.
Haunting, downbeat and largely plotless arthouse expressionism, which is more engaging than that sounds! Though it’s set among the left behind rural poor, this isn’t political neorealism, but a reflection on the interior emptiness of an aimless drifter as he adapts to a new reality of being alone.
This is the greyest film ever made! The dense, polluted fog of the Po Valley weighs heavily on the disillusioned wanderer… and the audience! It’s a philosophical mood piece which establishes Michelangelo Antonioni's signature themes of isolation and alienation.
It feels odd that Hollywood film noir heavy Steve Cochran plays this hollow man who can find no solace or meaning. On the road he encounters women who are also distressed by the existential fog. Dorian Gray (maybe cast for her surname!) as a sexually frustrated petrol station attendant is particularly memorable.
And Lyn Shaw as a heartbreaking sex worker. They are all lost souls adrift of politics and commerce. Nothing much happens except the protagonist is slowly submerged in his grey despair. The melancholy piano scores his fading sense of purpose until the inevitable conclusion. This is gloomy stuff; even for Antonioni.
Languorous arthouse enigma often rated the best film ever made in Australia. Which is fair enough. What most resonates is the romantic aura of gauzy nostalgia- set in 1900- merged with a vague impression of supernatural threat. This is mainly achieved through the stunning cinematography.
And the sound mix also captures the numb serenity of a hot summer’s day, augmented by the ambient soundtrack and strange atmosphere of the locations. Plus the period costumes and set decor. This is an eerily beautiful film. The cast of girls who go missing on a school picnic, feel insubstantial, ephemeral. Lost in a trance of unconscious ritual.
Peter Weir skilfully employs all the tools of cinematic art to suggest a series of themes which are never quite resolved: the sexual vulnerability of the unwary children; the incongruity of aristocratic privilege in a wild and enchanted landscape; and a sense of humanity, transient against the vastness of prehistory.
The Aboriginal people hardly feature, but their absence haunts the film. The events are presented as a true story, though it is adapted from a novel (by Joan Lindsay). It feels authentic, yet magical. Almost horror. Almost science fiction. This is the masterpiece of the Aussie New Wave.
Chic thriller set on the French Riviera which like many films of its time, aspires to be To Catch a Thief (1955) but falls some way short. No VistaVision or A+ stars. Or Alfred Hitchcock... But this is still stylishly directed by John Guillermin with a few really eye-catching flourishes.
And the sports cars on the coastal roads of the Côte d'Azur look cool, even in b&w. The cast is decent with Stewart Granger as a suave film producer having an affair with his sexy Italian leading lady (Gianna Maria Canale) who ends up with a knife in her back and all the evidence pointing at him...
There are a couple of Oscar winners in support with Donna Reed underused as the jilted wife and George Sanders excellent as a slimy villain. Michael Shillo is a bonus as the inscrutable continental detective. We also get a quick glimpse behind the scenes of a trashy ’50s film production.
The twisty plot is implausible, but that’s only to be expected. The production looks like there was a decent budget. Plus suspense, Mediterranean locations, nice clothes and a chillout jazz soundtrack from Johnny Dankworth. Everyone on set said Granger was a nightmare, but they all still turned in a glossy, sassy thriller.
Disappointing later Billy Wilder comedy which takes an already slender premise and stretches it over 144 minutes. Jack Lemmon plays a wealthy US business executive who travels to Italy to claim his father’s body for burial. And discovers that he was conducting a long affair with a lower class English woman, whose corpse is collected by Juliet Mills.
Essentially it’s the familiar story of an uptight wage slave liberated by the beauty and culture of Italy. And the more pastoral way of life. Which always works, except this time. While the location shoot around Naples is alluring, there are multiple problems. Jack Lemmon is usually so reliable at giving unlikable characters just enough charm to be sympathetic….
But his irascible corporate entitlement is too maddening. The American abroad comedy is incredibly patronising towards the foreign stereotypes. Apparently, they can’t make decent coffee in Italy! Also the 66 year old director feels prurient and old fashioned in his use of nudity and swearing.
It isn’t a disaster. There is some decent topical humour; which is even mildly subversive. Clive Revill is convivial as another of the director’s wily finaglers. Unfortunately, though the source Broadway play is opened out skilfully, Wilder develops some scenarios purely because the relaxed censorship of the 1970s now permits. And in doing so, exposes a lack of taste.