Film Reviews by Steve

Another frantic yet unsuccessful attempt to update the silent-era box office appeal of Harold Lloyd to the talkies. Which only ever really happened on Movie Crazy (1932). He's a dedicated milkman who gets involved with some crooked boxing promoters and hyped to a world title fight, despite his feeble anatomy and powder-puff punch.

But he's an enthusiast who kind of gets to believe in the publicity himself. It's based on a big Broadway hit from a couple of years earlier and would be remade as a vehicle for Danny Kaye a decade later (The Kid from Brooklyn). But this version doesn't spark. Leo McCarey's direction is flat, and the slim premise is stretched way too far.

And Harold sadly just isn't a good sound comedian. There are a few positives, mainly Verree Teasdale (real life wife of co-star Adolphe Menjou) who is a fine fast talking dame and gets all the best lines. And Harold's horse is also pretty good... This gets called screwball comedy, but that's marketing.

There is no viable romance or feel for the state of the US in the depression. The thrill for hardcore fans of the star is that Harold's shuffle in the boxing ring recalls the one he did in The Freshman (1925)! There was a troubled production (apparently the milk made everyone sick) and it shows. 

Crazy Paramount comedy with a title that suggests another of their many precode anthologies, but actually refers to the cast; there are three of the studio's frequently matched double acts. Charles Ruggles and Mary Boland are a nice middle class/aged couple driving to California on a second honeymoon, who advertise for similar to share the cost.

And are unfortunately lumbered with George Burns and Gracie Allen... and their astonishingly huge Great Dane, who insists on the front seat! They make a fine comic quartet, especially Gracie as the screen's ultimate airhead. And just for bonus fun, a bankrobber has swapped one of their suitcases for a duplicate full of money...

But there are six, no? WC Fields turns up on halfway as a sheriff, with occasional sidekick Alison Skipworth. And he lifts an amusing road comedy with some genuine laughs. This is mainly a few of his old vaudeville routines. The standout is his explanation- while playing pool, intoxicated- of how he got the nickname 'Honest John'.

It sometimes gets labelled screwball, maybe because it is directed by genre superstar Leo McCarey. Though there is no romance. Which is a bonus as the fun is with the stalwart stars. It's another minor Paramount programmer which the unique comic talent of WC Fields makes a little bit special.

IF I HAD A MILLION

This is one of those 1930s anthologies developed as a showcase for a studio's roster of talent; in this case Paramount.  It is more auspicious than most. Their biggest star of the period- Gary Cooper- makes an appearance as an army halfwit. And among seven (!) decent directors, the great Ernst Lubitsch contributes a short sketch with Charles Laughton as a wage slave who blows a raspberry at his boss...

The concept is that a dying tycoon (Richard Bennett) elects to give away his fortune to random members of the public rather than his deadbeat relatives or disengaged employees. Hence Laughton's rebuke of his manager. The responses are usually comical, but also take the story into the gas chamber. And there's some precode naughtiness.

In one of the more satisfying strands, George Raft can't even give his cheque away for a dollar while he is hunted down by the law. However like most of these Paramount anthologies, they are watched now for the appearance of WC Fields. Here as a motorist who spends the dough on dozens of cars to take revenge on the 'road-hogs' who are the principal cause of his misery.

It's the first of a few delightful double acts with Alison Skipworth, as his old vaudeville buddy. By the final episode in which the multi-millionaire gives his legacy to a threadbare home for elderly widows, which is more of a prison, it becomes obvious we are watching a proto-New Deal picture. The old man is sick because of his miserly lifestyle. When he gives his money away, he becomes well! Go on, try it!

TILLIE AND GUS 

Knockabout rustic comedy which is elevated by the star quality of WC Fields. This isn't his script, but he obviously improvised all over it. His sweet young niece has been gypped out of her legacy by a crooked lawyer, so the legendary curmudgeon leaves his gambling racket in Alaska to save the ferry service, which is the last of her inheritance.

The story ends with a steamboat race and much slapstick besides. Fields performs his familiar misogynistic rascal, introduced while being run out of town. And this is noteworthy for a couple of sidekicks. It's his debut with Baby LeRoy, a one year old who was on a contract at Paramount! Of course, this allows Fields to register his infamous animosity towards children.

And he repeats his relishable alliance with Alison Skipworth, as his wife. She's sort of a female version of Fields, but with a deeper veneer of fake gentility. And she's excellent. Of course, Julie Bishop and Philip Trent are utterly anonymous as the swindled girl and her husband, but that's often the way with romantic leads.

In vaudeville, it's the grotesques who are the stars; the scurvy villain (Clarence Wilson) and the dubious, but good hearted misfits. It's not as great as the vehicles Fields developed for himself, but among the pick of those he was parachuted into. It's still precode, but his act has been cleaned up... Well, he's not a drunkard. This could easily have been shown uncut to an audience of church-goers in Kalamazoo.

FIRST A GIRL.

Instant remake of German musical-comedy Viktor und Victoria (1933), later adapted as a vehicle for Julie Andrews in 1982. Admittedly, the theme of gender fluidity is probably more congruous to Weimer Berlin than '30s London, but it still works and it's interesting to see British attitudes to sexuality in the period.

Jessie Matthews plays another starving showgirl in the depression. She finds success filling in for Sonnie Hale's female impersonation act. So she is a girl pretending to be a boy, pretending to be a girl. And there's plenty of opportunity for Jessie to exhibit her diverse talents for dancing, singing and comedy.

She and her real life husband (Hale) make a fine double act, and occasionally slip into broad comic routines- like Laurel and Hardy. Anna Lee offers quality support as a waspish aristocrat who wants to expose the deception. She's actually quite broadminded, unlike her fiancé (Griffith Jones) who resents his attraction to the fake boy.

He eventually gets the girl- it's the same thing!- so is not punished for his prejudice. There isn't an an agenda. It's just an entertainment; though quite liberal. While there are good songs and choreography and decent gags, it principally survives due to the star quality of Matthews, who delights with her offbeat screwball x-factor.

FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH.

First of all, what an amazing lineup of '30s UK stars and support actors! It's an anthology film which scrambles a few separate stories into a single overarching narrative. The characters are ultimately connected by being on a London bus which crashes...

As we know two of them are killed, there is an extra frisson... Who will survive? It's staggering that this is actually the same conclusion as Krzysztof Kieslowski's 1994 arthouse classic, Three Colours: Red! But this is more of a comedy-drama, led by the adorable Jessie Matthews.

She's a hoofer divided between a future on the Parisian stage, or marriage to a dreary schoolmaster (Ralph Richardson). The problem is that the appealing characters get limited screen time. Like Sonnie Hale and Cyril Smith, as the bickering conductor/driver, obsessed with the horses.

Still, it's the same for the annoying performances. Like Emlyn Williams as a slimy blackmailer. Or Max Miller whose fame is now as enigmatic as the Rosetta Stone. The amusing dialogue is co-written by Sidney Gilliat. It's just a diversion, but look again at that cast!

Just one of half a dozen decent B noirs Phil Karlson directed in the 1950s... This gave John Payne an opportunity to transfer from musicals to action roles. And he’s fine as a proletariat loser tired of getting pushed around. The excellent screenplay loads him up with an endless supply of cynical one liners.

It kicks off with Payne beaten raw in the boxing ring, presumably to counter the star’s previous wholesome image. With his fighting career over, he drives a taxi, still angry and a bit punchy, while his beautiful but antiseptic trophy wife (Peggie Castle) grows restive at their reduced circumstances

After the smooth, repellent gangster (Brad Dexter) she takes up with murders her, the cabbie has to clear his name, aided by a kooky Broadway wannabe (Evelyn Keyes). Usefully, his fighting background means he can beat senseless anyone who gets in his way, whatever their size.

Castle is so good- and gorgeous - as the faithless gold digger that it’s surprising she didn't get more and better roles (she died aged 45). The New York riverside setting adds atmosphere and realism, and Karlson's visuals are a buzz. It’s a tough, plotty thriller which is not always plausible. But, who cares...?

Stylish film noir (scripted by blacklisted Dalton Trumbo) which is the last completed feature directed by Joseph Losey before he fled Hollywood to escape HUAC. Despite a powerful speech about the ubiquity of US corruption, this isn't an overtly socialist film. Though noir is nearly always about greed (and sex) which often implies a political message.

A patrol cop (Van Heflin) is called to the house of a lonely, attractive housewife (Evelyn Keyes) and they start an affair. On discovering her husband’s wealth, the officer raises the stakes by shooting him and claiming accidental homicide. Eventually the widow swallows his explanation and they marry. And he quits to enjoy the perks of her inheritance.

Only it all falls apart… This is psychological noir, with the cop spinning a net which entraps his victim. He’s actually called Webb! There are fine performances from Heflin and- especially- Keyes. Such a strong impression of her exploitable vulnerability.

There’s a pessimistic noir feel with an engaging, low budget sleaziness. And an unusual, downbeat climax out in the desert where she gives birth to a child, the timing of which means the gas for the retired patrolman. It did poorly at the box office but gradually gained a deserved following on tv among genre fans. 

Intelligent, ultra-suspenseful action drama which looks at the impact of WWII on the psychology of the returning combatants. This was not only a recurring theme in ’40s noir but also in the early films of Fred Zinnemann. Van Heflin comes home to the American dream; a big house, the respect of the community and a successful business. And he's married to Janet Leigh.

But Robert Ryan means to kill him because the big shot was complicit in the grotesque murder of fellow prisoners by guards in a Nazi camp. As Heflin becomes detached from the comforts of his middle class life and sinks into the squalor of the poor, he experiences that, even in peacetime, moral purity is a luxury the destitute can't afford.

Zinnemann orchestrates these complexities into a climax of thrilling suspense. Ryan and Heflin are predictably authentic but 21 year old Janet Leigh matches them and Mary Astor is memorable as the washed out lowlife who chaperones Heflin through the facts of life for the left behind.

We would now say these men are suffering from PTSD and survivors guilt and their women are the untrained, suffering therapists compelled to integrate them back into civilian life. It is foremost a thriller, but credit to Zinnemann and the writers for getting so much else up on the screen. This is one of the standout pictures of the decade. 

Clever film noir about the midlife crisis of a comfortable insurance examiner (Dick Powell) who is stuck with everything he ever wanted. He has a big house, a beautiful wife (Jane Wyatt) and an adorable son, but it is no longer enough. His discontent brings him under the influence of Lizabeth Scott, a classy knockout whose latest sugar daddy is serving time for embezzlement.

The witty script offers a commentary on the wage slave’s disillusion with his usual routine. Ironically, while his affair gives him distraction, he still acts in a predictable pattern, because every man the luxury girl meets wants a taste of her glamour. Which includes the crazy PI (Raymond Burr) who stalks her.

Easy to see why. At first it seems the sultry, husky Liz is posting another Lauren Bacall impersonation. But soon enough I was also considering some reckless embezzlement. She is sensational as a femme fatale who is not actually bad. People just can't help destroying themselves to get her attention.

The story reflects on the taboo of adultery with a candour rare for the period. And tells us to beware what we wish for. The family man escapes from his prison of wealth and comfort for a brief affair with a chic lover, but he ruins them both. It's another film noir which finds sadness and frustration in the materialistic suburbs.

FW Murnau's blockbuster silent version of the Faust legend is regarded central to the German Expressionist movement of the 1920s. And it's an eye-popping spectacular of visual effects, impressive set and costume design, and shadows and weird perspectives. And while it is telling the mythic parable, this is a thrilling, unusual experience.

Gösta Ekman is in the title role as a wise alchemist in a time of plague who exchanges his soul with the devil (Emil Jannings) for unchecked paranormal powers. Briefly he uses his gifts to combat disease... but soon for more personal gratification... mainly, sex with beautiful women! And gluttony. And unfettered decadence. He gets a second go around.

And all this has proved adaptable over many years to a variety of contexts. It's imaginatively directed by Murnau, and looks fabulous. He tells the abundant narrative without filling the screen with title cards. And Jannings is a hoot.  But (here we go) once the premise is established the story wanders off into dreary melodrama.

It recovers for a decent climax, but most of the film is absorbed in a subplot about Faust's love for a virtuous woman. Which is the subject of many- or even most- films, but doesn't engage. Within the frame of the moral tale, the romance has no traction, no reality. The comic relief is idiotic. So the long middle part of the film becomes a highly rated ordeal...

This started out in 1943 as a World War II army training film called The New Lot which was mostly shelved for not waving the flag hard enough. The script was reworked the following year by Peter Ustinov and the prolific Eric Ambler, performed by many of the same actors and transformed by Carol Reed into one of the great platoon films.

It fits into a sub-genre of war films which focus on the transformation of a group of civilians into an effective fighting unit.  It's a popular formula, but, this is the best! This is partly due to the talent on board, but also because the war was still on, and the outcome was uncertain.

The British military films of the '50s never quite recaptured the authenticity, the sense of jeopardy and the habit of sacrifice of those made in the war years. The actors in this platoon were led by David Niven who had been a soldier, rejoined in 1939 and crossed the Channel on D Day.

Credit also to William Hartnell as the tough Sergeant with a heart. It is an understated and droll documentary style drama about the responses of a diverse group of men to their conscription and training, with little fuss and no patriotic rhetoric. Apparently it was still shown on induction around the world up to 40 years later.

Brazilian born Alberto Cavalcanti directed in the UK from the '30s, initially in the GPO documentary film unit. And while this is propaganda, realism is key. It is presented by the church warden (Mervyn Johns) as a real life news story; of the vanguard to a German invasion repelled by a small village community. 

It was adapted from a story by Graham Greene as a vehicle for public information; to encourage watchfulness. It's an exciting and suspenseful tale with the dry humour and mustn't grumble make-do standard in films made during the war years.

This is a bulletin to a nation for whom the prospect of invasion was recently probable, and still possible. And that feeling of jeopardy is palpable. There are three incidents which best convey this aura of threat:

Muriel George reflects on being unable to have children, before brutally killing a Nazi soldier, knowing she will herself die. Patricia Hayes breaks down with fear before summoning the strength to resist. And Marie Lohr pockets a grenade to save a room of children. They are all familiar purveyors of minor support roles. But here they are devastating in the spotlight...

John Huston's faithful adaptation of the WR Burnett novel is the common ancestor of all heist films. It wrote the rules of the genre and invented its three act structure: the development of a plan and assembly of a gang; the portrayal of the actual robbery; and a conclusion where it falls apart due to the tragic flaws in the logistics and the protagonists.

Doc (Sam Jaffe) works up an idea for a jewel raid worth a million dollars and interviews for a safecracker, a heavy (Sterling Hayden as Dix) and a getaway driver. He seeks finance from a crooked lawyer (Louis Calhern) who is financially ruined and intends to steal the haul himself. Great to see a young Marilyn Monroe as his sleepy-eyed, gold digging moll.

The heist mimics a legitimate business. As the lawyer says, 'crime is just a left handed form of human endeavour'. Dix is a dumb stick up man but the only one with any values (though rugged), a sense of duty (though distorted) and any loyalty at all. Jean Hagen plays his moll, the sort of bad luck dame who is always crying her fake eyelashes down a river of mascara.

Dix dreams of being back on the farm in Kentucky. But it's futile. As Doc says, 'we all work for our vice', and it's this that destroys them all. For Dix it is the horses. Doc is undone by his sexual fetish. It's a landmark film, full of imaginative flourishes and convincing jargon. It is a work of realism, but the pessimistic fatalism is ultra-noir.

Landmark early talkie with timeless songs by Rogers and Hart, which has the reputation of one of the great musical comedies. Rouben Mamoulian was a fine director, and plainly has the Lubitsch touch; it's a version of a high society play set in Paris which employs many Lubitsch regulars, including Maurice Chevalier, with a script by Samuel Hoffenstein.

Mamoulian fills the screen with innovation. Isn't it Romantic? starts with Maurice singing in his tailor shop, then spreads across the city all the way to the balcony of the woman he will love. The tradesman chases up a debt to her country estate and gets caught up in the arcane lunacy of the upper class.

There's an abundance of pre-code innuendo and sophisticated romance. Maurice and Jeanette MacDonald even share a bed together! There are weaknesses. Jeanette's operatic vocals haven't dated well and she lacks charisma. It's a satire of the aristocracy, but these toffs are so entitled that they are difficult to care for. The hunting scenes are unpleasant.

The bonus is a stunning, elegant Myrna Loy who steals all her scenes from the female star. But it's Maurice who brings joy, with his infectious comic sparkle and vivid interpretations of the classic songs, including his standard, Mimi. Maybe not everything works, but it's so fertile with imagination that there's still plenty to love.

This debut feature as director by playwright Kenneth Lonergan focuses on the special bond between a brother and sister. Their relationship is forged in the aftermath their parents' death, then challenged by the brother's long absence. Until he drifts home unexpectedly, broke and without direction.

There is a magical synthesis of character and actor.  Mark Ruffalo is the introverted, seemingly rootless loner; Laura Linney, a single mother who had to grow up fast to care for her now 10 year old son (Rory Culkin), raised without his father.

The subplot about a Linney's predatory boss (Matthew Broderick) is a dud. It's the siblings we care about. The script is so powerful because little is said, and so much is insinuated. We gradually experience the tenacity of their connection. There are no scenes where love is tearfully declared.

The last line in the film, which always squeezes the blood out of my heart, is a way of avoiding saying how much they mean to each other. It miraculously avoids sentimentality while being quietly overwhelming. This is one of the greatest films of the century.

MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE

This is the forgotten production in the creative big bang of Universal horror; an adaptation of Edgar Allan Poe's proto-locked room mystery set in mid-19th Century Paris. Not much Poe remains, but we do get the ape! Bela Lugosi is a carnival showman immersed in a maniacal scheme to crossbreed his simian sideshow attraction with a sweet, beautiful young lady.

Sidney Fox (she's a girl) gets top billing, maybe because she was dating the head of the studio. But Lugosi dominates as Dr. Mirakle, the carny with a sideline in cutting edge evolutionary biology. He trains the ape to scale an apartment building and kidnap her for his experiments. Which are pretty sordid, even for precode. 

It's a bit slow and creaky like all early Universal horrors. Critics claim it borrows from German silent, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920), especially the climax as the primate drags his victim over jagged rooftops. This isn't of similar stature, but it's a fair comparison. And the painted, expressionist city is memorable. 

There is plenty of atmosphere, but zero logic. Which is fine in the woozy trance of early horror. It's Lugosi's gift to seem to belong in this opiated fantasy. His performance is ridiculous, but absolutely appropriate! Robert Florey doesn't create much suspense, or any scares, but it's still transgressive stuff, and he gets it all done in an hour.

THE BLACK CAT

Occult face off between a satanist (Boris Karloff), and a vengeful psychiatrist (Bela Lugosi) who has just been released from 15 years in a Siberian prison during WWI, due to Karloff's betrayal. He later married Lugosi's wife... and then his daughter. It is the first pairing of the supreme horror stars of the '30s.

It's a fabulously deranged story. As well as the satanism, there's an implication of necrophilia. Karloff, inhabits a modernist mansion built on the site of the historic castle where he oversaw genocide. The contemporary style is unusual for '30s horror. But in the old cellars he keeps the bodies of women he has loved, preserved in their youth. Including Bela's family.

The sluggish pace is its main weakness. Plus the vacuous newlyweds (David Manners, Jacqueline Wells) who stumble on this house of insanity. She reminds the rivals of the woman who married them both, so they play chess for her. Karloff intends to sacrifice his prize in a black mass and add her to his gallery of beautiful corpses!

The stars overact splendidly. Lugosi is limited yet there is a startling moment when he delivers some dialogue in Hungarian, and suddenly sounds natural. Karloff with his lisp and deco-effect makeup is more memorable. But hey! Horror is the winner.

THE RAVEN

If anyone knows anything about this minor Universal horror, it's that it triggered a prohibition on scare films in the UK which lasted for a decade, and a shorter pause in the US. Naturally, there's nothing shocking here. Now it looks like an irreverent, if transgressive romp. There's even a tribute to Edgar Allan Poe through the medium of interpretive dance!

It's a loose mishmash of plots which mostly involve Bela Lugosi as an infatuated doctor planning to murder the family of a beautiful woman (Irene Ware) he desires. While he deliberately botches cosmetic surgery on Boris Karloff to ensure he assists in these nefarious schemes...

The mad medic has a secret torture chamber with the freaky guillotine from The Pit and the Pendulum. But otherwise, there is little Poe here. It has that awkwardness many badly directed early talkies have. Like everyone is struggling to make conversation. But now it's 1935 so there are no excuses.

Still it's always fun to see the two stars engaged in diabolical conflict. Karloff sends up his role as Frankenstein's monster. And at barely a hour, there are few longueurs. Lugosi comes up with a new atrocity every ten minutes. But the main takeaway is that the censors/critics must have been crazier than Lugosi to ban this.