Film Reviews by Steve

This is a real oddball. It’s the last of Fritz Lang’s trilogy of depression era crime melodramas starring Sylvia Sidney. And another story of a young couple struggling to stay honest during the austerity of the ‘30s. But there is comedy too, plus a few musical numbers from Kurt Weill. This is arthouse.

George Raft is a reformed gangster who works on sales in a department store run by the sort of liberal (Harry Carey) who believes in second chances. The ex-con doesn’t know that Sylvia is on probation and breaking the terms of her release when they get married. They just can’t get a break…

This isn’t one of Lang’s best films, though it is interesting to see him attempt a more theatrical approach, with characters at times speaking in rhymes! There’s an expressionist look, and an impression that the director is reaching deep back into his Berlin heritage. And it was a flop.

But this is mainly worth seeing for Sylvia Sidney, the sad eyed girl of ‘30s melodrama as she goes all the way to hold on to her slim chance of happiness. Once again, she's much more intelligent than her man. And was never more beautiful. It’s a schematic political allegory which she miraculously takes straight to the heart. 

GANGWAY

Cheerful Jessie Matthews musical which doesn’t offer anything new, but... well, that’s some of the attraction! It’s not even her first character to pose as a maid. She plays a theatre critic who wants to do real news stories. Working undercover to expose some showbiz gossip, she gets snagged up with the Chicago mafia…

This was made with Gaumont-British in liquidation, but there’s quite a lavish production, even if the musical numbers feel a bit perfunctory. Jessie gets to dance in a variety of styles. The songs are of variable quality, though Lord and Lady Whoosiz is a big personal favourite. Okay, it rips off Makin’ Whoopee, but I prefer the cheap copy.

Barry Mackay is a bit of a stiff as the posh police inspector who romances Jessie onboard the Atlantic crossing. There’s a decent support cast playing the usual roles, with Nat Pendleton as a dumb gangster. Alastair Sim is best as an incompetent private eye on the trail of stolen pearls.

This is a decent vehicle for Jessie's many talents... until they dock in New York, where inspiration runs out. There’s a really witty script with some genuinely funny gags. The standard screwball scenarios work yet again. It’s a peak period Jessie Matthews comedy, and there are far too few of those. Such a happy film.

CLIMBING HIGH

The first collaboration between Carol Reed and Michael Redgrave (Kipps, The Stars Look Down) is a side issue. This is primarily a vehicle for Jessie Matthews in the last of her star roles for Gaumont-British, just as the studio finally collapsed. The budget is meagre and the musical numbers were cut. But it’s still a decent screwball comedy.

Jessie plays a lingerie model who keeps on meeting cute with a wealthy, accident prone socialite (Redgrave) who the gossip columns insist is engaged to a hardup aristocrat (Margaret Vyner). And that’s it, save a truly dreadful climax in the Alps with Francis L. Sullivan as a psychopathic opera enthusiast.

It doesn’t attempt to reinvent the genre. The two stars quarrel, then reluctantly fall in love. People pretend to be what they are not. There is a mix of slapstick and innuendo. Redgrave is likeable and Jessie makes a delightful fast talking dame. Often in her scanties, given her occupation. And maybe the budget…

There is quite a lot about class, with both the workers and the aristos doing badly in the depression. Alastair Sim is a workshy Communist, Mary Clare an unscrupulous blueblood. It evokes the contemporary New Deal comedies of Frank Capra. Of course, this isn’t as good, but at least Jessie’s stardom fades out still somewhere near her peak.

THE GOOD COMPANIONS.

Charming, optimistic musical-comedy from the popular novel by JB Priestley, which made a star of the adorably peppy Jessie Matthews. Several enterprising regional caricatures are blown together by circumstance, and assemble in a concert party, putting on shows in the seaside towns of England.

There was some allegorical intent from Priestley which the scriptwriters retain. We are introduced to three of the characters in their prior lives in the provinces, trapped by convention in a land where everyone knows their place. They find freedom on the road with the theatre company, which is a co-operative, unencumbered by class.

But the politics is lightly sketched. The companions are an oasis of make believe, a sanctuary from the realities of the depression. There is an ensemble cast: John Gielgud is disappointingly inert as a frustrated schoolteacher who turns to songwriting; Edmond Gwenn is likeable but quite broad as a middle aged factory worker seeking a second act.

Jessie gradually commands the spotlight, more for her comic appeal than the modest song and dance numbers. This is an idealistic, uplifting film in which fortune favours the eccentric misfits and good-hearted strivers roaming the hotels, theatres and inns of England; the eternal haunts of the footloose traveller.

SAILING ALONG.

This is an assembly of familiar setups borrowed from Hollywood musicals. But it’s still delightful, and with many positives. Mainly, there’s Jessie Matthews in an all singing/all dancing performance as a tomboy brought up on a river barge on the Thames, who dreams of becoming a star of the west end theatre.

The negative is Barry MacKay as the love interest, who has zero charisma. But there is a better support cast than usual for a Gaumont musical, with Roland Young as the eccentric millionaire who aims to promote Jessie into the big time, and Athene Seyler as his capricious, spinster sister. Plus Alastair Sim as a boho disciple of modern art.

The bonus is Broadway musical stalwart Jack Whiting who- for once- gives Matthews an equal partner for the many dance numbers, particularly the long, ambitious finale, My River. The songs are so-so but there is a grand production with swanky studio sets and fabulous gowns for Jessie.

The dialogue doesn’t really sparkle. And the plot is idiotic, though that’s standard for a musical. Jessie was nearing the end of her reign as the superstar of '30s British musicals, which seemed to fade away with her. Her incredible vivacity transcends the lightweight escapism of her pictures.

Returning to the start of Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce’s 14 picture stretch as Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, it’s a pleasure to notice just how opulent is this version of the famous gothic detective story. The costumes, period Victorian setting and the atmosphere of mysterious, perilous Dartmoor are all just right. Plus all the fog.

Also, it’s a joy to encounter Bruce playing Watson as fairly competent; still the comedy relief, but not a complete idiot. Thirdly, it’s unusual how much of Arthur Conan Doyle’s novel makes it onto the screen. This is a reasonably faithful account of the great detective’s most famous case. And we even get the infamous last line: ‘Watson! The needle!’

It should be restated how ideal is the casting of Rathbone as Holmes. Of course, the weakness of the story is that he disappears in the early chapters, but that’s hardly a factor in this 75 minute retelling. The support cast is variable with Richard Greene a bluff, plucky hero and Lionel Atwill splendidly inscrutable as the local medic. But Morton Lowry makes an inoffensive villain.

This sort of gothic mystery was ideal for the (so-called) horror ban of the late ‘30s when foreign markets rejected Hollywood fright films. The hound is a sort-of mythic monster anyway, and well realised here. It was a box office hit and inspired a sequel and the long low budget Universal series. And it’s the best version of the classic tale on the big screen.

THE MAN FROM TORONTO

Naturally... the best thing about this British social comedy is Jessie Matthews. The presentation is static, even for the early '30s, and the journeyman director (Sinclair Hill) doesn’t show much aptitude for opening up the source stage play for the screen. The cast is just lined up in front of the camera. Though the actors give it their best shot.

And not only the star… Sure, Jessie captivates as the headstrong, materialistic it-girl promised a tidy inheritance if she weds the title character. But Ian Hunter is serviceable as her romantic foil. Margaret Yarde is fine as the stately frump he thinks he has to marry. And Frederick Kerr excels as the irascible solicitor trying to push through the will.

Still, it’s Jessie who keeps it buoyant when the standard screwball situations stall. She impersonates a maid to get to know her potential husband, and learns a little about how the other classes live. There are no musical numbers; this is straight comedy. Instead… there is some surprising, censor-rattling glamour!

The satire about the enthusiasm of the rich for the poor to preserve the ancient rural traditions that oppressed them for centuries, still engages. Of course, it’s dated, but the privileges of class are scrutinised more than usual for the period. Even so, it’s difficult to imagine anyone will come to this now for any reason other than the cult of its star.

HEAD OVER HEELS.

Frothy musical romcom which stars Jessie Matthews still at her absolute zenith, though there are signs that Gaumont Studios are in decline. Compared with her previous few films, there is a lesser director, as husband Sonnie Hale takes charge for the first of three screen collaborations..

This looks low budget, but Hale actually directs pretty well. And there are excellent songs by a duo of Oscar winning Hollywood composers. The script is witty, with funny Music Hall style gags. The support cast is capable, featuring real-life American aristo Whitney Bourne, who brings some icy blonde glamour.

Of course, this is primarily a vehicle for Jessie, and she sparkles, particularly at the screwball comedy. Her dated singing style is still fine, and she's a quality dancer, even if the the choreography is scaled down. The plot is basic. A Parisian nightclub performer must choose between two men...

Louis Borel and Robert Flemyng contrast nicely as the lovers and there are some cute insights into the nature of romantic love for women in the '30s. Matthews plays quite a headstrong woman... But this isn't Ibsen! While it might not compare with contemporary Hollywood on resources, Jessie's star quality still makes it special.

Fritz Lang’s Hollywood debut begins a trilogy of crime melodramas about the insecure working poor in the depression. They all star Sylvia Sidney as an intelligent woman in love with a blue-collar striver haunted by misfortune. Here the fiancé is Spencer Tracy, the owner of a gas station who is chased down by a lynch mob for a crime he didn’t commit.

When he makes a fortuitous escape, he lays low while the guilty are tried for murder. The schematic plot takes up most of the short running time, so regrettably the performances are secondary. But the stars are compelling, and Sidney is, as usual, a heartbreaker. She only wants a home and a husband with a job. But fate is unforgiving.

So this is social protest aimed at the still common practice of lynching in the US. Hell, this is only a generation away from the wild west. Lang gives it a pre-noir look with the shadows and funky camera angles, and there are some amazing extreme closeups. Despite the realism, there is his usual impression of visual poetry…

And the agony of the ordinary person caught in the grip of malign destiny. Lang fled Nazi Germany in ’33 and it’s really tempting to suppose that this reflection on mob hysteria is carried over from his Berlin period. The ending is weak, due to interference from MGM and the meaning gets lost, yet this is still an impressive start to the director’s second act.

The first of a pair of Warner Brothers precode horrors directed by Michael Curtiz in 2-strip Technicolor, and starring Lionel Atwill and Fay Wray… It also shares with The Mystery of the Wax Museum (1933) various themes and situations, including the investigation by a tabloid reporter into the disappearance of bodies from a morgue.

There is a curious combination of grotesque, transgressive shocks and witless comic relief. Lee Tracy plays the lecherous, faint-hearted newshound like a prototype Bob Hope as he pursues both the Full Moon Killer, and Fay Wray. Who is lovely, by the way, and fully justifies her reputation as the first scream-queen

With the police certain that the murderer is one of his team of crackpot medical boffins, Atwill puts them through his ludicrous electronic psychotherapy machine, and comes to an unforeseeable and utterly screwy conclusion. Which all leads to a surprisingly gruesome climax, which is not easily forgotten.

The lowbrow humour is fine, with Leila Bennett far from the worst comedy-maid in horror. And it’s always fun to watch Lionel Atwill. It isn’t always suspenseful, but there’s lots of shadowy atmosphere, eerie art deco set design and the novelty of early Technicolor. And there's that wild eccentricity often encountered in precode cinema. 

Typical ’30s Warner Brothers musical, with Busby Berkley’s extravagant choreography, music from Dubin and Warren and a familiar setup as Dick Powell snubs his puritanical rich relations to put on a Broadway revue starring his showgirl squeeze (Ruby Keeler). Though it feels like the formula has peaked and the studio sliced the budget.

So there's a lesser director. Powell, Keeler and Joan Blondell are the stars rather than support. The plot is recycled from Gold Diggers of 1933 but without the snappy wisecracks. And the arrival of censorship has compromised the visual innuendo which was a staple of the best Berkeley numbers. Though fittingly, this is actually about such regulation.

The musical spectaculars are inconsistent. Girl at the Ironing Board is mundane. Still, it's Busby's contributions that are the best part of the picture… I Only Have Eyes for You plays as a jaw dropping (and unsettling) tribute to Ruby Keeler, with the screen filled with dancers in huge Keeler masks! The star appears out of an eye in one of the giant faces!

It's such a classic song, maybe the excessive repetition of the chorus can be indulged. The title number is also a winner. There are likeable performances. And some of the editing effects are extraordinary. But this represents the end of peak period Warner Brothers musicals. Another victim of the Production Code. There's not even enough dames! 

Complex historical epic about a painter of Orthodox Christian icons in medieval Russia, which is difficult and cerebral, but also an incredibly visceral spectacle. The life of the saint is examined in a series of fictional episodes which range from long philosophical discussions about faith, to a memorably violent battle scene.

Anatoliy Solonitsyn is understated in the title role. Everything is secondary to Andrei Tarkovsky’s erudite, profound evocation of brutal, austere 15th century Moscow. The events mostly take place in a rural Cathedral which the artist restores, only to be sacked by a Tatar invasion.

It slowly evolves into a dramatic final episode about the creation of a huge bronze bell, which illustrates the 'miracle of faith', rather than as a point of interest in a labyrinthine discussion. And as they actually make the bell using historical methods, it demonstrates the superior level of craft at the director’s command.

This can feel more astonishing than entertaining. The excess of symbolism may be a challenge which requires further research… Certainly it tests interest in issues of faith in medieval Russia. Though, unlike the director’s later head-movies, it’s not obscure. It’s a staple of best-ever film lists. But be prepared to do some work! 

Slow burning anthropology about a Japanese peasant family scratching a sustenance from their land on a remote island, who are exposed to barely conceivable everyday hardships. Including transporting all their water (in buckets) from another settlement. It is based on director Kaneto Shindô’s rural upbringing…

But this isn’t social realism. The toil of moving water around and transferring small quantities of earth is a metaphorical reflection on the lives of all people/creatures. But gradually, the characters take on a heroic quality, through their tenacity and acceptance and the love of their children.

This is hardcore arthouse cinema, which conveys its rewards by degrees. There is no dialogue at all, just a couple of worksongs. Taiji Tonoyama is convincingly stolid as the crude, primitive farmer. But Shindô regular Nobuko Otowo is heartbreaking as his stoical wife. 

This is an agonising, yet beautiful existentialist testimony to human endurance. There is solace in the orchestral soundtrack and the lovely, pale widescreen b&w photography. The patience and empathy of the viewer takes this somewhere close to tragedy; a once in a lifetime masterpiece.

Cerebral drama from a script by Harold Pinter with his distinctive mood of implicit menace, allusive meaning and expressive pauses. It is a slow moving story with a strong evocation of a rural summer, and the aloof academia that gathers around a pair of ascendant Oxford scholars.

Dirk Bogarde is predictably excellent as a fading, rather seedy middle aged philanderer, and professor of philosophy. Stanley Baker is a revelation as his more successful antagonist. Most of the interest is psychological and all the cast accomplish these nuances with finesse.

This is an ostentatiously pessimistic portrayal of academic life. The encounter between Bogarde and Delphine Seyrig as a brittle victim of his malign infidelity is pitiful. Her silence betrays an extraordinarily intense impression of mental fragility.

Joseph Losey draws on the European arthouse cinema of Eric Rohmer and Michelangelo Antonioni… He has a gift for staging the interior life of his characters, which might easily be portentous and pretentious. But instead is compelling, and disturbing. 

Bittersweet musical romance which is so memorable because it is all sung, like an opera, and for the ultra-vivid set design of stripes and floral patterns in primary colours, like a sweetshop in a fairytale. Catherine Deneuve is the ultimate gamine in a role which made her a star outside of France.

She plays a 16 year old who falls for a young mechanic (Nino Castelnuovo). When he is sent to the war in Algeria, they drift apart and reluctantly make new lives which will never replace the rapture of first love. While the story is captivating and the performances are charming, it’s the staging which makes this so different.

It’s like a lovely enchantment. The speak-sung dialogue occasionally coalesces into a romantic ballad; I Will Wait for You was nominated for an Oscar and is now a standard. Michel Legrand scores the film with cool jazz and sweet, yearning, ameliorating strings…

…While the happiness of the teenage lovers slips out of reach, forever. As the dream is lost, we feel the weight of our own memories. There really is nothing else like this- well apart from Jacques Demy’s own imitation, The Young Girls of Rochefort (1967), also with Deneuve. But this is far better!

As Pier Paolo Pasolini was a Marxist, who better to tell the life story of history’s most prominent anti-capitalist? The writer/director was also an atheist so he emphasises the political role of Jesus of Nazareth. There is an impression of how subversive is Matthew's gospel and its philosophy.

But we still see the miracles. This isn’t an attempt to explain the New Testament in purely naturalistic terms. The Vatican has this listed among the best ever religious films. It’s presented as neorealism, and the dialogue is all taken from the text, as are the events. There is a non professional cast, led by a university professor (Enrique Irazoqui) as Jesus.

It’s a challenge to watch in several ways. Irazoqui rigidly declaims the famous lines without nuance or feeling. The constant use of metaphor and allegory grows laborious…The b&w photography is deliberately stark like newsreel footage, which gets wearisome. There is no craft. The budget is ostentatiously minuscule.

Though, of course, that’s the point. This is an attempt to present the life of Jesus plausibly, simply and without awe. And imply how like Marxism the revolutionary lessons of the gospels are. And on those terms this is exceptional. And yes, the greatest version of this story ever told on the big screen.  

Spooky voodoo shocker inspired by popular US news articles of the 1930s which claimed to expose sinister witchcraft on the Caribbean islands. Dorothy Burgess plays a Spanish woman brought up among these superstitions. She marries a New York businessman (Jack Holt), but continually feels the pull of her origins.

Only she now has a family. Fay Wray comes back to the old plantation with them, mainly because she is a horror star. She doesn’t even get to scream. Roy William Neill directs with his usual feel for atmosphere, with the colour tints, the shadows and the sound of the drums…

Some of this will now set off alarms for its portrayal of race. On the other hand, the white colonials are defined as brutal oppressors and the voodoo a justifiable means of resistance. Though not the murders. Its release was squeezed in just before the enforcement of the Production Code in 1934…

And there is a fair amount of precode exotica. So we see Burgess’ hot voodoo dance in a sexy tribal two-piece. She haunts the whole film from her supporting role. This is for those of us who prefer their ’30s horror without monsters, but with a little psychological deviance.  

YOU'RE TELLING ME!

This is the picture which allowed WC Fields creative control of his sound comedies for the first time, and established the formula which would make him a cinema legend. He is the browbeaten husband of an exasperated wife (Louis Carter), who medicates his disappointment with whisky and daydreams.

His other solace is a grown up daughter (Joan Marsh) who loves him, otherwise the set up would be too sad for comedy. Here he is a part-time deviser of crackpot gadgets whose child is overlooked for marriage by the rich family of a preppy hunk (Buster Crabbe) because Fields lacks social position.

Only a sad Russian princess (Adrienne Ames) encounters the hapless inventor on a train and kindly visits his home town to boost his status in the community. But the plot is the least successful part of the film. The appeal comes from the diminished status of the great comedian within his home.

And this is really, very funny with one or two moments of precious hilarity. But there is genuine pathos too. A few of the star’s routines from the silents are recycled, which was standard. The screen legacy of WC Fields effectively starts here with his first truly essential sound film.

MAN ON THE FLYING TRAPEZE.

WC Fields retains Kathleen Howard from It's a Gift as his shrewish wife, but this time has a more loving daughter (Mary Brian) to sweeten the dish. It's a Gift is hilarious, but awfully cold. Again there's a collection of sketches arranged around a loose narrative. Ambrose Wolfinger just wants to go to the wrestling...  

The best episode is the opener when the great man is forced into the cellar by his wife to confront two burglars who are getting mellowly drunk on his applejack. Fields, the intruders and a cop end up harmonising sentimental Irish ballads. For all of them, this is brief moment of respite, seized from the hell of domesticity.

 It's such a funny film because Fields' comic persona is so identifiable. His interminable suffering is revealed so succinctly, with a sudden nervous reflex or a mumbled aside. He has grown to accept his malign fate. And there's nothing he can do about it.  

Fields is always doing what he is asked, however absurd. Then is admonished when the outcome proves to be unsatisfactory. He acts without complaint or hope, and then gets nailed for it. And who doesn't know how that feels?! This is my pick as his best film.