Film Reviews by Steve

This is one of those pictures where Hollywood satirises itself. A humourless, straight-arrow East Coast accountancy wonk (Leslie Howard) runs a small, loss making production company through his number crunching logistics. But all his investigations into standard practice meet the noncommittal response of 'well that's the movie business'.

The naive mathematician falls in love with the movies during the shooting of a jungle picture, with its alcoholic producer (Humphrey Bogart), the temperamental Russian director (Alan Mowbrey) and a cute stand-in (Joan Blondell). He discovers that the bosses are deliberately losing money as the studio is worth more to them bankrupt. Sounds familiar?

But this will put thousands out of work… And so we realise this is a low budget riff on a Frank Capra new deal comedy. Howard faces the angry mob and insists capital and labour can work together. The Hollywood insider stuff is fun, and the politics works fairly well too.

The problem is that Tay Garnett is a journeyman director, and no Capra. And the script needs a rewrite. Howard is likeable as the artless genius who finds his soul through working for the people. But the support is second rate. Even (a pre-stardom) Bogart makes little impression. It’s an interesting film, but still a screwball comedy without many laughs. 

Arthur Wontner appeared in a series of five low budget British produced Sherlock Holmes pictures from 1931-1935. They weren't the first sound films to feature the great detective, but his performances are the most celebrated portrayals of the great detective in the early talkies, and this is the best of these.

It's quite startling to realise that Arthur Conan Doyle was still writing the stories only five years before this was released. But the scriptwriter isn't too concerned with being faithful to the novel, as many liberties are taken. Most notably, the long flashback is moved to the beginning. So it's 22 minutes before Holmes makes an appearance.

Sadly, existing prints are terrible. Some of the support cast overact- particularly Isla Bevan as the woman in peril- and production values are creaky. But it's still an entertainment. Wontner remains a fine Holmes and has a good rapport with Ian Hunter as the faithful Watson. Who, thankfully, isn't a bumbling fool. And there is a little visual style.

The changes to the source don't work. Much of the legendary dialogue is parked to make way for some undeniably witless deductions! But as ever, Doyle's great adventures and the Holmes-Watson dynamic are indestructible. Once more, the flotsam of the empire washes up in London to challenge the illustrious consulting detective, and the magic works again.

This sporting biopic is on the Vatican list of inspirational feature films, presumably because of the theme of personal sacrifice. Eric Liddell (Ian Charleson) is a Scottish sprinter who prepares for the 1924 Olympic Games in Paris, and also a future as a Christian missionary in China. He runs on the inspiration of his faith and in a crucial plot twist, refuses to compete in his qualifying heat- on a Sunday.

In contrast, Harold Abrahams is a British Jew who runs as a personal protest against antisemitism... They both won gold medals on the track, but there is also some interesting divergence in how and why they get there. Harold's approach is to employ a professional coach (Ian Holm) in a time of amateurism. And there is also plenty about the inflexible bigotry of the UK establishment after WWI.

The main problem is, while Colin Welland's Oscar winning screenplay tells the story well enough- though with some liberties- there is little depth and no wit so this feels quite superficial, yet worthy. The director Hugh Hudson came from advertising and is much better at delivering a memorable image and punchy editorials than any muscular drama. Though clearly the Pope disagrees.

The actors make credible athletes and the track montages are elevated by Vangelis' rousing synthesiser score. There is a sumptuous period feel; the Oscar for Best Picture seems less deserved than the win for its costumes. Then at the climax, the choirboys sing Jerusalem at Abrahams' funeral, and there is emotional overkill. This isn't subtle, but still, an ever-present in lists of favourite sporting dramas.

Silent melodrama that starts off as the sort of dirty joke that Alfred Hitchcock (on his debut as director!) might tell, about a pair of music hall dancers and the wolves and jackals that queue at the stage door.... But ends with murder in the tropics...

The twist is that the chorus line dame from the city (Virginia Valli) is the virginal good-girl, and the ingenue from the country (Carmelita Geraghty) is the gold digger. Both are American actors, though it is more interesting to see Miles Mander and John Stuart near the start of long careers in UK cinema.

It’s really only one for the completionists; there is little visual style and the editing is clumsy. But Hitchcock is rarely boring and he never just coasts; he always gives interesting cues and in the context of British silent cinema this is actually better than average.

Indeed, the production supervised by Michael Balcon and the location shoot on Lake Como suggest this was a prestigious project. But this is mostly watched now because of Hitch, and stands out as his only other UK/German picture, The Mountain Eagle (1926) is sadly lost.

The degree 1950s television encroached on the low budget crime feature is flagged up by the response of a ritzy night club singer (Ida Lupino) to being grilled by the flashy cop (Steve Cochran) she intends to turn into a reliable income: 'I've seen all this on Dragnet'. Still, at least this is in widescreen.

It's a slender morality tale of two detectives who run down a heist that ends in murder, but decide to keep the swag for themselves. Howard Duff falls apart, but Cochran is fundamentally dishonest and is fatally tempted by the windfall he needs to bankroll the avaricious chanteuse.

The film scrutinises the condition of being a police officer doing a dangerous job for little reward. And it’s possible to sympathise… Until Cochran shoots his partner in the back anyway. He is memorably sleazy. Duff contrasts as a family man struggling to provide for his long suffering wife (Dorothy Malone).

Lupino is a touch mature for the femme fatale. Siegel handles his location shoots with skill, using silence to good effect. Like on the tv, the story is rounded up by an homily from a narrator. Maybe the box in the corner would eventually lead to the demise of film noir, but rarely did it as well as this.

Dreamlike romance which updates the classic themes of gothic melodrama to contemporary California. So the old dark house is now a Frank Lloyd Wright built into the rocky coastline. The mysterious portrait of the deceased bride-to-be becomes abstract modernism. And the second woman isn't a frightened naïf, but an actuary in a firm of accountants.

Betsy Drake's wan, willowy ethereality may not have been in vogue in '50s Hollywood, but she is perfect casting. She falls in love with the rich, sensitive architect (Robert Young) who is either a dangerous paranoiac... or being driven out of his mind. The biggest change to the rules of gaslight melodrama is it's she who has agency, rather than being the victim.

And the architect is the man in peril. He is superstitious, and she is rational. There is a lot of psychological hokum typical of studio productions after WWII, but it's all to service the unsettling narrative. The dreamy orchestral score, the desolate locations and b&w expressionism create an atmosphere of uncertainty. These are routine genre motifs, but still effective.

The story loses momentum on the hour, perhaps due to the many flashbacks, but recovers for an interesting climax. James Vern was a minor director who mainly did tv, but he creates a handsome production from his moderate budget. Though presumably there was no money left for a thunderstorm! It all feels very ominous and is surprisingly memorable. 

Routine crime thriller boosted by a proper star in the lead role and the services of a quality director in Basil Dearden. Stewart Granger plays a shipping executive with a shady past who is blackmailed by his dentist. When his office safe is turned over (incriminating the slippery tooth extractor) the cops suspect an inside job...

Bernard Lee is the chain smoking detective on his last case before retirement and there's a decent cast of familiar character actors to share the suspicion. Haya Harareet- last in Ben-Hur- plays Granger's beautiful, estranged wife, who is sure to be more than she seems. And adds a touch of chic.

The corkscrew plot isn't probable, or even possible, but that doesn't always matter in this sort of film. The hokum keeps moving forward with momentum. There's a sudden, unexpected twist every few minutes and a big reveal at the climax, which is fun even if not much of a shock.

Dearden handles the suspense well. The location shoot around London and the mod interiors bring in some cosmopolitan sophistication. The jazz soundtrack even evokes the French new wave. This isn't a prestige production, but is clearly a cut above most of the low budget crime films abundant at the time.

Energetic and very funny mystery-comedy set in Greenwich Village. An urbane married couple (Loretta Young and Brian Aherne) move into a new apartment and stumble on a corpse, a houseful of shady characters, and a harassed, laconic police inspector (Sidney Toler) and his goons.

So of course the duo investigate the dangerous suspects while getting in the way of the cops. As Aherne is playing a mystery writer who moved into the district to research a novel, this could all be the product of his crazy imagination…

These are only second level lead actors, plus a journeyman director, but this punches way above its weight. Young and Aherne are a fun, lively combo. She is vivacious, and he has plenty of charm. They handle the frantic one-liners like screwball stars.

And director Richard Wallace does fine work too. It's an atmospheric picture with a spooky pre-noir look. The story is pacy and coherent. Often in mystery-comedies the puzzle comes a poor second, but this is genuinely suspenseful. By the ’40s these kooky Manhattan thrillers were out of fashion, but this is one of the very best. 

High concept noir which must have felt close to home for those who lost their men in WWII. A broke, pregnant woman is cruelly given a ticket out of town by the feckless dad. After the train crashes she is assumed to be the expectant wife travelling with her husband to meet her rich in-laws for the first time… Because they are both dead and unrecognisable.

 So it’s a classic mistaken identity scenario adapted from a Cornell Woolrich story. Mother (Barbara Stanwyck) and baby are taken into a secure, loving home while the brother (John Lund) of the dead man falls in love with her. And the anxiety of being exposed gradually unravels the imposter’s nerves. Especially when the real father turns up for a spot of blackmail!

Stanwyck is at least 20 years too old but still effective and arouses maximum sympathy for an archetype familiar from depression melodramas. Lund is a little humdrum as her suitor, but his steadfast dependability is clearly the answer to her prayers. It's a dreamy domestic noir with a gloomy expressionist look.

And director Mitchell Leisen is good at the suspense. It's necessary to buy into the crazy concept… but this is a classy production with a fine cast, which conveys an emotional truth. And maybe even offered empathy for the widows of war, left behind without economic support at a time when it was improbable for a woman to survive alone.

Popular Warner Brothers comedy-soap which differs from many peak period Bette Davis vehicles, and in interesting ways. While romance is a theme, this isn't really a love story. It's about the on-off friendship between two women. And Bette's character is the strong-minded protagonist. The men are satellites of her authority and are uncertain and dependent.

It all takes place over 20 years of constant feuding between a couple of childhood pals. Bette is an author of critically respected but poorly selling literary works. Miriam Hopkins writes popular romantic trash. The battle between the stars is legendary; the scene when Davis violently shakes Hopkins by the shoulders is one of the great moments in ’40s melodrama.

Miriam plays a diva who pulls everyone into the vortex of her egotism. Davis is a plateau of calm who attracts her frenemy's husband and daughter with her wise pragmatism, which provokes further conflict. The performances are exaggerated, but enjoyable. Gig Young is surprisingly charming as Bette's much younger trophy-boyfriend.

This is the best of the multitude of 'women's pictures' Vincent Sherman made at Warner Brothers. There are many genuinely funny moments, but also some heartbreak.... Bette is obviously the star, but the screen only really catches fire when Miriam is on too. 

This is the kind of UK heritage cinema which usually does well around the world, which is curious as the upper-class society in this faithful adaptation of EM Forster's satirical novel now seems alien even to his future compatriots. It's at least debatable why all this should still resonate, given this milieu was swept away by social change and two world wars. 

Maybe there is a vicarious lifestyle nostalgia for the early Edwardian period. Yes the frocks and National Trust locations. And for those who like the Merchant-Ivory experience, this is as good as it gets, with the ultimate ensemble cast, the artistic photography, the gorgeous vistas of Florence and the Tuscany countryside and the sort of lived-in home counties estate where tea is taken on the terrace.

Helena Bonham Carter is the inexperienced debutante from a wealthy family who travels to Italy with her spinster chaperone (Maggie Smith)... and her view of the world alters as she rejects the privileged hypocrisy of an aristocrat (Daniel Day-Lewis) and chooses the earthy freedom of the middle class nonconformist (Julian Sands). This is a comedy that spoofs its elite caricatures.

But now... we know WWI coming. This generation is haunted by history and incoming sacrifices. And later... the choice between fascism and freedom, oppression and emancipation. They are not really bad or even decadent; but trivial and inhibited by propriety and faith and the enigmas of taste. Until their lives are ultimately squandered. And that is why this still resonates.

Offbeat and wonderfully pretentious police noir shot on location in Chicago in which the big, sad, suffering city is the narrator and personified as an impassive police sergeant (Chill Wills) who just might save a rogue prowl car cop (Gig Young) from a crooked lawyer (Edward Arnold) and a psycho-killer (William Talman).

Aside from the talking metropolis, the most memorable moments belong to Wally Cassell as a lonely deadbeat who performs an act as a mechanical man in the window of a burlesque theatre, doing his robotic dance moves decades before Jeffrey Daniel. But dreaming of a better life, like the many millions of sleeping citizens.

The standard crime narrative isn't all that interesting. This is all about the pessimistic noir atmosphere of the city at night and the humdrum lives of its people; the ambient futility. John Auer was a minor B-picture director but he creates a strong sense of fatalism. There is the artistic feel of the socialist noirs of the '40s.

It suggests the American way devours the dreams of its people. This is low budget poetic realism with an interesting if un-starry cast. Marie Windsor is always a standout as the duplicitous bad girl. It's melodramatic, yet opiated; another noir about the many lives that come together in the naked city. But its heightened mood sets it apart.

Obscure, no-budget hostage drama which carries the MGM logo but looks like the sort of crime film soon to be a regular on television. There's one principal set and a minor cast. It begins with studio propaganda about the low quality of entertainment on the small screen, so it is ironic that everyone in this would become more famous on the box...

William Conrad (Cannon) plays the glum bartender who has just installed the tv set in his struggling hostelry. Marshall Thompson (Daktari) is the escaped psychopathic killer who murders him in cold blood and holds his regulars at gunpoint. The story is told in real time as the cops seek to relieve the siege, while they discuss the merits of the death penalty.

There isn't a progressive message. This is pro-capital punishment, though its arguments are not sophisticated. Its a decent thriller which doesn't fluff the naturally suspenseful scenario. There's engaging sad/funny dialogue, sympathetic archetypes, and director Gerald Mayer (nephew of studio boss Louis B. Mayer) tells the slim story with some skill.

It's a shame Conrad is gunned down so early. But Virginia Field is appealing as the sassy B-girl and the actors work well as an ensemble. Crucially, though the the psycho-killer is daunting, he isn't so creepy the film is actually hard to look at. And about that title... apparently there wasn't a unified emergency number in the US in 1950, so they made one up. 

If this cold war comedy thriller feels like a reboot of those pre-war adventures about political intrigue in the Balkans, then that's what it is. Eric Ambler updates his 1936 debut novel to make the Communists the unnamed enemy. Margaret Lockwood is the unmarried, middle aged entomologist enlisted to investigate the use of bugs in chemical warfare.

So Lockwood is back in the Balkans, 12 years after The Lady Vanishes. She had planned on Torquay. Everything about this espionage caper is familiar, but still fun. When the bookish spinster gets pumped full of truth drug, she starts to imagine she is a spy superhero and breaks into the Reds' research centre to steal some enemy insects...

So it gets a bit silly. And the idiotic propaganda in the later scenes is disappointing. Dane Clark as the token American doesn't have much to offer and there is zero romantic chemistry. But Lockwood reliably carries the slender plot. This was developed as a vehicle for her- she has a new look- but her big screen career was winding down.

It's the sort of story that years earlier would have featured Charters and Caldicott, so it's a nice touch when Naunton Wayne turns up in a small part. Sure, it's all been done better before, especially by Eric Ambler, but it's a resilient genre and the formula works again, and the theme of germ warfare had some topicality. 

This comes toward the end of Hammer's cycle of '60s psychological thrillers and while the formula must have been getting familiar at the time, seen in isolation this is still an entertaining suspense picture. Though characteristically implausible. Robert Webber is an American travelling through Europe who loses his memory in a car crash.

He discovers that someone is trying to manipulate his loss of identity and fit him up as the fall guy on a murder rap. These films all owe a debt to Alfred Hitchcock, as do most thrillers of the period. There's even a shower scene. And the credits are a tacky rip off of Saul Bass' for Vertigo. Though it most obviously takes its premise from Gaslight (1940).

Until... the customary big final twist. Webber is more of a tv actor, but carries off the hokum pretty well. The support cast is underwhelming, apart from Maurice Denham who is most enjoyable as an enigmatic, cranky private detective.

There's a sleazy/sexy jazz soundtrack, some swanky high life interiors and, as standard with Hammer psycho-thrillers, a gallery of arresting b&w images. It is expertly made. The story is slight so there is some padding. It won't change your life, but this is a lively, lowbrow escapism.