Film Reviews by Steve

THE WHISTLER

This is the start of an offbeat series by Columbia based on a popular radio suspense programme. There are eight Whistler films, the first seven star William Dix in a variety of roles. Here he is a depressed businessman who arranges a hit on himself, but when his fortunes suddenly improve, has trouble cancelling the contract.

The story actually seems to come from the radio series, though obviously it’s been remade and ripped off endlessly since. And it’s a good plot, with many wild twists. William Castle in his breakthrough as director, makes this into a really eccentric and stylish film noir.

The Whistler is the storyteller, briefly glimpsed in the shadows. He is partly the all-knowing narrator, and also a figure of implacable destiny. So it feels like an eerie parable on fate. This is not realistic, but dense with expressionistic dread.

It takes place in a US where everyone struggles. There’s a really gloomy scene in a flophouse. Dix is a limited actor, but has a touch of impassive moral ambiguity. J. Carrol Naish is sinister as the assassin. It’s a 60 minute programmer of the sort that would made for tv a decade later. And the best radio spin off of the period..

THE MARK OF THE WHISTLER

The Whistler series has an impressive strike rate for unearthing classic, repeatable film noir scenarios. Which also means they are now quite familiar. This is from one of many Cornell Woolrich stories in which a drifter of uncertain virtue assumes another identity, but soon realises they are now in even deeper trouble…

So, Richard Dix plays an imposter who claims a large inheritance. Only there is a mob contract out on the real heir. This is ideal for the series, as The Whistler- the omniscient narrator and voice of destiny- mocks the feeble attempts of the shiftless bum to deny the fate he has assumed.

Dix may play a different character in each entry, but he gives the same performance; hunted, haunted, and concealing a deep secret. Usually he is pulled down among the lower depths of society; the human deadbeats… So this series can be quite sombre.

Here at least Janis Carter- Columbia’s second string Rita Hayworth- generates a glimmer in the moral darkness as a pushy newshound. There is a B-budget, but William Castle brings polish to the noir atmospherics. Though it’s the choice of twisty moral parables that really sets this series apart.

Foreign intrigue from Universal which principally looks good today for Ava Gardner’s studio era glamour just before she became a major star. This sort of exotic melodrama was better made in the 1930s, but at least we get a classic period film noir look.

And there are the usual generic signifiers of the far east with the white colonial suits, the rickshaws and the gin slings. And the vagabond rogues, far from home. Fred MacMurray is a smuggler of pearls about to marry Ava, who he assumes is dead after a Japanese air raid.

Only, when he returns from wartime heroics to pick up a stash of contraband, he discovers his lost love is alive and married to Roland Culver. But has scriptwriter’s amnesia. The plot is quite engaging, though John Brahms doesn’t generate enough suspense.

There are constant evocations of Casablanca (1942), which is fine. Naturally, the stars don’t create as much chemistry. Fred just isn’t a convincing romantic hero. There’s a decent support cast playing colourful scoundrels… It’s just a minor programmer, but with plenty of the old studio gloss.

The early 1970s saw a glut of erotic euro-horror, usually arthouse vampire films which sound like guilty pleasures but are almost always tedious, badly acted, poorly plotted and lean on a kind of gauzy/dreamy ambience for any possible interest. This is the lesbian vampire picture that is actually worth seeing.

It makes the similar Hammer films of the period seem quite anaemic. Arthouse luminary Delphine Seyrig stars as Elizabeth Báthory, medieval murderer of virginal girls, who even in 1971, bathes in the blood of innocents; so still looks like a hot aristocratic matriarch.

She wafts into wintery Ostend in her classic motor car in search of new blood, and seduces the wife of a photogenic married couple (Danielle Ouimet, John Karlen). The Countess is accompanied by Andrea Rau as the sexy, undead arm candy who should be destroyed by sunlight, but has bikini marks… We get to see plenty of her.

The out-of-season seaside resort is a place of seedy, decadent decay, shot through with psychedelic flourishes and a prog score. This is all trashy, salacious and sadistic, with softcore nudity. And Harry Kümel achieves what few other directors of erotic horror ever do; he tells a compelling story with clarity. 

William Castle’s final entry in Columbia’s Whistler series of low budget suspense pictures suggests he has been taking notes from the emerging film noir movement. The shadows are deeper and darker, and many scenes are plainly stolen from year-zero noir Murder, My Sweet (1944).

Even more, the script rips off The Maltese Falcon (1941) at every turn. Except this time the rumpus is all about is a couple of valuable musical recordings. Series regular Richard Dix stars, and his morally ambiguous gumshoe might as well be called Sam Spade.

Barton MacLane even turns up as the antagonistic cop. The private dick is hired to find the real owner of the MacGuffin while a dangerous criminal gang muscles in. It doesn’t so much duplicate the usual Whistler blueprint. This is less about the fate of an ordinary man blighted by a single wrong move…

And the Whistler is just a narrator, rather than the mocking, cautionary voice of destiny. The support cast isn't as familiar as usual, but Mike Mazurki has a cameo as a killer heavy. It’s an hour long, cheap, dirty B noir but way above standard for an instalment in a ’40s mystery series.

The plot of Wim Wenders critically adored arthouse road movie is now completely bewildering. The idea that a mother would leave her nine year old daughter with a male stranger to travel from New York to Amsterdam… and much more... You can do that in a western, but in a modern setting, it’s as realistic as science fiction.

However, it’s redeemed by the profound red-eye atmosphere: the ultra-grainy b&w photography, particularly in the rain; the plangent, improvised electric guitar; and the mood of rootlessness and futility. The impression of the US and Europe sharing a soulless, homogenous monoculture.

So it feels like photo-journalism, and maybe neorealism. There is some diary level philosophy about the alienation of the travel writer (Rüdiger Vogler) as he tries to find a relative to take care of the abandoned girl (Yella Rottländer)… And there is some rapport between the two actors.

Plus there is the director’s usual preoccupation with the primacy of US culture. The narrative meanders to evoke the journalist’s disengaged, vagabond mentality, which means there are longueurs. But it has a way of lingering in the memory. This is the first (and best) of Wender’s road trilogy with Wrong Move (1975) and Kings of the Road (1976). 

This hugely impressive debut from Roman Polanski is his only film made in his native Poland until The Pianist, 40 years later. It announced his exceptional gift for visual narrative and won him an instant Oscar nomination for best foreign language film. Though the dialogue is sparse.

There is an early example of a key Polanski theme; the shifting of power within a small group. This is a three-hander with a young, rootless hitch-hiker joining a married couple on a sailing trip, scored by an improvised saxophone. Which gives the picture a blue note of melancholy.

And gradually an ominous strain of menace is introduced into the dynamic, especially as the wife is an attractive younger woman suffocating in a loveless marriage. Much of the action gravitates around the outsider’s threatening blade. Which is presumably phallic. And a theatrical example of Chekhov’s gun…

This all threatens to become a suspense thriller, but doesn’t quite happen. It’s a very cinematic examination of a disintegrating marriage and a reflection on the alienation of a younger generation. The performances are fair and the b&w photography is expressive. But mainly this is a showreel for its talented director. 

The second- and best- of half a dozen Universal psychological mysteries, linked to the popular radio series The Inner Sanctum. This is as close to horror as any of them got and is the original film version of Fritz Leiber’s famous supernatural novel The Conjure Wife. Though this favours a realistic explanation. Which is actually a debit.

All six star Lon Chaney Jr, which is their main weakness. He’s a limited actor with little charisma and certainly not the dreamboat the script promises. He plays a sociology professor at a small college who researches a book about witchcraft in the Caribbean and then marries a local woman who secretly practices voodoo.

So it's about rationality versus superstition. There is a satirical element, with the hothouse of US academia portrayed as an arena of malign competition where only the weird woman's magic can keep her husband safe. When the man of science sets fire to her runes, all hell breaks loose…

There’s a fine support cast of '40s B-picture stalwarts. Plus a really unusual organ score. But Reginald Le Borg cannot raise this above the limits of his budget and it lacks atmosphere and suspense. Still, at 60 minutes, the story is robust enough to survive. Though the 1962 remake, The Night of the Eagle, is far superior. 

Italian western which claims to explore the immorality of bounty hunters in the old west, but is more of an astonishingly stylish bloodbath, which subverts normal genre expectations. It’s among the most cruel and pessimistic films ever made. And its appalling climax is legendary.

In a territory preyed on by vicious, sociopathic killers it’s the mad-eyed Klaus Kinski who earns the nickname ‘Loco’. Only, when he murders a wanted man for the reward, the wife (Vonetta McGee) doesn’t just lay down and take it, but hires the wonderfully named ’Silence’ to avenge her.

Jean-Louis Trintignant as the mute gunman arguably steals the picture in a silent performance. His disability is explained by one of those classic western childhood back stories. Apart from all the pitiless cynicism, this is remembered for the unique, frozen locale of a mountain settlement in the brutal snow of winter.

And its moral froideur is deepened by Ennio Morricone’s melancholy score. Sergio Corbucci’s ostentatious pop-art direction- dig all the reflections and sunflare- is extraordinary. Of course, it has become a massive cult item, and is surely the greatest spaghetti western not made by Sergio Leone.

This is a marker in the evolution of the crime picture from the realistic docu-noirs of the late ’40s to the action cop films of the 70’s. Don Siegel directed across the whole of that period. His cinematographer Russell Metty was one of the great film noir photographers. And Richard Widmark one of its key stars.

He’s in the title role as a dedicated, overworked New York detective who doesn’t play by the rules. He and his partner (Harry Guardino) are tough anti-heroes on the trail of the psycho-killer who gunned down a traffic cop with the duo's own guns. Obviously Madigan’s relationship with his neglected wife (Inger Stevens) is in disarray.

This made a huge impact on the crime genre, including television. The stuff it influenced was eventually spoofed in The Naked Gun (1988), so this no longer seems as original as it once did. But there is a deep feeling of post-Eisenhower urban decline. Plus the helicopter shots, funky soundtrack and widescreen Technicolor.

Now, even the good guys are… ethically flexible. And procedurally pragmatic… 1968 was also the year of Bullit, The Boston Strangler and Coogan’s Bluff (also Siegel). The motifs of the cop film were in flux in a time of political turmoil. Madigan is ultimately a hero, but hell, even Henry Fonda ( as the inscrutable Commissioner) is burying corruption.

The bosses at RKO intended this to be a cash-in on their unexpected success with Cat People in 1942. But while it features the same principal characters, this must have been a disappointment to anyone who bought a ticket expecting another scare film. It is a fantasy, and a thoughtful study of a child’s loneliness.

Some familiarity with the first film is useful. Kent Smith and Jane Randolph are now married, but their relationship is haunted by the memory of his tragic first wife, Irena (Simone Simon). And this sadness is absorbed by their 6 year old daughter (Ann Carter) whose make-believe friend is… her father’s dead bride!

It’s really a reflection on the child’s insecurity, but imposed upon the characters of Cat People. The girl is troubled by her father, who she relies on for love and protection, but also punishes her and arouses her fear. When dad accepts her individuality, the ghost goes away.

And by implication, so does his own obsession with Irena. This is intelligent, subtle and sensitive. Yet interesting rather than compelling. It is the first credit for Robert Wise as director, but consistent with the style of the rest of producer Val Lewton’s acclaimed b-horror pictures. And by far the least of those.

The reaction of contemporary critics was; too little phantom, too much opera. Anyone approaching this as a remake of the legendary Lon Chaney horror classic will inevitably be disappointed. Those who want to hear Nelson Eddy and Susanna Foster sing popular (and original) classical arias, will have a fine time.

Aside from the musical numbers on the famous Universal set of the the Paris Opera, there is a romantic melodrama about a novice (Foster) who dreams of being an acclaimed soprano. The phantom is pushed to the margins, which maybe is a good thing, as Claude Rains is dreadful as the man behind the mask.

He’s more irritating than terrifying, and his third billing is an indication of the studio’s priorities. Even the unmasking is a dud. There is the novelty of Technicolor, and sumptuous costumes and set design. But crucially, also an abysmal script and misjudged performances.

Those in search of horror can go back to Chaney’s silent version. Opera fans can play a record. There is little to recommend this now beyond the lavish production. Arthur Lubin was a decent director of B-films but fluffs his shot at the big time. This one is for aficionados of studio scenery. 

This is among a wave of postwar Hollywood pictures which aim to alert us to a new kind of cynicism in US capitalism and laissez-faire government. It’s like an update of Frank Capra’s Meet John Doe (1941) but takes in another gallery of demons: commercial television, showbiz politics and huckster advertising.

Which describes present day America. It’s surprising Elia Kazan went near scriptwriter Budd Schulberg’s venomous polemic, given his kowtow before the scrutiny of HUAC in ’52. But this is unambiguously a bomb thrown at populist corporate politics. Maybe the explosive never quite goes off, but this is acutely prescient.

Andy Griffith gives a once in a lifetime (debut) performance as an alcoholic bum who sings the blues and has an angle into the low-education hive mentality of the masses, particularly in the fly-over states. The sociopathic cunning of his bogus man-of-the-people schtick proves to be more useful in the Whitehouse than the jailhouse.

Patricia Neal instils welcome humanity as the small town radio producer who unleashes the monster but can’t live with the consequences. Kazan directs the Americana of all this trashy corruption with caustic realism. There is more anger than intelligence, but that may even be another asset. It’s a big surprise the Oscars didn’t call.

Chic Euro-caper of the sort that became popular after Topkapi (1964). Everything has been done before, but better. There’s a disappointing loungecore score from Henry Mancini. Stanley Donen directs with a little style but covered similar territory with the superior Charade in ’63.

Except that was in Paris and this is London. Now Gregory Peck is in the Cary Grant role. He is an expert in ancient hieroglyphs chased around Trafalgar Square and Regent’s Park by factions in a middle eastern coup who are anxious for him to break a fiendish code…

But that’s all MacGuffin. This is really about Peck swapping cute innuendo with Sophia Loren while he works out which side she’s on and they get into a few scrapes before bedtime. Her fashionable Dior costumes are a letdown, but she looks incredible anyway.

And the stars do generate a little romantic heat, which carries the whole film. They are fine at the screwball dialogue, and make this a fun, if unexceptional comedy-thriller.  

THE BLACK ROOM 

Deliciously wicked gothic melodrama with two of Boris Karloff’s very best screen performances. He plays good/bad twins in dispute over a family curse which ordains that the younger Baron will kill the older and so end the wealth and privilege of the dynasty.

And as the tyrannical aristocrat ultimately kills then impersonates his enlightened brother, Karloff completely dominates in his dual role. This is a short, low budget programmer with a minor support cast, though Marian Marsh is appealing as the beautiful heiress coveted by the evil twin.

Yet, the production appears lavish. Roy William Neill extracts maximum value out of the old dark castle in middle Europe, with the downtrodden peasants primed to turn into an angry mob. The black room is the secret dungeon where bad-Karloff discards the bodies.

Quite endearingly the hero turns out to be good-Karloff’s faithful mastiff! Old Hollywood made many of these creepy historical melodramas. Not really horror but with a touch of the macabre and the transgressive, usually with an ostentatious star. Karloff makes this one of the more effective.

THE MAN THEY COULD NOT HANG

Slim, well plotted sci-fi shocker which is one of Boris Karloff’s ‘mad doctor’ cycle made at Columbia in the war years. He’s a medical researcher who devises a reversible state of death to enable complicated surgery. Only, when the idiot cops and do-gooders rush in during a procedure, they arrest him for murder. The fools!

Naturally, after the whispering, lisping inventor is hanged, he is revived by his assistant (Byron Foulger) to pursue an elaborate revenge reminiscent of Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None. But he isn't quite the same. More of a megalomaniac. So further research is clearly necessary.

Yes, science exceeds its ethical frontiers again, though it’s amusing to note that stuff similar to this happens now, even if this laboratory equipment is more steampunk. Karloff is relishable, especially after death, but the support cast is insipid. He needs an adversary. A Lionel Atwill…

The victims are so annoying, you will soon be rooting for the reanimated crackpot. This is just b-horror hokum, but has endured well, and despite a minor director (Nick Grinde) there is obviously some creativity in the photography and set design. But most of all it’s the star that makes this worth watching.

THE DEVIL COMMANDS

Easily the best of Boris Karloff’s cycle of ‘mad doctor’ pictures at Columbia in the early 1940s. The star gives a different, very melancholy performance as a grieving research scientist who tries to connect with his dead wife through some rather gothic technology.

But arguably he contacts a very different dimension than the afterlife. And certainly overreaches the dominium of mankind… Aside from Karloff the main attractions are a subdued, sinister performance from Anne Revere as a malign spiritualist who aims to exploit these astonishing scientific discoveries…

…Plus the emerging talent of future A-list director Edward Dmytryk who makes this way above standard for an hour long, low budget programmer. This is full of spooky atmosphere, with the sombre, narcotic performances, and the shadowy, expressionist photography.

Credit also to William Sloane for the unusually transgressive plot. There are the usual difficulties arising from the slender running time and B-film budget. The sets are not impressive, though still evocative. But the superior imaginative quality of this wild, gruesome sci-fi/horror sets it apart from the rest of the series.

By 1940, Mae West’s popularity was in decline, another victim of the production code. WC Fields was still somewhere near his peak, but clearly not in a good place physically. And apparently they were not on friendly terms… but they gave each other a late career box office boost in this sassy comedy-western.

Mae scores top billing as the risqué blonde courted by a masked bandit. She pretends to marry Fields, who (naturally) plays an alcoholic, libidinous conman. They co-wrote the screenplay which is funny and full of the sketches and gags they had polished since vaudeville.

My favourite belongs to Fields: ‘During one of my treks through Afghanistan, we lost our corkscrew. We were compelled to live on food and water for several days’. They make an ideal double act, though Mae is scarcely an actor; she sashays through the role, intimately intoning her innuendoes.

That was her schtick and it’s immortal, but not very cinematic. Fields is a more diverse performer and while his scenes are funny, they have pathos and humanity. This is a pantomime yet there is also the sadness of the grotesque; the burlesque queen and the rogue are now old, but unable to change.