Film Reviews by Steve

This is a record of London after WWII, set among the blackmarkets and demobbed soldiers. It's adapted by Richard Llewellyn from his own West End play and directed by Edmond Gréville, a stylist who transformed standard scripts into imaginative visual compositions not usual for such budgets.

He turns a Soho spiv melodrama into British film noir. A  pair of sparring news reporters (US import Carole Landis and dull Brit Derek Farr) go up against the mafia. And while that doesn't sound likely, particularly as Landis writes for the fashion page, it is merely the frame for Gréville's elan, and a few startling performances.

Joseph Calleia is memorably menacing as the mob boss, his principle tools being intimidation, torture and a lack of brains. Landis brings some attractive screwball glamour. Then, not so much stealing the film, as heisting the whole venture outright, is Nigel Patrick as the gang's motormouth go-to front office finagler.

It's one of the standout oddball performances in UK films, and credit to Gréville for allowing him to dominate to such bizarre effect. The tone pitches awkwardly between violence and comedy, and the ending is a disaster. But this is a cult classic because of the director's panache and Patrick's astonishing one man extravaganza.

Classic film fans know Rondo Hatton as The Creeper in the 1944 Sherlock Holmes programmer, The Pearl of Death. Universal planned to use him in the same role for his own series of horror releases. Of course, it was his acromegaly that deformed him into the 'monster without makeup'. So there is some squeamishness in watching his misfortune made into a franchise.

Anyway, he died after his next Creeper film and he is mostly remembered now for that Sherlock Holmes performance. But this oddball B horror is well worth a look. It's part of an attempt to bring Universal horror out of the gothic and into the contemporary. Martin Kosleck co-stars as a psychopathic modern artist who compels the brute to kill his critics.

The sculptor pulls the Creeper out of the bay as he is about to throw himself in, so there is an impression that the colossus represents his own grotesque, suppressed psyche. The other male leads are colourless, but Virginia Grey is lively as a girl reporter, and she gets some fabulous wisecracks. Actually, the pulpy dialogue is a standout.

And Joan Shawlee brings some jaw-dropping glamour as a sassy model. This is just a 65 minute, low budget shocker. But it is offbeat, and twisted. And a change of direction for the studio, squeezed into the void between Universal gothic and '50s science fiction. With the kind of shadowy pessimism we also get from '40's film noir.

The last of the 1940s Universal series of Sherlock Holmes adventures doesn't leave us on a high. The diminished budgets mean the photography and set design are no longer strengths. Some of the support cast has slipped away, like Dennis Hoey as Lestrade. Though Mary Gordon makes a brief valedictory return as Mrs. Hudson.

And perhaps it's time to acknowledge that Basil Rathbone has been less engaged over the last four films. Except Holmes and Dr. Watson (Nigel Bruce) are such a resilient combination, it barely seems to matter. But fans of Arthur Conan Doyle might want to avert their gaze when Watson is quacking like a duck to cheer up a little girl.

There is a particularly strong villain in Patricia Morison as the imperious/sexy gang boss in search of some counterfeit bank plates. So who will break the fiendish cypher hidden in some musical boxes, which will reveal their location? It's much the same setup as The Pearl of Death (1944).

Maybe Holmesian logic could break the code of why this is called Dressed to Kill? But the sleuth of the later films spends more time taunting Watson than on three pipe solutions. Universal had the rights until '49, but maybe it's best this ends now, with a relatively dignified farewell to the finest crime/mystery series of the studio era.

The penultimate Sherlock Holmes adventure starring Basil Rathbone- and Nigel Bruce as Dr. Watson- is a decent train thriller with our heroes charged with guarding a huge diamond from Colonel Sebastian Moran. But who of the mysterious passengers and railway staff actually is the infamous jewel thief/big game hunter?

Well, no surprises really, but there's plenty of fun to be had before our initial suspicions are confirmed... We don't get much of the celebrated Holmesian logic, as the later entries gave up on that. But the whole thing moves forward at pace and there's something about the train set whodunit which usually satisfies...

Alan Mowbray has the key role as another of Watson's old pals who might not be exactly who he claims. Dennis Hoey is in good form for his last go around as Inspector Lestrade. But the standout is the astonishingly photogenic Renee Godfrey, transporting an unusually large coffin to Edinburgh.

She's so irresistibly beautiful that director Roy William Neill can't keep the camera away, cutting her into everyone else's scenes. Though the actor was from New York and her Cockney accent worse than Dick Van Dyke's in Mary Poppins. It's a treat for fans of classic cinema, the Baker Street detectives, and train thrillers too.

This is usually regarded as the least of the 14 Sherlock Holmes films starring Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce. It's not that it's a chore to watch... just rather forgettable. There is an impression of the series running low on budget, and inspiration. We get three musical numbers, including Bruce miming to Loch Lomond!

There's far more of Dr. Watson's idiotic bumbling than Holmes' cold deduction. More comedy than suspense. The king of a Balkan country has been assassinated and the duo must transport his heir on a perilous sea journey to... Algiers. So, which among the fellow passengers is the enemy?

Maybe it's Rex Evans and Martin Kosleck, doing impressions of Sidney Greenstreet/Peter Lorre in The Maltese Falcon? Marjorie Riordan glows as a beautiful singer caught up in the case of some missing diamonds. Her musical interludes and all the comedy makes this sometimes seem like a revue.

Sadly there's no Baker Street, or Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Or that atmosphere of Universal gothic. Maybe the studio felt the formula was in need of a shake. But this deserves its reputation as the lowest point of the series.

The fourth from last entry in the Universal Sherlock Holmes series begins a slight decline, with stories little related to the Arthur Conan Doyle adventures. The characters change too, and not just Dr. Watson's stupidity. The great consultant detective is also stretched from his origins, and here proves an expert on women's fashions, and an accomplished flirt.

This actually has a decent and gruesome original story about a serial killer who murders young women and surgically removes a finger. There's a frisson of Jack the Ripper. But then the investigation takes us away from the perilous, foggy streets of London to focus on a diabolical, upmarket gang of blackmailers, led by Professor Moriarty. 

Henry Daniell makes a nicely repellant Moriarty and Hillary Brooke is imperious as the femme fatale/hypnotist. And it seems whatever the quality of the script, Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce are indestructible as Holmes and Watson. Actually, the sleuth and the Professor share some fine dialogue lifted entirely from Doyle's The Final Problem.

The comical scene where Watson gets hypnotised into thinking he is wading across a stream is a series low point, and yet, idiotically funny. There are a few creepy, transgressive moments of horror. And as always, Roy William Neill directs with craft, and at least some regard for the legend. The series may be winding down, and budgets squeezed, but it is rarely dull.

Even before WWII was over, UK films began to reflect nostalgically and mythologise. Anthony Asquith and tail gunner/scriptwriter Terence Rattigan search among the ruins of an abandoned airfield, the camera seeks out memories from the derelict huts, the traces left behind by flyers and mechanics between 1940-44.

Then we're back to the Battle of Britain and the jeopardy, the sadness of the pilots who don't come back, hidden by the survivors behind a stiff smile and an aphorism. The officer class. Like Flight Lieutenant Michael Redgrave, mourned by his widow in a heartbreaking performance by Rosamund John. 

Much of the story takes place in the local hotel, where the pilots unwind, bothered by resident pub bore Stanley Holloway. In 1942 the Americans arrive and John Mills and Basil Radford are joined by Douglass Montgomery and Bonar Colleano and much cultural misunderstanding ensues.

Still the eyes from the ground raise skywards and count the returning planes. It's a powerfully moving film of stoicism and sacrifice. There is zero analysis of what peace might mean. Instead, there is a palpable sense of relief. The nation survived. Try getting through it without spilling some big fat tears.

In the last of Universal studio's trilogy of investigations by Sherlock Holmes (Basil Rathbone) into Nazi spy activity, the legendary sleuth travels to the US capital with the amiable Dr. Watson (Nigel Bruce) to locate some missing McGuffin. America are now allies, UK fortunes have improved, and this is easily the most cheerful of the three WWII entries.

And Watson has rarely been stupider, as he samples the US way of life. Which is milkshakes and chewing gum... And whatever the Doctor says, Holmes' deductions are not all that amazing. But this is particularly well directed by Roy William Neill with plenty of suspense as the duo track down some microfilm hidden in a book of matches.

Production values are high for a low budget programmer. There are auspicious villains in George Zucco and Henry Daniell, who both also played Moriarty in the series. And it's always nice to see the African-American actor Clarence Muse in a cameo.

So it's goodbye to the weird Roman haircut Holmes wore to fight the Nazis. After this, the series was overhauled to produce films still set in the '40s, but more evocative of Arthur Conan Doyle's original adventures. And while those are better, this remains a quality blend of intrigue and comedy, and a whimsical diversion from the real life troubles of the world...

The wildest, craziest picture ever imagined. It is set in Madrid and claims to be a true story told by carnival folk... Lon Chaney plays a serial killer known to the police only for his unique double thumbs. So he straps his arms behind his back and joins a travelling circus as a knife act, throwing daggers at Joan Crawford with his feet. Who he loves...

Due to previous abuse, the girl can't stand to be touched. So she is neurotically repulsed by the attentions of the circus strongman (Norman Kerry). As the police close in, to hide his incriminating thumbs and to indulge her fetishistic attraction to him, Chaney has both his arms removed by a surgeon he is blackmailing! 

Unfortunately, when he returns to the circus, the showgirl has got over phobia and married the muscleman. The now insanely jealous knife thrower devises a hideous revenge! Phew. This is pretty uninhibited stuff. The story was created by Tod Browning who left home as a child to join a circus. Chaney's upbringing was equally unconventional.    

Many silent horrors have the illusory mania of a febrile dream. And that is the attraction here. And it's a lot of fun watching Chaney (and his stand-in) acting with his feet. Browning and Chaney did astonishing work elsewhere, but there was an alchemy when they worked together. It feels like absolutely anything is possible.

THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.

The second in a pair of period films made by 20th Century Fox with Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce as Arthur Conan Doyle's immortal Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. These and the further 12 updated stories at Universal have widely established the duo as the definitive Holmes and Watson on the big screen.

This stands out among the 14 because it is such a handsome production. The plot stands little scrutiny, but the film was made with a lot of love. There is is an atmospheric London of foggy, gothic graveyards, beautiful Hansom cabs and gas lamps. The excellent sets are painted in deep shadows. There's a touch of the exotic too, which is classic Doyle.

The story leans on the psychological war between Holmes and Moriarty (George Zucco) who intends to steal a priceless emerald from the Tower of London. But more thrillingly, the professor intends to destroy Holmes, who is the Napoleon of Crime's only realistic adversary. Obviously Scotland Yard is just a storage facility for idiots.

Bruce's bumbling doctor is a matter of taste, but he does bring some effective humour and he looks the part. But Rathbone is perfect casting. He's a ringer for Sidney Paget's original drawings in The Strand Magazine. The stars and the dense ambience of Victorian London make this a strong candidate for the best ever feature film about the great detective.

SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE SECRET WEAPON.

The second in the Universal trilogy of Sherlock Holmes vs. the Nazis throws Professor Moriarty into the mix, wonderfully played by the cultish Lionel Atwill. Obviously he's on the side of the Germans and competes with the intrepid sleuth to locate an invention which will alter the course of WWII.  

Thankfully this is more upbeat about the war than the previous entry, The Voice of Terror. There's more comedy, with Dennis Hoey making his debut as Inspector Lestrade, who is also engaged in a struggle- to demonstrate who is the biggest imbecile, vs. Nigel Bruce's flummoxed Dr. Watson.

But the nation has Holmes (Basil Rathbone) to lean on. And he at least proves a master of disguise. This is notionally based on Arthur Conan Doyle's The Adventure of the Dancing Men (1903), but it's really an original story with an uninspired plot and little deduction.  

And what may be the least significant role for the female lead (Karen Verne) in the whole series. Yet the formula always works. It's a lesser entry, but still an attractive production for a programmer and reliable entertainment for the fans. And the exciting climax is pure James Bond!

Heavily fictionalised biopic about RJ Mitchell, the designer of the Spitfire, which is repurposed for propaganda, and to acknowledge the UK's survival of the Battle of Britain. It begins in 1940 during the Blitz, and then reflects on his life from 1932 to his death in 1937. But while it is understandable that audiences would wish to salute their heroes, some of the liberties taken are questionable.

This was written, directed and starred Leslie Howard who claims Mitchell as an English gentleman, a genial toff in his pastoral sanctuary. Whereas he was from Staffordshire and worked his way up from the shop floor. More problematically, an aristocratic sponsor is portrayed as a patriot, when in reality she supported Hitler and Mussolini through her newspapers.

This rewrite of history didn't even survive WWII as the nation turned to socialism and meritocracy. However, it has some value as a record of the times, including footage of actual spitfire pilots and their machines. Howard and David Niven as the test pilot/narrator are easygoing and likeable, with Rosamund John steadfast support as Mitchell's wife.

The other main negative is it is too long. It is competently made and works as propaganda, with the rousing Spitfire Prelude composed by William Walton. Yet, almost nothing of this actually happened, beyond Mitchell designing the Spitfire. It brought inspiration and hope to a nation still in peril. And in 1942, that was the greater good. It couldn't possible have a similar impact now.

Elia Kazan's beautiful epic only tells the last part of John Steinbeck's long novel and simplifies what remains. It is a loose updating of the biblical story of Cain and Abel relocated to California, which plugs into the landmark, method inspired performance of its debuting star, James Dean.

The generational schism between the introverted, maladjusted son (Dean) and his domineering, righteous father (Raymond Massey) captures the spirit of the '50s rather than the early century setting. The search by the young man for personal identity and freedom was a sensation with teenagers.

What most attracts now is Kazan's spacious, artistic rendition of the Salinas Valley, California on the edge of WWI, in Cinemascope. It is a gorgeous production. The colour and camera effects still look amazing. Though its only Oscar went to Jo Van Fleet as Dean's estranged mother.

Sadly the film ends badly with the boy seeking and finding understanding from the stubborn, dying patriarch, which negates the rest of the story. But it remains an ambitious blockbuster about all the big biblical sins. And the legend of James Dean still lives in his only starring film released before his death.

Epic biography of murderer Robert Stroud who was sent down in 1909 and remained in solitary for 50 years, and in prison until his death in 1963. From his cell he began to keep and study birds and develop remedies for disease. Given a simple microscope he researched haematology and histology. To keep his menagerie, he studied law.

When first jailed, Stroud (Burt Lancaster) wears stripes and chains. He feeds his birds with insects infesting the jail. Under a reforming public servant (Karl Malden) the cells become cleaner and safer and less physically brutal. But the message is that prisons are instruments of revenge, and fail because they do not mend the psychological faults of the convicts.

Stroud is sociopath, resentful of anyone but his mother, and he kills a warden. But his sullen malevolence is ameliorated by nurturing birds. At first this is to ease the monotony of solitary, but then he lives vicariously through them. Eventually his obsession releases his talent.  Or maybe his genius.

Lancaster does well to maintain interest in this troubled, unlikeable introvert. The direction overcomes the limitation of shooting within a tiny space, by dealing mostly in closeups and expressionistic angles. We don't get a realistic idea of what motivates the prisoner. The aim is to advance a reformist agenda, and it makes this case with intelligence.

This is set in the midwest but employs all the archetypes of '50s southern melodrama: the nonconformist who drifts back to his old hometown; the beautiful/frozen female intellectual; the floozy; the weak and shifty brother who stayed behind to pocket the filthy lucre; and the aristocratic relics of old money. 

Frank Sinatra is the alcoholic soldier who returns home after WWII, with Shirley MacLaine's dim bulb nightclub 'hostess' in tow. He develops a close relationship with an outwardly charismatic/inwardly repulsive poker shark (Dean Martin) and aspires to an inhibited, censorious schoolteacher (Martha Hyer). But he is repelled by the near limitless hypocrisy.

The drifter ultimately settles for the unconditional love of the moll, which leads to tragedy. This is Sinatra's best performance, as a morally ambiguous anti-hero, disgusted by small town sanctimony. But it's MacLaine's film, and she's a heartbreaker as the abused, exploitable girl who seems to have no personality other than the prodigious intensity of her feelings.

 The film is intelligently directed by Minnelli with long camera edits which allow the actors to develop each scene. The mood gets progressively darker until eventually quite like film noir, but in luscious colour. The climax, with the stunning, impressionist kaleidoscope of lights, scored by Elmer Bernstein's piano led jazz big band, is an absolute knockout. 

The first of Universal Pictures' 12 contemporary updates of the immortal sleuth, also begins an informal trilogy, with Sherlock Holmes now taking on the Nazis. They retain Basil Rathbone as Sherlock Holmes and Nigel Bruce as Dr. Watson from the two period adventures released by Fox in 1939. But there's almost nothing left of Arthur Conan Doyle's credited story, His Last Bow.

In fact there's just the famous patriotic speech at the end. There isn't much narrative and little deduction. This is intended to be pro-British propaganda. There's a fairly horrifying portrayal of the blitz, but reassurance that with the great detective, the nation will prevail. He investigates the link between a Nazi broadcaster and industrial sabotage. And a planned invasion.

Presumably the voice of terror refers to Lord Haw Haw's pro-Axis radio transmissions. The mystery is, who in the British security council is a traitor? There's a relishable support cast, including Henry Daniell as the prime suspect and Evelyn Ankers as the leader of the cor-blimey Cockney criminals doing their bit for the country.

Great to see Thomas Gomez on his screen debut, as a cold-hearted killer. The main positives are the rich, noirish photography and the wonderful orchestral score written for the series. Minor director John Rawlins creates little suspense, but it still entertains because whatever else is uncertain,  the characters of Holmes and Watson will never let you down.