Film Reviews by Steve

It's obvious in the opening scene that Howard Hawks sees this as a tribute to '30s screwball comedy when Ginger Rogers wears a dress with no back, revealing her lingerie... like Katherine Hepburn in the director's 1938 landmark, Bringing Up Baby. And two of the writers (Hecht and Lederer) are legends of screwball. Though the script is the main problem.

The premise is fine. Cary Grant- Ginger's husband- is a biologist researching an elixir of youth. But one of the lab monkeys escapes and mixes one that really works, and puts it in the water cooler... and mayhem ensues. Inspiration however soon runs dry and the audience must watch Grant, the greatest ever male screen comedy actor, goof around like Lou Costello.

Which is still ok because he makes it surprisingly funny. But, what a waste. The laughs disappear when he's off screen, though Marilyn Monroe illuminates the picture as Charles Coburn's sexy secretary. This is the one where he asks her to find someone to type a letter... She was still not yet a star, but unmissably ready to go.

There's satire at the expense of postwar teenagers aimed at an older audience. And the stars reflect on the passing years, and evoke the golden age of screen comedy. But classic screwball is a romance that ends at the church; this is about the married couple facing up to middle age. For the genre, as well as their relationship, it's never as good as the first time.

Lavish Technicolor copy of the 1937 classic, which is a success, but still disappoints because it just isn't as much fun. It reuses the same script, orchestral score and even camera setups... And Stewart Granger makes a fine adventure hero as Major Rudolph Rassendyll, formerly of the British army, thrust by chance into foreign intrigue. But unluckily...

In the earlier version, Ronald Colman gives the greatest ever performance in a romantic adventure. What this has to offer is colour and opulent set design. No-one messes with the famous story. The king in-waiting of a small middle European state is kidnapped on the day of his coronation; and his distant, but identical relative steps into the royal shoes on the big day.

Granger is capable in both roles and Deborah Kerr is ideal as the demure princess. James Mason is always a superior villain. But actually, I wouldn't swap anyone for the '37 cast. There is more acrobatic action and the climactic swordfight is well staged. Oddly for a romance, all versions are subversive because the conclusion is the royals shouldn't be ruling Ruritania.

Rassendyll is the natural leader. There is a subtle shift in tone between '37 and '52 when seen in historical context. The earlier film was produced in the aftermath of the abdication crisis. So the heroes are doing their duty. But the later was made during preliminaries for a coronation. And it feels more of a celebration. Though that could be the gorgeous Technicolor.

Sleazy exploitation thriller about a psychotic serial killer who is murdering random young women in San Francisco. It's all shot on location which gives a potent impression of realism, and the character of a police psychiatrist is on hand to explain the sexual motivation of the homicidal loner. There is some editorial content which advocates more progressive policing.

The same arguments were made going back to the precode era; but no one ever wants to pay tax. And we're still there now, especially regarding violence against women. Aside from the dated psychological content, this is a really exciting manhunt with the 'Frisco police hapless in pursuit of the anonymous maniac while public panic is stirred up by the idiotic news agenda.

It's all deliriously trashy and influenced low budget thrillers for a decade. In 1952 Arthur Franz was exclusively a B actor but he is mesmeric in the title role. The supporting cast of cops are in his shadow, though Richard Kiley is engaging as the crime shrink. Marie Windsor gives the investigation some convenient glamour as a night club singer/murder victim.

It was the first Hollywood film by Edward Dmytryk following imprisonment for alleged communism, and he gives it style without slowing the action. The final tracking shot which ends in a close up of the captive killer is a knockout. There's a procedural docu-noir approach and plenty is made of its social significance, but it's just a sensational, scuzzy crime picture.

Slim, lightweight murder mystery from the author (Vera Caspary) behind the classic noir, Laura (1944). This doesn't have anything like a comparable reputation and is obviously a less prestigious production, but it's the same kind of golden age puzzle embellished with luminous studio gloss. I actually prefer this; it's a slighter story but the resolution is better.

Anne Baxter is a career girl who thinks she murdered a menacing womaniser (Raymond Burr) but was so drunk she isn't sure. He spent the evening loading her with supercharged cocktails in the sort of Hollywood nightclub where Nat King Cole sings the title number. Now we would call this date rape, so it's a topical theme. But anyway, he's still dead.

She recklessly turns to a news journalist (Richard Conte) for help. Baxter in particular gives the film star power. And Fritz Lang's sophisticated noir direction makes the mystery seem much more substantial than it actually is. It's his mastery of the genre that elevates everything else. You'll guess the twist, but it hardly matters. This is curiously more-ish.

There isn't the pessimism of postwar noir. Going into the '50s economic boom, it feels like austerity is over. Baxter and her girl pals- led by Ann Sothern as the waspish she-wolf- are independent women with their own lives and a deep wardrobe. This has been lost in the shadow of Lang's other 1953 release, The Big Heat, but is still an unexpected treat for genre fans.

This is a close remake of a 1928 gangster film, but updated from prohibition to the less febrile syndicates of the postwar period. Robert Ryan is stuck in the past when deals were ratified with a machine gun. His partners want him to modernise. Robert Mitchum is the impassive, laconic police chief who intends to bring him down, by whatever means necessary.

And that includes operating outside the law. Some of his precinct stick their neck out an awful long way, but others are in the pay of the mob. This could have ended up a typically chaotic Howard Hughes production- six directors were employed!- but it's actually a rousing, brutal crime film, with car chases, explosions and gunfights which are above par for the period.

Despite its origins going back into the silents, it's not dated and is among the best of the second wave of gangster pictures which ran through the '50s. It's not as good as The Big Heat (1953) but it is that sort of film, with the impression that crime is now a semi-legitimate business enterprise which has corrupted law and order and politics. So a long way from Little Caesar.

The two stars are well matched and William Talman a standout as a reckless ex-Marine who will pay any price to eliminate the mob. Though Lizabeth Scott is wasted in a nothing role as a nightclub singer. With the Production Code still in operation there is some '30s style moralising to offset the violence. Yet its portrayal of the cops as just another gang, is way ahead of its time.

Minor film noir in which a routine home hostage situation is employed to a really strange effect. John Garfield plays a sociopathic cop killer from the slums of Los Angeles who takes refuge in the apartment of a docile stranger (Shelley Winters) and her compliant family, as the police dragnet tightens its grip on the streets below.

The narrative focuses on the utterly loathsome fugitive more than the traumatised hostages. Given his ostentatiously unloving mother (Gladys George) it's possible we are even expected to sympathise... Except he's such a creepy, narcissistic weasel that it's impossible. And the family's attempt to defend themselves is so wretched it's frustrating.

Maybe there's another way of seeing this. All the main players on this picture were being persecuted by Senator McCarthy's witch hunt on alleged communists. It's not too difficult to imagine the menacing, cowardly criminal as a stand-in for HUAC, and the peaceful, innocent family as its victims. Tenuous, perhaps, but it's the only way the film works.

It's a difficult watch either way. The hostage scenario only succeeds if we empathise with the captive family, but the inexperienced (and blacklisted) John Berry gives all the light to his star. This now seems most significant as Garfield's last performance before his premature death and for its uncredited script by Dalton Trumbo, one of the Hollywood Ten.

Elaborate old school murder mystery with a fine cast of British stalwarts, obviously at ease in such conventional material. It is based on an obscure stage play and while the labyrinthine plot is most unlikely, it's still great entertainment.

Eric Portman is the psychopathic/jealous husband whose beautiful/unfaithful wife (Greta Gynt) happily plays the field whenever he is out of town. So the devious maniac designs a plan to dispose of his rivals so watertight that he can breezily discuss it with her the next day at breakfast... Jack Warner investigates.

The clipped accents and terse dialogue are so upper class that it could almost be a spoof. Especially the morning after when the married couple are calmly discussing their options over coffee, with Dennis Price in the mortuary and Maxwell Reed in the cells for his murder.

Nothing ruffles these people! A dark aura of sinister dread permeates the later scenes as the wife plans her revenge. Yes, she is a femme fatale, and this is quite noir. It doesn't stand up to scrutiny, but it's a treat for fans of the genre.

Political thriller which is a British variation on postwar Hollywood docudramas, especially those which focus on a breakdown of social order, like Panic in the Streets, also 1950. In this case, Barry Jones is a nuclear scientist who steals an explosive and threatens to blow up London if the Prime Minister doesn't halt the stockpile of weapons that threaten humanity.

André Morell has seven days to stop him. Moral issues related to the atom bomb at the start of the cold war are gently probed, but mainly this is the MacGuffin which triggers the manhunt. While the issue was- and is- topical, this is primarily a suspense film. The terrorist is portrayed as insane. If the production takes a side at all, it is pro-bomb.

There is unusual, eerie footage of the deserted streets of London. And there is tension, particularly as we approach the big climax. But this is far more compelling as a vision of UK society. There is still austerity and rationing. This is a poor, chilly country which has lost faith in itself. The people live with the memory of the blitz as the cold war threatens.

The older women who come within the bomber's orbit are alone, presumably after their men died in WWII. There is an impression that making do is something that the people have got used to. The evacuation is executed with touching efficiency. This still holds up as a thriller, but now feels more poignant than exciting; a study of national weariness.

Arthouse masterpiece which was a main player in the wave of experimental film making that broke across world cinemas after WWII. This introduced western audiences to Akira Kurosawa, and won him an honorary Oscar. It even originated a new concept: the Rashomon effect. Which refers to the unreliability of its narrators.

They describe an incident deep in the forest of Kyoto during the middle ages. An infamous bandit (Toshirô Mifune) sexually assaults a woman (Machiko Kyô) and kills her samurai husband (Masayuki Mori) in front of a witness (Takashi Shimura). But all four tell a different version of events- the dead man via a medium- which reflects their own self interest.

It's the same principle as in 12 Angry Men (1957); the truth is personal. Except this is more cinematic. The impact of the reveal is diminished on repeat viewing, but what survives is the artistry: the composition of actors within the frame; the groundbreaking lighting effects; the poetic editing; the plangent music.

And the unforgettable rainfall which establishes the emotional tone: that the sorrow of life is relentless; and that these characters are in search of purification.The expressionistic performances are powerfully emotive. The ending is particularly haunting. The concept, from a novel by Ryunosuke Akutagawa, is transformed by Kurasawa into cinematic legend.

This absorbing film noir was intended to be mostly of interest for its demonstration of the new science of forensics, as a Harvard Professor and a Cape Cod detective solve the murder of a young woman whose remains are discovered in the isolated sand dunes of the peninsular. Only by then she's a skeleton and the police have no other clues.

Bruce Bennett plays the academic and Ricardo Montalban the resolute cop. And they are fine and the investigation is actually fascinating as they build their case from nothing. But... the real bonus is the performances of a couple of the support cast. Jan Sterling as the seen-it-all peroxide floozy who gets killed...

...And particularly Elsa Lanchester as her duplicitous landlady. There's an efficient (Oscar nominated) script and a compelling story, but she really rips it up and is genuinely very funny though her dialogue isn't at all. She's one of Hollywood's greatest character actors and she elevates all her scenes.

John Sturges directs a spare, exciting B thriller. But there is also a sense of sadness for the dead girl and the jeopardy of the innocent suspect (Marshall Thompson). The locations in Boston and rural Massachusetts broke new ground for film noir and John Alton's photography is typically expressive. Maybe the mystery is, why isn't this better known?

For many years, to English speakers, Jacques Tati /was/French comedy. Maybe it helped that speech played little part in his comic art. There is some dialogue but he explored visual and character based humour which feels rooted in the musical hall. This was his debut as writer/director/star and predates his creation of Monsieur Hulot...

He is François, the postman, an irascible and pompous yet forlorn middle aged public servant working in a French rural backwater forsaken by progress. The routines are episodic, centred on preparations for the annual fiesta, which mainly amounts to a merry-go-round and getting drunk. But the principal routine involves Tati trying to compete with US postal efficiencies.

And after a slow start, the comedy gains momentum and becomes lot of fun, with the postman's bicycle his indispensable prop; it gets a credit. Tati has his own unique style, which has been copied. But in terms of global comedy he crosses the expressiveness of Charlie Chaplin with the mid-life frustration of WC Fields. Some gags go back to the Lumière Brothers!

It's his lanky, jerky choreography that sets him apart. There's some subtext about modernisation which remained a key theme for Monsieur Hulot. The support cast does little but provoke the officious postal worker into spasms of buffoonish overreaction. Children may no longer sit still for this cheerful optimism; but it should hit the spot with nostalgics.

The title applies to the relationship of a potential Republican nomination (Spencer Tracy) with his wife (Katherine Hepburn). And of course, to the condition of the United States. The marriage is threatened by a predatory young press magnate (Angela Lansbury) while democracy is vulnerable to powerful vested interest.

It's an exposé of Washington realpolitik and the parasites and henchmen that attach themselves to the public relations roadshow. Tracy is persuasive in the lead. Hepburn has a support role though the film seems to suggest that her character is the more natural leader. Lansbury is wonderfully chilling as a manipulative agent of the far right.

This is Frank Capra's last masterpiece, though it is a departure; more naturalistic than with his great political fantasies of the '30s. Only at the end when the candidate confesses to his dishonesty on network tv and calls for labour and capital to pull together do we feel the old touch.

We witness a political machinery which promotes narcissism and rewards insincerity. This is a comedy in the sense that the people who occupy the screen talk with in constant flow of irony, which evades explicit meaning. The writing is sharp and witty, but the strength of the film is its believable cynicism. It feels true, and it feels it is still true.

Tough heist-noir released a few weeks after The Asphalt Jungle. So it was present at the dawn of the genre. This is the low budget version; punchy, modest but compelling. It was shot on the streets of Los Angeles with just a suggestion of the realistic police procedural style which was abundant in this period.

It clocks in at just over an hour and there isn't any let up. The cast is an ensemble of lesser B-picture stalwarts promoted to leads. William Talman is the vicious gang leader who pulls together a handful of deadbeats to carry out the heist. Naturally, it all falls apart due to dumb bad luck and the boss' uncompromising brutality. And the production code...

Then the focus shifts to the investigation with Charles McGraw as the cop who seeks to avenge the death of his partner in the robbery. Richard Fleischer commits a surprising amount of the short running time to Adele Jergens' routine as a stripper in a burlesque theatre. Though we only ever see the start of the act.

She's more interesting offstage as an astonishingly pragmatic femme fatale. This is a programmer which was only intended to be half of a double bill. It survives because Fleischer is a fine genre director and the character roles fit his unstarry cast like an old raincoat. And because the conventions of noir and the heist film are so resilient.

High quality, low budget 'Frisco noir which is now restored after many years of only being available in low grade duplicates. So maybe worth another look. There is a lesser director and minor stars, but they do fine work. The chief merit is the script which is stacked with knockout wisecracks, which Ann Sheridan in particular handles with assurance.

Her estranged husband (Ross Elliott) witnesses a gang killing and goes on the run pursued by a cop (Robert Keith) who wants him to testify. His wife needs to track him down to give him his meds and gradually learns he has a whole other life outside his marriage. She is joined by a crime reporter (Dennis O'Keefe) looking for a scoop...

But is the hardheaded spouse a bit too helpful to the tenacious newspaperman? Sheridan is excellent as the sassy-but-sour spitfire searching all over San Francisco, briefed only by what little she knows about the man she married. Director Norman Foster creates a great deal of suspense and a very dark, downbeat picture of the big city at night.

He tells the hooky plot with style, building to an exciting climax at the seafront amusement park. This is the best of his many support features and it's just possible to sense the tremor of his previous association with Orson Welles. And the link of his editor (Otto Ludwig) with Alfred Hitchcock in the montage. This is a thrilling B-noir classic.

This has one of the most celebrated openings in pictures as a long tracking shot of a small town accountant (Edmond O'Brien) delivers him to the desk of a police detective where he announces he wants to report a murder: 'my own'. He swallowed a slow acting poison on a bar crawl in San Francisco and solved the crime in his last few hours of life.

And how noir is that... an ordinary Joe who steps out of line just once, and he sleeps the big sleep. Sadly, after the tasty appetiser, there is uninspired filler as the victim narrates how he  figured out the unimaginative mystery. Though O'Brien as the desperate, despairing inquisitor gives the convoluted story the momentum of a charging bull.

There is one of the worst gimmick in pictures; during the wage slave's rare down time in the big city, every good looking dame triggers a kind of wolf-whistle on the soundtrack. Fortunately this soon goes away as his thoughts turn to his approaching death. There are some great locations in 'Frisco and LA, though the photography is only functional.

It's a very cheap looking B-picture, with a minor support cast, though we see Neville Brand's debut as the sadistic heavy he would play forever. And it's fun to watch Pamela Britton's Gloria Grahame impression as Ed's secretary/neglected love interest. This is more famous than it deserves to be, but still superior to the many remakes.