Film Reviews by Steve

The second of six films directed by Marcel Carné between 1938-46, which are the foundation of French poetic realism. Though without his usual screenwriter  Jacques Prévert, there is more realism, and less poetry. It's an ensemble melodrama set among the residents of the title address.

What makes this most like other Carné films is the romantic pessimism of the central story about a juvenile couple who can't make a living in the depression, so check in to execute a double suicide. Annabella and Jean-Pierre Aumont are extremely beautiful and affecting in the roles.

There's a wonderful support cast of French character actors, but the emphasis of their stories is unbalanced by the charisma of Arletty and Louis Jouvet as a sex worker and her pimp. Watching them bicker while shacked up in bed spotlights how much more adult late '30s French cinema was than Hollywood.

There is an awful lot of infidelity going on! The huge set of the Canal St. Martin and Maurice Jaubert's romantic score bring atmosphere. It's arguably the least of Carné's releases around the war years, but the image of the young lovers wrestling malign fate in the dark of their temporary room is among his most potent.

After the success of Dracula, Universal studios rushed Frankenstein into cinemas later the same year. And it is an improvement in every respect. The direction of James Whale co-ordinates the production with greater imagination. And there is obviously more money for costumes, effects and set design. And crucially, for Jack Pierce's monster makeup.

He transforms Boris Karloff as the reanimated cadaver into a screen legend. Though I'd prefer him mute rather than that weedy growl. The performances are fine, with Colin Clive expressive as the monomaniacal Doctor Frankenstein. Dwight Frye stands out as the hunchback. There's some witless comic relief and a weak romantic subplot, but still clocks in at a taut 70m.

This is a blockbuster and Whale doesn't labour the subtext of Mary Shelley's classic novel. We get another story about mankind overreaching itself and being punished. But there is an engaging impression that the monster is looking for a father. And so being brought to life by lightning, Karloff quite poignantly reaches to the stormy sky, like a forlorn child.

It's more transgressive than Dracula and still delivers a few shocks; like the monster's killing of the hunchback. It's a proto-mad scientist film which borrows heavily from German expressionism but has artistic merit of its own. The editing is excellent. And Karloff as the agonised victim of Frankenstein's hubris, is an icon of the decade and the emerging horror genre.

The Baron (Herbert Marshall) and the Countess (Miriam Hopkins), share a romantic supper in his swanky hotel in Venice. But soon they tumble each other as fellow con artists. After they have returned their stolen trinkets, they move to Paris together and steal a diamond covered handbag from a rich perfumer (Kay Francis).

Marshall finagles a job as the tycoon's secretary and develops romantic feelings for her while embezzling a fortune from the company. But Hopkins wants him for herself. It's a love triangle, except two of the lovers are kleptomaniacs trying to gyp the third, and each other.

Marshall is very much at home in Ernst Lubitsch's Paris.  But it's Hopkins film, in a performance that goes a long way to establishing a female archetype of the screwball comedy, with her blend of the ditzy, impulsive and volatile.  

The dialogue is witty and the farce is adorable. But it's also a comedy of manners which refers to Trotsky and the wages of the poor. Surprising and imaginative at every twist this is the last word on the sophisticated comedy which was Lubitsch's gift, set in the romantic destinations of Europe, places of irony, charade and repartee. And scandal. 

This violent gangster-noir is dominated by Broderick Crawford as a tough cop who goes undercover among New York longshoremen to investigate criminal activity- including murder- by the union. This is three years before On the Waterfront. So HUAC would appreciate its politics, even if it does feature a corrupt policeman.

The plot is driven by the search to expose the gang boss. Which will come as a surprise, and the jeopardy of the special agent makes this a potent thriller. The clunky wisecracks which Crawford has to constantly spit out are a weakness, but his aggressive, kinetic performance supplies the film's energy.

He created variations on this character for the rest of the decade. There are familiar faces in minor roles. Charles Bronson is an uncredited dockworker and Ernest Borgnine a supercilious heavy. Best of all, Neville Brand re-runs his schtick as the sneering, sadistic goon. Somehow he gets better dialogue than anyone else.

There is expressionism and the action is melodramatic, but it's the look of grainy realism which impresses. This is a dirty waterfront of desperate men. The female roles are peripheral. Once the postwar vogue for classic noir began to fade, the gangster picture returned. Though this isn't well known, it's among the more successful.

There was a revival of prison films after WWII when the punishment of crime became a hot topic in US news. Maybe because many returning combat veterans had experienced POW camps. This isn't among the best of these. It's mainly of interest as a remake of one of the classics of the first wave of big house melodramas, Howard Hawks' The Criminal Code.

It worked better in 1931, in the wild, permissive precode days when it felt raw and strange. The realism no longer stacks up in more regulated times. And it makes exactly the same case for reform as it did in the age of prohibition. Broderick Crawford plays the liberal lawyer who becomes governor and attempts to introduce more humane strategies.

But why is his daughter (Dorothy Malone) involved in rehabilitating prisoners, as a sort of hobby? She develops an unlikely romance with Glenn Ford, incarcerated for punching a rich blowhard in a bar... who fell awkwardly and died. Eventually, it gets tangled up in clichés and too many improbable things happen to enable an acceptable outcome.

Henry Levin was a director who could make a small budget go a long way, but the elementary lighting betrays a rushed production and exposes studio sets which look phoney in an age of location shoots. It's never dull or sanctimonious, and the performances are sincere, but Brute Force (1947) had already broken new ground for the prison film.

Cult heist-noir which re-entered public consciousness 40 years later when mentioned as an influence on Reservoir Dogs. The title suggests the kind of docu-noir which was going out of vogue by '52, but actually it's a tough, twisty crime thriller which reflects the postwar relaxation of censorship; the suggestion of police brutality is unexpectedly candid.

The usual first two acts of the heist film- the plan and the operation- are over in 15 minutes. This is all about the disintegration. A discredited former police chief (Preston Foster) brings together a gang of degenerate hoodlums to hold up an armoured car. Under masks- so they cannot identify each other- they agree to divide the swag when the heat is off.

Most of the action takes place in a Mexican tourist resort for the big payoff. John Payne plays an innocent party snagged up in the enterprise... and gradually the story gets less interesting, especially his romance with Coleen Gray. He hasn't the star quality to spice up the longueurs. But there's an incredible support cast as the crooks: Jack Elam, Lee Van Cleef and Neville Brand!

The script says Payne wins the confrontation, but they dominate the screen. The primary noir theme of greed is dominant, and Payne- the ex-marine who loses out in the postwar settlement- is a genre archetype, yet this doesn't have the pessimism of the '40s classics. It's a cute caper with an effective climax, but the slender intrigue is overextended.

Hugely commercial comedy-western loosely inspired by a pair of real old time outlaws. Paul Newman (Cassidy) and Robert Redford discovered the formula for thousands of future buddy pictures with the none too smart leader matched with a constantly bellyaching sidekick.

And it’s their chemistry which is the best part of the film. There isn’t any period realism or interesting thematic dimension, it’s just a fun action-adventure. It hardly feels like a western at all with Burt Bacharach's pop soundtrack- including the incongruous hit Raindrops Keep Falling On my Head.

George Roy Hill had surely been studying the Nouvelle vague- this takes plenty from Jules et Jim (1962) in particular. Maybe the bicycle was intended as disclosure! But, despite its New Hollywood credentials, this is really a throwback to the knockabout western spoofs of Howard Hawks.

It is episodic and the lack of a compelling narrative makes for occasional drag, though the sketches usually work. It won a deserved Oscar for cinematography, among seven nominations. There was nothing for the stars, but it’s the combo of Newman and Redford at their peak which is the main reason to watch. 

First runout for Clint Eastwood as the iconoclastic Harry Callaghan, the impassive detective who keeps San Francisco safe for effete liberals while impeded by their rulebook. With his .44 Magnum he’s like a lawman from a western. And for a while, there was public controversy over his right wing fundamentalism.

Which now feels exaggerated. Though Harry is likely to tickle the prejudices of those who don’t like how the world changes. And this is an incredibly sleazy America. Like Pottersville actually happened. Harry is from the generation who missed out, while the kids turned on and tuned in.

So he works, while they play. And now he’s chasing a serial killer while the law protects the criminal. Andrew Robinson is memorable as Scorpio, the whiny psychopath who knows his rights. And it’s suspenseful and expertly directed by Don Siegel. Though it all gets a little absurd towards the climax.

It’s astonishing how far the crime film evolved in the decade since Siegel’s earliest noirs. This city of freaks, dropouts and junkies is unrecognisable. With the urban decay, Lalo Schifrin’s sensational jazz-funk score and the laconic star, this landed at just the right time and became a phenomenon. 

This picturesque Italian sex comedy/political allegory is probably going to be too provocative for modern audiences. It’s an update of JM Barrie’s Admirable Crichton but with (tasteful) nudity and profanity. A super-rich female boss browbeats the poorly paid male staff on her yacht.

But when she and one of her lowly flunkies are washed up on a deserted island, of course the positions are reversed. Only this time the man demands compensation for past wrongs, which isn’t so much sex as her absolute submission. Which she discovers is her ultimate fulfilment.

Naturally, this is intended to represent the conflict between capital and labour, but the erotic content will stimulate a variety of responses. Personally, the male on female violence isn’t acceptable, however symbolic. This is supposed to be comedy and the situations are grotesquely exaggerated, though never actually funny.

Giancarlo Giannini as the grubby socialist and Mariangela Melota as the sexy fascist play it as farce, and it eventually gets a little tiresome. But this is a really well directed film set in gorgeous locations on the coast of Sardinia. And though the sexual politics is dated, the class warfare is still relevant.

Gorgeous looking post-noir with the familiar setup of a vulnerable woman menaced by an unknown male assassin. Lee Remick is a bank worker living with her school age sister (Stefanie Powers). An assailant who can only be identified by his asthmatic breathing says they will both be brutally murdered unless the clerk robs her employer of $100,000.

And don't tell the cops... So she immediately calls the FBI… and Glenn Ford throws a huge team behind her protection, which climaxes with the wheezy psycho gunned down on the outfield of the LA Dodgers. So the first casualty of the investigation is logic.

It's unlikely the bureau would commit extensive, around the clock resources to protect a single tax payer for a crime that hasn't happened. And it's implausible that the maniac who threatens to kill her if she tells anyone, and has her entire life staked out, doesn't notice there are a dozen G Men watching every move 

Unfortunately this also undermines the suspense as it makes the stalker a bit of an idiot. However, the b&w photography is a knockout with cool camera effects and impressive locations (including the set piece at Candlestick Park). It never gets as tense as promised in the early scenes but still, it's an entertaining thriller with attractive stars. 

Dignified anti-war allegory set in (what was) Burma at the end of WWII. The Japanese surrender and their army departs for home. But a lone soldier (Shôji Yasui) steals the robes of a Buddhist monk and endeavours to bury the thousands of corpses left behind by the conflict.

Most obviously this is to repair the land and peace of the occupied country. But is also open to interpretation. Is this a kind of penance for Japanese guilt? Though this isn’t much explored. Arguably, the the soldier is literally burying the evidence of war atrocities…

Still, there is a clear message that Japan must build a future free from military nationalism. Kon Ichikawa uses music to express our shared humanity quite movingly, and creates ambience from the eternal farms and mountains. There are striking scenes filmed among Buddhist temples.

Though it’s a shame the director doesn’t yet use his favoured widescreen format. This is a stately, solemn critics’ favourite; a meditative, spiritual film, which sometimes meanders and maybe lacks focus. Yet it is intelligent, unconventional and profoundly humanistic.

Lightweight gothic horror-comedy which is most of interest to golden age aficionados because it is a sound remake of the lost Lon Chaney silent, London After Midnight (1927), also directed by Tod Browning. It’s among a handful of decent scare pictures made by MGM in the mid-30s.

Though its production values reflect those of Universal studios, with the foggy graveyards and rudimentary effects. There’s a proper star in Lionel Barrymore as a vampire hunter investigating the supernatural possession of a rural estate in middle Europe. Bela Lugosi reprises his performance from Dracula (1931).

Except, there’s a twist, which isn’t inspired and negates everything that happened before. And it means the film only really works once. In fact, a second viewing makes no sense at all. Still, it’s good ‘30s horror escapism with a fun cast…

Carol Borland is a standout a kind of proto-goth. Lugosi camps it up as the undead and Lionel Atwill plays it straight as a bristling policeman. It’s a loose spoof of Browning’s Dracula and while no masterpiece, its curiosity value makes it a must-see for studio era horror fans. But only once.

Slight psychological thriller which serenely unfolds towards a satisfying final twist. Michel Bouchet plays a wealthy, middle aged art dealer who takes his beautiful, younger wife (Stéphane Audran) for granted. Frustrated by his flickering sex drive, she conducts a quiet affair with a strikingly similar divorced writer (Maurice Ronet).

When the two men meet, the panicked husband kills the lover. Which at least shifts him from the rut of his usual humdrum comfort zone! The stunned murderer is out of condition, and his sedentary lifestyle is clearly no preparation for adventure. Stéphane stays sexy, while Michel gets a paunch.

The visual design creates an impression of how tasteless French style is at the fag end of the ‘60s. The ugly clothes, the beige interiors and the tacky bistro and disco. And how much they smoke and drink… Ronet comments that bourbon is the best whisky for mornings!

Claude Chabrol also illustrates how sexist is this environment; there is an abundance of satire. The characters don’t discuss their feelings, yet the actors convey these nuances with considerable skill. It’s a subdued suspense picture, but also a subtle exploration of the middle years of a marriage. 

IT'S LOVE AGAIN.

Classy screwball musical from Gaumont which is bathed in the lustre of Jessie Matthews' stellar performance. She (yet again) plays a singer/dancer struggling to break into showbiz. Co-star Robert Young is a gossip columnist who fills space with made-up stories about a madcap socialite called Mrs Smythe-Smythe.

Jessie steps into the role of the fake celebrity and becomes famous for being famous. She performs a few excellent song and dance numbers in cute '30s fashions. The costume and set design is by veterans of German cinema and some of the crew would later get Oscar recognition. This brims with quality.

The actors squeeze all the laughs out of a witty screwball script. Jessie is superb at the comedy and matched by a decent leading man. There's the obvious influence of Hollywood musicals. It was released in the US, but these scanty costumes must have challenged the censorship.

Matthews' elocution lessons left her with an old fashioned faux-posh speaking voice and her high vocal range was already dated in the age of jazz. But she has charisma to burn; and one of cinema's most adorable overbites! It's the pick of '30s British musicals, and compares with the best of Hollywood too.

WALTZES FROM VIENNA.

This is a real oddity, a musical from the Master of Suspense. Alfred Hitchcock described it as the lowest point in his career, and yet it was released earlier the same year his long gestation as director finally matured with The Man Who Knew too Much. At the time it was more of a vehicle for British musical star, Jessie Matthews.

Only Hitch cut her songs- save one- and she has no dance routines. They hated each other, which is a shame because she would have been ideal in his '30s screwball-thrillers. What this is, most of all, is one of many classical biopics made in Britain in the early ‘30s.

There's a fictional account of Johann Strauss jr’s composition of the Blue Danube in 19th century Vienna, and a comic love triangle with Matthews as a precocious baker’s daughter and Fay Compton as an aristocrat looking to sponsor male talent… Esmond Knight lacks charm as the king of the waltz. Edmund Gwenn barely registers as Strauss sr.

Only Jessie catches the eye with her gift for comedy, and she looks lovely in the romantic gowns. There are a couple of visual flourishes from Hitch. The sets and costumes are lavish and this is decent compared with other period musicals made in Britain in the ‘30s. But it is the best work of no one involved. Maybe an ok time-killer for fans of the music.

****/*

For 15 years after WWII, UK cinema told its war stories, usually in b&w with a cast of great British stalwarts. In the ’60s, the Hollywood studios remade them as blockbusters. This is in Deluxe colour and Panavision. John Sturges is a major US director of action films leading a lavish production, shot in genuine locations.

And there’s a big Hollywood star in Steve McQueen. The narrative is actually more satisfying than those ‘50s UK films. It’s a loose adaptation of a non fiction book about a mass breakout from a German POW camp; but isn’t grim realism. The mood is sometimes quite cartoonish, yet the US screenwriters create a coherent environment

It sustains interest over an epic three hours of skilful storytelling, sardonic comedy and slow burning suspense. Credit is also due to Elmer Bernstein for his famous score which skilfully sets the tone so the darker moods don't prevail. What UK cinema contributes is that phenomenal support company of actors.

My pick is Donald Pleasence as the self-effacing forger, going blind. The only casting blunder is James Coburn as an Aussie larrikin. Everyone remembers the action climax with McQueen hanging from the wire on the Swiss border, but it’s the relationships which most endure. Sure, it’s Hollywoodised- but still a heartfelt tribute to the prisoners’ bravery and ingenuity.