Film Reviews by Steve

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.

Undemanding horror/crime mash-up, mostly of interest as the first of two appearances by Bela Lugosi in a British film. The other was an old Mother Riley comedy! He has a dual role as a crooked insurance broker, and an elderly gentleman who runs a charity for the visually impaired but isn’t as benevolent, or as blind, as he seems.

It’s Wilfred Walter on the poster as the blind-mute killer who knocks off Lugosi’s customers after they sign over the dividend. Hugh Williams is the plod on the case who posts the glamorous daughter of one of the victims (Greta Gynt) undercover in the shadowy charity HQ.

This is adapted from a novel by Edgar Wallace, and he isn’t breaking any new ground. But there are a few surprising moments of sinister horror. And some unwelcome comic relief from Edmon Ryon as a visiting American detective. Though I’ve seen far worse.

Naturally, Lugosi overplays his role, yet his x-factor gives the standard situations a boost. The minor director (Walter Summers) creates little suspense but there’s a nice atmosphere of the foggy London docks and decent set design. It’s a minor programmer, but worth a look. 

This is often named as the best of the Universal monster pictures, and among the greatest sequels ever made. But I prefer the 1931 original! Certainly Bride… is a more lavish production with impressive set design and a rousing score (by Franz Waxman). But the tone is different, which may be just a matter of taste.

This is more playful, and really a comedy-horror. Though there is a strong story, with transgressive religious imagery and plenty of grotesquery. Boris Karloff- credited this time!- returns as the monster stitched together from cadavers, who rampages across the countryside killing the fearful, superstitious yokels.Though he is simply misunderstood...

The macabre creature is taught to speak by a blind hermit (OP Heggie) before being ultimately rejected by the title character. There’s a cast of British expats, with 17 year old Valerie Hobson an upgrade on Mae Clarke as the love interest. Of course, Karloff is iconic and Ernest Thesiger as an evil biologist is an ideal conduit for the camp humour.

Best of all is Jack Pierce’s monster makeup. Karloff’s is even better than the first time. Yet Elsa Lanchester as the bride is superior. She only stands, and stares, and hisses, but her lightning charged image is a sensation. It’s a weird, febrile fairytale set against spooky, expressionist backgrounds. Though the ’31 version is better!

This is a real oddball. It’s the last of Fritz Lang’s trilogy of depression era crime melodramas starring Sylvia Sidney. And another story of a young couple struggling to stay honest during the austerity of the ‘30s. But there is comedy too, plus a few musical numbers from Kurt Weill. This is arthouse.

George Raft is a reformed gangster who works on sales in a department store run by the sort of liberal (Harry Carey) who believes in second chances. The ex-con doesn’t know that Sylvia is on probation and breaking the terms of her release when they get married. They just can’t get a break…

This isn’t one of Lang’s best films, though it is interesting to see him attempt a more theatrical approach, with characters at times speaking in rhymes! There’s an expressionist look, and an impression that the director is reaching deep back into his Berlin heritage. And it was a flop.

But this is mainly worth seeing for Sylvia Sidney, the sad eyed girl of ‘30s melodrama as she goes all the way to hold on to her slim chance of happiness. Once again, she's much more intelligent than her man. And was never more beautiful. It’s a schematic political allegory which she miraculously takes straight to the heart. 

GANGWAY

Cheerful Jessie Matthews musical which doesn’t offer anything new, but... well, that’s some of the attraction! It’s not even her first character to pose as a maid. She plays a theatre critic who wants to do real news stories. Working undercover to expose some showbiz gossip, she gets snagged up with the Chicago mafia…

This was made with Gaumont-British in liquidation, but there’s quite a lavish production, even if the musical numbers feel a bit perfunctory. Jessie gets to dance in a variety of styles. The songs are of variable quality, though Lord and Lady Whoosiz is a big personal favourite. Okay, it rips off Makin’ Whoopee, but I prefer the cheap copy.

Barry Mackay is a bit of a stiff as the posh police inspector who romances Jessie onboard the Atlantic crossing. There’s a decent support cast playing the usual roles, with Nat Pendleton as a dumb gangster. Alastair Sim is best as an incompetent private eye on the trail of stolen pearls.

This is a decent vehicle for Jessie's many talents... until they dock in New York, where inspiration runs out. There’s a really witty script with some genuinely funny gags. The standard screwball scenarios work yet again. It’s a peak period Jessie Matthews comedy, and there are far too few of those. Such a happy film.

CLIMBING HIGH

The first collaboration between Carol Reed and Michael Redgrave (Kipps, The Stars Look Down) is a side issue. This is primarily a vehicle for Jessie Matthews in the last of her star roles for Gaumont-British, just as the studio finally collapsed. The budget is meagre and the musical numbers were cut. But it’s still a decent screwball comedy.

Jessie plays a lingerie model who keeps on meeting cute with a wealthy, accident prone socialite (Redgrave) who the gossip columns insist is engaged to a hardup aristocrat (Margaret Vyner). And that’s it, save a truly dreadful climax in the Alps with Francis L. Sullivan as a psychopathic opera enthusiast.

It doesn’t attempt to reinvent the genre. The two stars quarrel, then reluctantly fall in love. People pretend to be what they are not. There is a mix of slapstick and innuendo. Redgrave is likeable and Jessie makes a delightful fast talking dame. Often in her scanties, given her occupation. And maybe the budget…

There is quite a lot about class, with both the workers and the aristos doing badly in the depression. Alastair Sim is a workshy Communist, Mary Clare an unscrupulous blueblood. It evokes the contemporary New Deal comedies of Frank Capra. Of course, this isn’t as good, but at least Jessie’s stardom fades out still somewhere near her peak.

THE GOOD COMPANIONS.

Charming, optimistic musical-comedy from the popular novel by JB Priestley, which made a star of the adorably peppy Jessie Matthews. Several enterprising regional caricatures are blown together by circumstance, and assemble in a concert party, putting on shows in the seaside towns of England.

There was some allegorical intent from Priestley which the scriptwriters retain. We are introduced to three of the characters in their prior lives in the provinces, trapped by convention in a land where everyone knows their place. They find freedom on the road with the theatre company, which is a co-operative, unencumbered by class.

But the politics is lightly sketched. The companions are an oasis of make believe, a sanctuary from the realities of the depression. There is an ensemble cast: John Gielgud is disappointingly inert as a frustrated schoolteacher who turns to songwriting; Edmond Gwenn is likeable but quite broad as a middle aged factory worker seeking a second act.

Jessie gradually commands the spotlight, more for her comic appeal than the modest song and dance numbers. This is an idealistic, uplifting film in which fortune favours the eccentric misfits and good-hearted strivers roaming the hotels, theatres and inns of England; the eternal haunts of the footloose traveller.

SAILING ALONG.

This is an assembly of familiar setups borrowed from Hollywood musicals. But it’s still delightful, and with many positives. Mainly, there’s Jessie Matthews in an all singing/all dancing performance as a tomboy brought up on a river barge on the Thames, who dreams of becoming a star of the west end theatre.

The negative is Barry MacKay as the love interest, who has zero charisma. But there is a better support cast than usual for a Gaumont musical, with Roland Young as the eccentric millionaire who aims to promote Jessie into the big time, and Athene Seyler as his capricious, spinster sister. Plus Alastair Sim as a boho disciple of modern art.

The bonus is Broadway musical stalwart Jack Whiting who- for once- gives Matthews an equal partner for the many dance numbers, particularly the long, ambitious finale, My River. The songs are so-so but there is a grand production with swanky studio sets and fabulous gowns for Jessie.

The dialogue doesn’t really sparkle. And the plot is idiotic, though that’s standard for a musical. Jessie was nearing the end of her reign as the superstar of '30s British musicals, which seemed to fade away with her. Her incredible vivacity transcends the lightweight escapism of her pictures.

Returning to the start of Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce’s 14 picture stretch as Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, it’s a pleasure to notice just how opulent is this version of the famous gothic detective story. The costumes, period Victorian setting and the atmosphere of mysterious, perilous Dartmoor are all just right. Plus all the fog.

Also, it’s a joy to encounter Bruce playing Watson as fairly competent; still the comedy relief, but not a complete idiot. Thirdly, it’s unusual how much of Arthur Conan Doyle’s novel makes it onto the screen. This is a reasonably faithful account of the great detective’s most famous case. And we even get the infamous last line: ‘Watson! The needle!’

It should be restated how ideal is the casting of Rathbone as Holmes. Of course, the weakness of the story is that he disappears in the early chapters, but that’s hardly a factor in this 75 minute retelling. The support cast is variable with Richard Greene a bluff, plucky hero and Lionel Atwill splendidly inscrutable as the local medic. But Morton Lowry makes an inoffensive villain.

This sort of gothic mystery was ideal for the (so-called) horror ban of the late ‘30s when foreign markets rejected Hollywood fright films. The hound is a sort-of mythic monster anyway, and well realised here. It was a box office hit and inspired a sequel and the long low budget Universal series. And it’s the best version of the classic tale on the big screen.

THE MAN FROM TORONTO

Naturally... the best thing about this British social comedy is Jessie Matthews. The presentation is static, even for the early '30s, and the journeyman director (Sinclair Hill) doesn’t show much aptitude for opening up the source stage play for the screen. The cast is just lined up in front of the camera. Though the actors give it their best shot.

And not only the star… Sure, Jessie captivates as the headstrong, materialistic it-girl promised a tidy inheritance if she weds the title character. But Ian Hunter is serviceable as her romantic foil. Margaret Yarde is fine as the stately frump he thinks he has to marry. And Frederick Kerr excels as the irascible solicitor trying to push through the will.

Still, it’s Jessie who keeps it buoyant when the standard screwball situations stall. She impersonates a maid to get to know her potential husband, and learns a little about how the other classes live. There are no musical numbers; this is straight comedy. Instead… there is some surprising, censor-rattling glamour!

The satire about the enthusiasm of the rich for the poor to preserve the ancient rural traditions that oppressed them for centuries, still engages. Of course, it’s dated, but the privileges of class are scrutinised more than usual for the period. Even so, it’s difficult to imagine anyone will come to this now for any reason other than the cult of its star.

HEAD OVER HEELS.

Frothy musical romcom which stars Jessie Matthews still at her absolute zenith, though there are signs that Gaumont Studios are in decline. Compared with her previous few films, there is a lesser director, as husband Sonnie Hale takes charge for the first of three screen collaborations..

This looks low budget, but Hale actually directs pretty well. And there are excellent songs by a duo of Oscar winning Hollywood composers. The script is witty, with funny Music Hall style gags. The support cast is capable, featuring real-life American aristo Whitney Bourne, who brings some icy blonde glamour.

Of course, this is primarily a vehicle for Jessie, and she sparkles, particularly at the screwball comedy. Her dated singing style is still fine, and she's a quality dancer, even if the the choreography is scaled down. The plot is basic. A Parisian nightclub performer must choose between two men...

Louis Borel and Robert Flemyng contrast nicely as the lovers and there are some cute insights into the nature of romantic love for women in the '30s. Matthews plays quite a headstrong woman... But this isn't Ibsen! While it might not compare with contemporary Hollywood on resources, Jessie's star quality still makes it special.

Fritz Lang’s Hollywood debut begins a trilogy of crime melodramas about the insecure working poor in the depression. They all star Sylvia Sidney as an intelligent woman in love with a blue-collar striver haunted by misfortune. Here the fiancé is Spencer Tracy, the owner of a gas station who is chased down by a lynch mob for a crime he didn’t commit.

When he makes a fortuitous escape, he lays low while the guilty are tried for murder. The schematic plot takes up most of the short running time, so regrettably the performances are secondary. But the stars are compelling, and Sidney is, as usual, a heartbreaker. She only wants a home and a husband with a job. But fate is unforgiving.

So this is social protest aimed at the still common practice of lynching in the US. Hell, this is only a generation away from the wild west. Lang gives it a pre-noir look with the shadows and funky camera angles, and there are some amazing extreme closeups. Despite the realism, there is his usual impression of visual poetry…

And the agony of the ordinary person caught in the grip of malign destiny. Lang fled Nazi Germany in ’33 and it’s really tempting to suppose that this reflection on mob hysteria is carried over from his Berlin period. The ending is weak, due to interference from MGM and the meaning gets lost, yet this is still an impressive start to the director’s second act.

The first of a pair of Warner Brothers precode horrors directed by Michael Curtiz in 2-strip Technicolor, and starring Lionel Atwill and Fay Wray… It also shares with The Mystery of the Wax Museum (1933) various themes and situations, including the investigation by a tabloid reporter into the disappearance of bodies from a morgue.

There is a curious combination of grotesque, transgressive shocks and witless comic relief. Lee Tracy plays the lecherous, faint-hearted newshound like a prototype Bob Hope as he pursues both the Full Moon Killer, and Fay Wray. Who is lovely, by the way, and fully justifies her reputation as the first scream-queen

With the police certain that the murderer is one of his team of crackpot medical boffins, Atwill puts them through his ludicrous electronic psychotherapy machine, and comes to an unforeseeable and utterly screwy conclusion. Which all leads to a surprisingly gruesome climax, which is not easily forgotten.

The lowbrow humour is fine, with Leila Bennett far from the worst comedy-maid in horror. And it’s always fun to watch Lionel Atwill. It isn’t always suspenseful, but there’s lots of shadowy atmosphere, eerie art deco set design and the novelty of early Technicolor. And there's that wild eccentricity often encountered in precode cinema.