Film Reviews by Steve

Typical ’30s Warner Brothers musical, with Busby Berkley’s extravagant choreography, music from Dubin and Warren and a familiar setup as Dick Powell snubs his puritanical rich relations to put on a Broadway revue starring his showgirl squeeze (Ruby Keeler). Though it feels like the formula has peaked and the studio sliced the budget.

So there's a lesser director. Powell, Keeler and Joan Blondell are the stars rather than support. The plot is recycled from Gold Diggers of 1933 but without the snappy wisecracks. And the arrival of censorship has compromised the visual innuendo which was a staple of the best Berkeley numbers. Though fittingly, this is actually about such regulation.

The musical spectaculars are inconsistent. Girl at the Ironing Board is mundane. Still, it's Busby's contributions that are the best part of the picture… I Only Have Eyes for You plays as a jaw dropping (and unsettling) tribute to Ruby Keeler, with the screen filled with dancers in huge Keeler masks! The star appears out of an eye in one of the giant faces!

It's such a classic song, maybe the excessive repetition of the chorus can be indulged. The title number is also a winner. There are likeable performances. And some of the editing effects are extraordinary. But this represents the end of peak period Warner Brothers musicals. Another victim of the Production Code. There's not even enough dames! 

Complex historical epic about a painter of Orthodox Christian icons in medieval Russia, which is difficult and cerebral, but also an incredibly visceral spectacle. The life of the saint is examined in a series of fictional episodes which range from long philosophical discussions about faith, to a memorably violent battle scene.

Anatoliy Solonitsyn is understated in the title role. Everything is secondary to Andrei Tarkovsky’s erudite, profound evocation of brutal, austere 15th century Moscow. The events mostly take place in a rural Cathedral which the artist restores, only to be sacked by a Tatar invasion.

It slowly evolves into a dramatic final episode about the creation of a huge bronze bell, which illustrates the 'miracle of faith', rather than as a point of interest in a labyrinthine discussion. And as they actually make the bell using historical methods, it demonstrates the superior level of craft at the director’s command.

This can feel more astonishing than entertaining. The excess of symbolism may be a challenge which requires further research… Certainly it tests interest in issues of faith in medieval Russia. Though, unlike the director’s later head-movies, it’s not obscure. It’s a staple of best-ever film lists. But be prepared to do some work! 

Slow burning anthropology about a Japanese peasant family scratching a sustenance from their land on a remote island, who are exposed to barely conceivable everyday hardships. Including transporting all their water (in buckets) from another settlement. It is based on director Kaneto Shindô’s rural upbringing…

But this isn’t social realism. The toil of moving water around and transferring small quantities of earth is a metaphorical reflection on the lives of all people/creatures. But gradually, the characters take on a heroic quality, through their tenacity and acceptance and the love of their children.

This is hardcore arthouse cinema, which conveys its rewards by degrees. There is no dialogue at all, just a couple of worksongs. Taiji Tonoyama is convincingly stolid as the crude, primitive farmer. But Shindô regular Nobuko Otowo is heartbreaking as his stoical wife. 

This is an agonising, yet beautiful existentialist testimony to human endurance. There is solace in the orchestral soundtrack and the lovely, pale widescreen b&w photography. The patience and empathy of the viewer takes this somewhere close to tragedy; a once in a lifetime masterpiece.

Cerebral drama from a script by Harold Pinter with his distinctive mood of implicit menace, allusive meaning and expressive pauses. It is a slow moving story with a strong evocation of a rural summer, and the aloof academia that gathers around a pair of ascendant Oxford scholars.

Dirk Bogarde is predictably excellent as a fading, rather seedy middle aged philanderer, and professor of philosophy. Stanley Baker is a revelation as his more successful antagonist. Most of the interest is psychological and all the cast accomplish these nuances with finesse.

This is an ostentatiously pessimistic portrayal of academic life. The encounter between Bogarde and Delphine Seyrig as a brittle victim of his malign infidelity is pitiful. Her silence betrays an extraordinarily intense impression of mental fragility.

Joseph Losey draws on the European arthouse cinema of Eric Rohmer and Michelangelo Antonioni… He has a gift for staging the interior life of his characters, which might easily be portentous and pretentious. But instead is compelling, and disturbing. 

Bittersweet musical romance which is so memorable because it is all sung, like an opera, and for the ultra-vivid set design of stripes and floral patterns in primary colours, like a sweetshop in a fairytale. Catherine Deneuve is the ultimate gamine in a role which made her a star outside of France.

She plays a 16 year old who falls for a young mechanic (Nino Castelnuovo). When he is sent to the war in Algeria, they drift apart and reluctantly make new lives which will never replace the rapture of first love. While the story is captivating and the performances are charming, it’s the staging which makes this so different.

It’s like a lovely enchantment. The speak-sung dialogue occasionally coalesces into a romantic ballad; I Will Wait for You was nominated for an Oscar and is now a standard. Michel Legrand scores the film with cool jazz and sweet, yearning, ameliorating strings…

…While the happiness of the teenage lovers slips out of reach, forever. As the dream is lost, we feel the weight of our own memories. There really is nothing else like this- well apart from Jacques Demy’s own imitation, The Young Girls of Rochefort (1967), also with Deneuve. But this is far better!

As Pier Paolo Pasolini was a Marxist, who better to tell the life story of history’s most prominent anti-capitalist? The writer/director was also an atheist so he emphasises the political role of Jesus of Nazareth. There is an impression of how subversive is Matthew's gospel and its philosophy.

But we still see the miracles. This isn’t an attempt to explain the New Testament in purely naturalistic terms. The Vatican has this listed among the best ever religious films. It’s presented as neorealism, and the dialogue is all taken from the text, as are the events. There is a non professional cast, led by a university professor (Enrique Irazoqui) as Jesus.

It’s a challenge to watch in several ways. Irazoqui rigidly declaims the famous lines without nuance or feeling. The constant use of metaphor and allegory grows laborious…The b&w photography is deliberately stark like newsreel footage, which gets wearisome. There is no craft. The budget is ostentatiously minuscule.

Though, of course, that’s the point. This is an attempt to present the life of Jesus plausibly, simply and without awe. And imply how like Marxism the revolutionary lessons of the gospels are. And on those terms this is exceptional. And yes, the greatest version of this story ever told on the big screen.  

Spooky voodoo shocker inspired by popular US news articles of the 1930s which claimed to expose sinister witchcraft on the Caribbean islands. Dorothy Burgess plays a Spanish woman brought up among these superstitions. She marries a New York businessman (Jack Holt), but continually feels the pull of her origins.

Only she now has a family. Fay Wray comes back to the old plantation with them, mainly because she is a horror star. She doesn’t even get to scream. Roy William Neill directs with his usual feel for atmosphere, with the colour tints, the shadows and the sound of the drums…

Some of this will now set off alarms for its portrayal of race. On the other hand, the white colonials are defined as brutal oppressors and the voodoo a justifiable means of resistance. Though not the murders. Its release was squeezed in just before the enforcement of the Production Code in 1934…

And there is a fair amount of precode exotica. So we see Burgess’ hot voodoo dance in a sexy tribal two-piece. She haunts the whole film from her supporting role. This is for those of us who prefer their ’30s horror without monsters, but with a little psychological deviance.  

YOU'RE TELLING ME!

This is the picture which allowed WC Fields creative control of his sound comedies for the first time, and established the formula which would make him a cinema legend. He is the browbeaten husband of an exasperated wife (Louis Carter), who medicates his disappointment with whisky and daydreams.

His other solace is a grown up daughter (Joan Marsh) who loves him, otherwise the set up would be too sad for comedy. Here he is a part-time deviser of crackpot gadgets whose child is overlooked for marriage by the rich family of a preppy hunk (Buster Crabbe) because Fields lacks social position.

Only a sad Russian princess (Adrienne Ames) encounters the hapless inventor on a train and kindly visits his home town to boost his status in the community. But the plot is the least successful part of the film. The appeal comes from the diminished status of the great comedian within his home.

And this is really, very funny with one or two moments of precious hilarity. But there is genuine pathos too. A few of the star’s routines from the silents are recycled, which was standard. The screen legacy of WC Fields effectively starts here with his first truly essential sound film.

MAN ON THE FLYING TRAPEZE.

WC Fields retains Kathleen Howard from It's a Gift as his shrewish wife, but this time has a more loving daughter (Mary Brian) to sweeten the dish. It's a Gift is hilarious, but awfully cold. Again there's a collection of sketches arranged around a loose narrative. Ambrose Wolfinger just wants to go to the wrestling...  

The best episode is the opener when the great man is forced into the cellar by his wife to confront two burglars who are getting mellowly drunk on his applejack. Fields, the intruders and a cop end up harmonising sentimental Irish ballads. For all of them, this is brief moment of respite, seized from the hell of domesticity.

 It's such a funny film because Fields' comic persona is so identifiable. His interminable suffering is revealed so succinctly, with a sudden nervous reflex or a mumbled aside. He has grown to accept his malign fate. And there's nothing he can do about it.  

Fields is always doing what he is asked, however absurd. Then is admonished when the outcome proves to be unsatisfactory. He acts without complaint or hope, and then gets nailed for it. And who doesn't know how that feels?! This is my pick as his best film. 

This is a coming together of two superstars of post-WWII French cinema. It’s a thriller directed by Henri-Georges Clouzot, the other master of suspense. And there’s a change of direction for screen icon Brigitte Bardot who does juvenile tragedy in a realistic, seedy b&w Paris.

And she’s a revelation as a wild, provincial teenager who escapes her suffocating parents to live among the Bohemians of the student quarter. And who is charged with the murder of her ex-lover (Sami Frey). BB is deglamorised, but obviously still looks amazing despite the rags and the grime.

It’s a courtroom drama, with Clouzot regulars Charles Varnel (for the defence) and Paul Meurisse (the prosecution). Plus the flashbacks to the cold water bedsits and shabby coffee bars. But actually it’s about the generations; the friction between the conservative old men of the court, and the young, permissive undergraduates.

There is plenty of relishable atmosphere of sleazy, boho Paris. The film is overextended to give us much more of the star. And we don’t get the big final twist standard with this director. But it’s still fascinating, both as Clouzot thriller and an offbeat vehicle for Bardot. 

One of the best historical romantic melodramas ever made. It’s adapted from an 18th century play (by Monzaemon Chikamatsu) set in feudal Japan about a careless, dishonourable merchant in calendars (Eitarô Shindô) who falsely charges his principal designer (Kazoo Hasegawa) of an affair with his wife (Kyôko Kagawa).

And this is a time when adultery is punished by death. Against a background of self-seeking courtly intrigue, the two accused innocents flee Kyoto into the mountains to rely on the kindness of strangers. While the arrogant husband schemes to save face by bringing her back alone.

But ironically, the fugitives fall deeply in love, with a bravery and decency which gives their life (brief) meaning and joy. A passion for the ages, which will never be forgotten. If the feckless husband hadn’t been bereft of wisdom… the lovers would never have found each other. And willingly died together.

Hasegawa and Kagawa are heartbreaking in the title roles. This is Kenji Mizoguchi’s masterpiece, and as always, it is visually exquisite. It’s a haunting, poetic romance which fulfils the thematic diktats of the post-WWII US occupation- particularly regarding the traditional status of women- yet feels entirely authentic. 

Impeccably liberal parable about race from Stanley Kramer which doesn’t quite capitalise on its interesting- if obvious- premise. Sidney Poitier plays a persecuted, resentful African-American convict, and Tony Curtis… a shack-raised southern bigot. Naturally, during a prison transfer they escape, except chained together.

And they have to learn to co-operate for their common purpose. Which is one of the most famous set-ups in pictures. And it really works for 30 minutes while they get the measure of each other… The stars are fine and the quarrelling of the chasing posse inputs some knockabout comedy.

But the story gets lost in a couple of subplots- including Curtis bunking up with a lonely farm widow (Oscar nominated Cara Williams)- which are poorly developed and scripted. The realism is subordinate to the liberal message, and soon it all begins to feel contrived.

 It’s implausible that the violent, intractable criminals should so readily open up… Until it becomes probably that Kramer is suggesting they are linked not just by economic and social oppression, but their sexuality… It’s impossible to be critical of the director’s intentions, but this civil rights classic now feels too simplistic.

MILLION DOLLAR LEGS

This anarchic comedy was scripted (mainly by Joe Mankiewicz) for the Marx Brothers, who turned it down. And every scene is obviously intended for them, which already makes this an eccentric film. And also exposes just how crucial gag writers are to the public’s favourite comic acts.

Paramount instead cast an assortment of ex-silent comedians (like crosseyed Ben Turpin), led by Broadway star Jack Oakie. Though, of these, only WC Fields is a farceur on the level of the Marx Brothers, and shares their gift for the surreal. There always was some crossover between he and Groucho. Consider their lists of character names.

This is Fields’ first sound film at the studio and he plays the President of the middle European state of Klopstokia who wants to squeeze more money out of the peasants. A visiting US salesperson (Okie) convinces him instead to enter the Los Angeles Olympics of 1932, because their citizens all have an exaggerated sporting talent.

The President is their strongman. There are some crazy laughs in the early scenes, though the screen is burdened with too much Okie (and low-watt glamour from Susan Fleming, Harpo’s wife…) and not enough Fields. Eventually, it gets tiresome but may be of interest to fans of the absurdist comedy which survives in the margins of studio era Hollywood.

INTERNATIONAL HOUSE

Crazy, precode Paramount revue which is an irreverent run out for the studio’s vaudeville talent, linked by a loose plot about them travelling to China to invest in… television! Most film fans will watch this for the early sound appearance by WC Fields, who is the best on show.

 And there is some delightful comedy from George Burns and Gracie Allen. Rudy Vallee croons a romantic ballad. Of course, some of the acts are forgotten now. Most baffling is Baby Rose Marie, a pre-teen moppet with a Louise Brooks haircut who belts it out while standing on a piano.

Top billed is Peggy Hopkins Joyce, who was a celebrity for marrying millionaires and a model for Lorelei Lee in Anita Loos’ novel Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. She is disappointingly frumpy, but in a platinum blonde wig. Certainly no Marilyn Monroe. Some topical gags are lost in the winds of time.

There’s fun to be had with the precode innuendo, and the sexy showgirl glamour of a Busby Berkeley pastiche. We may pinch ourselves as Cab Callaway sings Reefer Man! And look… there’s Bela Lugosi. It’s just a showcase for Paramount contract curiosities, but better than usual for this sort of thing.

Classic German expressionism based on Maurice Renard’s famous French horror serial about a concert pianist who loses his hands in a train crash… which are replaced by grafts from an executed knife murderer. So the musician begins to feel controlled by violent, homicidal impulses.

Only it’s so much weirder than that… and grotesque. The screen is dominated by Conrad Veidt as Orlac, driven to obsessive insanity by his psychological rejection of the transplant. Of course, this is an expressionist performance typical of silent horror and sometimes it feels like watching interpretive dance!

Still, Veidt is phenomenal and the main attraction. Admittedly, anyone not fascinated by his portrayal may find this slow, as the narrative dwells on his hallucinatory anguish. Fritz Kortner is convincingly repellent as the blackmailer who persuades the ex-maestro that his new hands are responsible for another killing.

The expressionist set design isn’t as extreme as director Robert Wiene’s earlier The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920), but still deeply evocative. And the film is darkly transgressive. It feels a happy miracle that this landmark gothic tale was adapted at such an auspicious time in cinema history. 

By 1932 Jessie Matthews was a star of the London stage, but not yet on the big screen. This dated musical-comedy is her first hit. She isn’t quite the vivacious screwball talent she would soon become, but almost everything that is worthwhile about this early talkie is down to her magnetism. 

There’s a standard romcom scenario, borrowed from a 1931 German picture. Jessie is due to be married (to Basil Radford!) as a makeweight in her father’s business shenanigans. So she skips off to Paris where she hides out with a respectable bachelor (Owen Nares) and they and everyone else behaves according to the crazy rules of farce.

Mainly because it is so catastrophic for a gentleman to have a young woman in his apartment… Director Albert de Courville is competent, but hardly has the Lubitsch touch. Owen Nares is inert as the male romantic lead. Roland Culver is fine as the drunken toff, in what used to be called the ‘silly arse’ role.

Only Matthews makes this much more than social history. She’s not quite there as a comedy actor- too much big eyes! Her voice is impaired by the compulsory elocution of the period. She doesn’t get to dance… She isn’t even well styled. But her charisma miraculously gives the thing life. She’s just got it.

This bombed on release but was venerated by the French critics who went on to direct the Nouvelle Vague; though their claims for it now feel like hyperbole. Still, this fascinating relationship drama was clearly influential over the next decade, and Roberto Rossellini’s exploration of the interior lives of the main characters is impressive.

It was initially recorded in English and later dubbed into Italian. The audio is satisfactory in neither, which takes some getting used to. It reflects on the disintegrating marriage between a pragmatic, wealthy businessman (George Sanders) and his more doubtful, sensitive wife (Ingrid Bergman) as they travel through the Italian southwest.

The actors were asked to improvise. This can be awkward, though arguably it contributes to the tension between them. The husband dismisses his wife as sentimental, but she has a more poetic feeling for life. He is a prosaic, hollow man. So Bergman is able to create a deeper characterisation, whereas Sanders gets stuck with a monster.

It’s not the first or last film to show people fundamentally change under the influence of Italy; its beauty, history and the warmth of the sun. The locations are glorious and the direction is eloquent. Though- for me- the ending is botched. It’s uncertain so many will now agree this is the turning point in modern cinema. But it’s a key Rossellini picture.