Film Reviews by Steve

Minor POW escape picture based on a true story, which is unfortunately diminished by never actually leading to a successful getaway... Yet the usual formula is so robust that the flimsy setup is still exciting and interesting, bolstered by a decent (all male) ensemble cast of British character actors. And a couple of Americans

So Jack Warner, Anthony Steel, Robert Beatty et al are bottled up in the barracks, under the sadistic supervision of Anton Diffring as the enthusiastic Nazi guard. They develop a plan to facilitate an escape while outside the perimeter fence, using a homemade dummy they call Albert. The stand-in appears in the lineup while heads are counted.

Well, apparently it worked once, though the fugitive was subsequently found... Presumably as the writers are aware this is a slender premise from which to hang a whole feature film, much of the running time is taken up with psychological issues, like the antagonism between prisoners... and between them and the Nazi screws.

And usually, their homesickness. There is zero budget, but that hardly matters. It feels like the least viable idea for a POW film ever... Yet it is engaging as this genre always is- mainly because the circumstances are fascinating, and the actors make these unlucky officers an absorbing group to be around for 90 minutes. 

Surprisingly objective account of the Siege of Malta during WWII, for which the island was awarded the George Cross. There is some pro-British propaganda, but also an attempt to see the conflict from the perspective of the occupied nation. And it is broadly factual, including a subplot about the interrogation of an Italian spy.

Though it's a stretch to imagine that UK military intelligence was quite so gentlemanly. There is evidence of a difficult production, with about a dozen well known British actors uncredited in tiny roles. The director was replaced and Brian Desmond Hurst's principal task is to splice real footage from the conflict into a dramatic story. 

And this makes the action seem authentic, but rudimentary and dull. The main problem is Alec Guinness, who is miscast in a romantic and heroic role as an RAF spotter who falls in love with a local girl (Muriel Pavlow). She has a moving final scene which is the best moment in the picture, when it suddenly becomes emotionally involving.

Still, Jack Hawkins is reliably brusque and phlegmatic as RAF command. There's a familiar scenario of grumbling Tommies and brave Spitfire pilots. It tells the story of Malta's suffering at the mercy of the Luftwaffe with a fair amount of realism. And that is its merit; as a tribute to the resilient islanders as they resist Nazi invasion.

In 1950 this was a huge critics' favourite, but like Joe Mankiewicz's films generally, now seems less impressive. His abundant dialogue is heavy with sly wit, but without much consequence. The script is in bad need of a shave. And the vicarious thrill of the glimpse into the Machiavellian power plays of backstage Broadway may no longer have such mass appeal in the age of the smartphone. 

The narrative intrigue which seemed cute on release, is now predictable. Consequently, its 14 Oscar nominations, and six wins- including Best Picture- feels excessive. Especially in the same year as Sunset Blvd! Still, that ensemble cast looks better than ever, with Bette Davis perfect as the ageing doyenne of the New York theatre.

Anne Baxter lacks wattage as the duplicitous ingenue who usurps her, but everyone else is relishable, with George Sanders reliably waspish as the manipulative columnist. Though we get far too little of Thelma Ritter as Bette's phlegmatic dresser. Marilyn Monroe is funny as a sexy wannabe who doesn't have the ruthlessness to make the grade.

It's a moral tale about the relentless cycle of ambition, like a showbiz Macbeth. It will be appreciated by anyone able to assimilate the inexhaustible flow of ironic drollery. Or with an interest in the stage. It's awfully overwritten and occasionally even corny, but still sort of fun to watch these grotesques attempt to devour each other. In 1957, Sweet Smell of Success did the same thing, but better. And darker....

The films of Anna Neagle and her director/husband Herbert Wilcox haven't aged well, but this is an exception. It's a faithful biopic about Odette Sansom, a Frenchwoman who spied for the British in WWII, then survived Ravensbrück concentration camp. She was awarded the George Cross and Legion d"Honneur

It follows the standard special operations model , but surprisingly the events are hardly embellished, partly due to the influence of Odette herself. This means the narrative feels undeveloped, but leaves an impression of authenticity. Especially with the use of genuine locations.

This is the role of Neagle's life, and despite her limitations, she gives it a fair shot. Trevor Howard is a natural with the brittle dialogue and maybe upstages her as the British liaison with the Resistance, who Odette married (and divorced) in peacetime. But the romance is only incidental.

Odette is portrayed as an average woman made heroic by extraordinary times. By 1950, there had already been films made from the files of the SOE, but this was new because it is about real, named people and verifiable incidents. And it is a moving and humbling experience..

Contrived but still absorbing social commentary about the nature of justice, which more interestingly touches on euthanasia. This now gets marketed as film noir, but it's an issues drama which eventually plunges into melodrama. And ultimately gets tangled up in the demands of the Production Code.

It's well performed by an auspicious cast and efficiently directed by Michael Gordon. Fredric March plays an honest small town judge not much interested in the quality of mercy, who is pugnaciously challenged by the ambitious, progressive defence lawyer (Edmond O'Brien)... who wants to marry his daughter (Geraldine Brooks)!

But when the judge's wife is found to be terminally ill, his settled world is overturned. The spouse is intriguing played by March's actual spouse, Florence Eldridge. When he impulsively ends her life, he turns his rigid moral code on himself and confesses to murder. Naturally, he is represented at his trial... by his daughter's fiancé!

This would have been better done as social realism. But the Hays Office was never going to allow a fair hearing for mercy killing. Inevitably, the moral case gets mangled by the remorseless gears of censorship. What we get is slight and schematic. Still, it's an unusual and absorbing treatment of a subject not much explored in studio era Hollywood.

Spellbinding adaptation of William Shakespeare's famous tragedy, which remains the best ever screen version. Yes, liberties are taken; this is edited to 150 minutes. It mainly leaves out the (edgy, paranoid) comedy. But no, not enough to make this accessible to anyone who doesn't already appreciate the plays.

But for everyone else, this is a thriller... and made by experts. Or at least an expert. Laurence Olivier's title performance dominates, naturally. Sure he's too old. Famously Eileen Herlie as Hamlet's mother was 11 years younger. But his Academy Award for best actor was richly deserved.

And he directs with clarity and style. This looks like gothic horror; the deep focus b&w photography presents an Elsinore of yawning darkness and expressionist perspectives. The abridgement leaves us with a narrative about identity as we journey deeper into the prince's state of anxiety, despair and insecurity.

This is Shakespeare noir. The support cast operates in Olivier's shadow but Jean Simmons- as Ophelia- was Oscar nominated. As was William Walton's score. It remains the sole wholly British production to win Best Picture. And, it's the only film ever with more famous lines than Casablanca (1942)!

Amateurish comedy-western which of course became infamous for the censorship kerfuffle caused by Jane Russell's debut appearance in the cantilever bra. Which she says she didn't even wear. It's the 116m censored version which is widely shown. Though even hardcore fans of the star surely do not want to see more of this than absolutely necessary.

There is historical interest for students of the Production Code... but little for anyone else. It's astonishingly badly directed. Howard Hughes obsessed over the released version for years, as he often did. But the problems start earlier, with the witless script, and the departure of Howard Hawks as director. The cast is all dreadful, even the Oscar winners...

Thomas Mitchell gives the worst performance of his career as Pat Garrett. Walter Huston is a saucy, elderly Doc Holiday, who shouldn't even be in this particular legend. Jack Buetel as Billy the Kid has the looks, but zero charisma. Everyone overacts to send up the material. It'd be nice to claim Russell saves the film given her creepy treatment. But she's not yet an actor.

Though she looks right as the sultry señorita. Worst of all is the infantile score with comical effects which belong in a Laurel and Hardy film. There is an obvious gay subtext which doesn't bring any depth to the situations; this has the profundity of Republic's Three Mesquiteers series. The sole positive is Gregg Toland's high contrast b&w photography. Enjoy!

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...