Film Reviews by Steve

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 untouchables. 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.

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 policemen.

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.

Billy Wilder's trademark cynicism is applied to the newspaper business and the American people. No surprises then that the press reviewed this negatively and the public stayed away. But it feels modern and maybe better reflects the present time, with the media (still) making up the news and their readers easily manipulated. Plus the current idea that the truth is negotiable.

Kirk Douglas is well cast as the standard Wilder finagler; a big city reporter who washes up in a New Mexico backwater looking for a quick fix on his career slump at the Albuquerque Sun-Bulletin. When he happens on a local man trapped in a cave he spins the small scale rescue into a national event, even though it means risking the life of the injured party.

He slows down the emergency recovery. And others are willing to exploit the casualty's misfortune. Including the wife, a disenchanted concrete blonde brilliantly played by Jan Sterling. She isn't too fussed about his return and the family diner does gangbusters out of the ensuing media circus as the locality fills up with news crews, rubberneckers and bored holidaymakers.

After WWII, Wilder was engaged by an impression of spreading corruption in American life and the threat of fascism. His films become suspicious of capitalism and the docility of the public. This isn't the best of these; occasionally the narrative gets stuck. But it confronts the issue most unsparingly. It was felt to be unpatriotic, and didn't find an audience. Yet it never stopped being relevant.

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.

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. Familiarity eventually stifles the drama and improbable things happen to enable a good outcome for the unlucky con.

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 moved the prison film onwards.

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.

This now gets marketed as film noir though crime is not central to the story. It's one of the social issue melodramas which became popular in Hollywood in the '50s, usually about addiction. Here, the title tells all. Barbara Stanwyck starts gambling to research a news story, and pretty soon loses everything the postwar housewife desires.

It's a wild ride as curiosity leads to excitement and then addiction, lies and shame, all the way down to the street. Though over the two year flashback into her downfall, she does a whole lot of living after her husband abandons her in Mexico, including getting mixed up with a mob of racetrack gamblers. Until prostitution... and worse.

So it's a familiar saga, and there is plenty of editorialising as the dangers of addiction are laid bare. There are no surprises, though it's interesting to see the way people lost their shirt in Vegas back when it was still a shiny new racket. This being the postwar period there is some Freudian MacGuffin about a childhood trauma that makes the good girl go bad.

The photography is functional rather than expressive, and the score is inappropriately romantic. Robert Preston is suitably dull as the stalwart husband, though Stephen McNally engages as the oleaginous casino boss/crook. Stanwyck is too old, but is the source of most of the quality, and all of the fireworks, in a wholehearted, yet detailed performance.