Film Reviews by Steve

Preston Sturges had been looking for a studio to produce this high concept comedy since the pre-code days, but with no takers. So it's a bit surprising when it finally got made, it had such a lavish budget with wonderful sets and music, and particularly costumes. But naturally, its wild anarchy looks back to the age of screwball.

Rex Harrison is a self absorbed, pompous orchestral conductor who has everything. Most particularly he is married to the lovely, devoted Linda Darnell who acquiesces to his every whim. So when he accidentally engages a private detective to watch her while he's away, he is devastated to discover she may be unfaithful.

His complacent life is torn apart. The core of the film is the three symphonies he leads while daydreaming about how he may respond. Including murder. Sturges says the music is intended to influence how he feels about her (presumed) infidelity. The story drifts for half an hour and then is invigorated during the fantasies.

It's a mixed success. Rex is- as usual- superb at making an egomaniac more or less sufferable. And he's funny. Darnell has little to do other than look beautiful, which she is. Rudy Vallee serves mainly as a reminder of how much better he was in The Palm Beach Story (1942). While it isn't in that class, this is the best of Sturges' later comedies.

Leisurely genre mash up which works best for its mood of dark pessimism. It takes the classic western theme of a range war but the cattle gangs parallel the corrupt semi-legitimate gangsters of film noir. And it's photographed by RKO noir legend Nicholas Musuraca. This is an extraordinarily gloomy experience.

Robert Mitchum plays a laconic drifter recruited to provide muscle for Robert Preston's mob of shady cowboys seeking to defraud the government on a contract to provide beef for 'Indian' reservations... and be the fall guy. Only the stranger ultimately sides with Barbara Bel Geddes and her law abiding homesteaders.

When the two male stars get round to the inevitable fist fight, Mitchum breaks the ceiling light so they can scrap in the dark. The ambience of noir is primary. Unfortunately the narrative often drags. Robert Wise was a fine genre director, but despite a few interesting set pieces, this doesn't often engage.

And given the longueurs, Mitchum's extremely passive performance is more narcotic than hypnotic. There are periods where nothing is happening. However the set design and costumes leave an impression of realism not typical of studio era westerns. Plus the Arizona locations. But this one is mainly for fans of atmosphere.

This sometimes gets called the first western noir, and it's a classic example of the style. The exterior New Mexico panorama (shot by James Wong Howe) is gloriously arthouse, with the low, brooding skies, dead black trees and deep shadows of towering canyons which swallow up the transient, wandering humanity.

Film noir is usually about sex and greed, but this has a western theme of revenge. Other genre motifs are intact: there's voice over narration; a cursed male protagonist just back from the (Mexican) war; and it's a psycho-drama with references to dime-store Freud. As well as the stunning, high contrast photography.

Mitchum plays an orphan who grew up disturbed by violent images of the death of his father in a gunfight. He was adopted by an evasive widow (Judith Anderson) and later falls for her daughter (Teresa Wright) whose love/hate affair recalls Gilda (1946). He will never find peace unless he resolves the hazy, long ago memories.

It's a literate psychological western but director Raoul Walsh includes plenty of action too. And it's an ideal vehicle for Robert Mitchum as he entered his prime. Surely no one ever photographed him as magnificently. Later the same year he starred in all time great noir Out of the Past, which contains many interesting echoes.

Sitcom oddity which is among a few in the late '40s which draw upon the (now obscure) novelty that Shirley Temple grew up and is old enough to date boys. She was actually married when she made this and 19 years old. Surely wealthy, Hollywood executives weren't really grabbed by the premise that an older man might date a teenager?

Nevertheless, that's what this is. Cary Grant (42) is a bachelor who reluctantly escorts a perky high-schooler (Temple) to fulfil an obligation to her (much) older sister (Myrna Loy). And predictable complications ensue. All this only matters today because it features a comic performance from Grant still somewhere near his prime, supported by a funny script.

Though made in '47, it points ahead to the comedy of propriety which stifled Hollywood in the '50s; the gags emerge from the stars failing to conform to expected standards. Minor characters are not the eccentrics of screwball, but a tutting chorus of disapproval. Like the genre was asphyxiated by the Production Code.

Still, it's a Cary Grant vehicle. He makes it fun, even when reduced to taking pratfalls on school sports day. Though it is now best known for this dialogue which has escaped its source: Hey, you remind me of a man/What man?/The man with the power/What power?/The power of whodoo/Whodoo?/You do/Do what?/You remind me of a man...

After WWII, Henri-Georges Clouzot was banned from directing films because of his alleged collaboration with the German occupation. This hugely successful return feels like he spent the years studying Hollywood film noir. This is a whodunit with an undertow of sadness and pessimism and a look of sombre expressionism.

There's a decent mystery set among the lower ranks of Parisian showbiz. But it is more interesting for its impression of impoverished French society after the war, in a period of recovery. It is set among its music hall performers and there are incidental glimpses of typical acts, like the chorus line, cabaret singers and performing dogs.

And it's a showcase for three compelling star performances. Suzy Delair is a blousy chanteuse who fought her way out of the slums. Bernard Blier is a musician from the conservatoire who gave up everything to marry her. Then, 40 minutes in, Louis Jouvet raises it to another level as the tenacious cop who suspects them of murder.

The title being the address of the French police HQ. This is a high quality policier. It's possible to feel its influence on British crime pictures of the period, in particular. But being French, this is a touch more salacious. Really, it's as gloomy as the films that got Clouzot accused of being unpatriotic. It's just that the public was ready to see them.

One of about half a dozen good quality B-noirs directed after WWII by Anthony Mann, before he specialised in westerns. And there's a unique opportunity for prolific support actor Steve Brodie to star as an honest truck driver duped into a warehouse robbery and forced to go on the run with his pregnant wife to escape the mob.

So it's a road noir as the couple seek refuge on the rural highways, and rely on the kindness of strangers. The fall guy is just out the armed forces, which gives us the genre motif of the WWII veteran coming home to find the country he fought for is corrupt. And with just one stroke of misfortune the destiny of anyone may lead to ruin.

Still, then as now, a background in the marines is a shorthand for the potential to fight back. Brodie is well cast, as his lack of star charisma makes him a convincing everyman. And there's an impression of how much he has to lose in his idyllic marriage to Audrey Long who is convincing as the perky homemaker; though maybe she lacks agency!

The screen is dominated by the threat of Raymond Burr as the mentally unstable gang leader who creates a fine double act with his entirely rational sidekick (William Challee). There are some effective noir lighting set ups toward the climax and Mann whips up plenty of suspense aided by the unsettling score. This is a very durable low budget thriller.

This documentary style presentation of the underground activity of the OSS in France in WWII claims to be factual. There is the typical stentorious voice over which implies authenticity. And there's a title card claiming it was all shot on the locations of the actual events. But this isn't true, it was extensively filmed in Canada.

And what began life as a biopic of a leading espionage official in Washington was compromised when he took his name off the project. As the story progresses, the narrative gets less credible. So this is a Hollywood spy thriller, and it's successful on those terms. There had actually already been a film about US intelligence a year earlier, called OSS.

The neorealist style is one Henry Hathaway adopted across many genres in the late '40s. James Cagney leads the espionage unit and shows us plenty of his apparently genuine combat skills. Annabella brings some authentic Frenchness, though unfortunately hardly figures. And one of the support cast turns out to be a Nazi counteragent...

What starts as a procedural presentation of training and operations evolves into a pro-American blockbuster. And both parts work fine. The realism is interesting and the climax is exciting. Though admittedly it's a shameful deception to claim this is all non-fiction. And the title, that's the location of gestapo HQ in Le Havre. Or so they say.

Unique collaboration between (arguably) the most celebrated director of the late silent era, and its most famous documentary maker. FW Murnau and Robert Flaherty conceived a dramatic narrative which would also be an ethnological depiction of the people of Bora Bora in the South Seas. Flaherty soon left the project because he felt there was too much drama and not enough ethnology.

So Murnau directed solo a story drawn from the indigenous population. It's a silent film, but with an embedded musical soundtrack. He used local people as his cast and crew, assisted by an American cinematographer, who won the Oscar (Floyd Crosby). And he was fortunate to discover two charismatic amateurs to play the leads.

The actors are credited in their character names. Reri is a young girl chosen for the traditional role of a sacred virgin. But she is in love with Matahi. They run away to an island inhabited by the French colonialists, but are pursued by the indigenous elder (Hitu) and the foreign administrators and police who don't want a tribal war.

Many events are photographed at sea because the people survive off the ocean. And Matahi makes a living as a pearl diver when he escapes from his home. It's a tragedy which probes the iniquities of empire and explores a way of life unfamiliar to western audiences. It benefits hugely from being the (final) work of one of the greatest ever film makers.

This is one of the postwar American crime films influenced by Italian Neorealism. So there's a credit stating it was shot in authentic locations, including interiors. But this being Hollywood, there are no amateur actors. Instead we get Victor Mature as a jailed robber who turns in his accomplices to be at home with his kids.

So he is hunted down by the mob. Richard Widmark's debut performance as a giggling psycho-hitman made the most impact. He is something new in the studio era, a deranged goofball who really enjoys his work. Like when he famously pushes an elderly cripple (Mildred Dunnock) down a flight of stairs before killing her.

It's the face-off between the stoolie and the wired hophead that generates the drama and a decent climax. The support roles are commonplace, though it's startling how quickly Coleen Grey steps in to perform the duties of Mature's wife after her suicide. There is an impression of censorship being challenged; it's quite violent, for the period.

And there's an effort to portray realistic sleaziness. These docudramas now get marketed as film noir, but are different. There is expressionism, but no shadows or skewed camera angles. Few hardboiled epigrams, but plenty of street jargon. It's mainly interesting for the period New York locations and Widmark's innovative performance.

This may be the most controversial film Hollywood ever made. Released on the threshold of the communist witch hunt, most of those involved were subsequently blacklisted, forced to abandon their career and in some cases, escape from the US to find work. Director Robert Rossen betrayed others to save himself.

It takes inspiration from the boxing pictures of the depression. John Garfield is a poor immigrant kid from the ghetto who takes up the fight game but is corrupted. It's a racket where poor kids beat up each other and take the risks while the wealthy rake off the rewards. And rig the winners and losers

And Garfield is superb as the tough, swaggering antihero who thinks with his fists and destroys everyone else. Though he's a redeemable stooge. Among the stalwart support cast there's a landmark performance from Canada Lee in probably the most dignified role for a black actor in Hollywood up to that time.

It's big on atmosphere, with the dramatic scenes shot film noir style, but the boxing contests are as real as a Weegee photograph. The narrative is overfamiliar and Rossen struggles to get it to move. There are better films which equate boxing with capitalism, but they were made in the long shadow of this one.

Slow, understated film noir which which gives Dick Powell plenty of opportunity to deliver droll, hardboiled dialogue as the finagler for a dim racketeer (Thomas Gomez) who owns a gambling joint, while he attracts the attention of an array of supporting starlets.

A casino hatcheck girl (Nina Foch) entangled with a corrupt cop is murdered, and Powell has to keep himself out out of the electric chair while dallying with the victim's beautiful sister (Evelyn Keyes). And stop his jealous boss from nixing him for playing around with his alcoholic wife (Ellen Drew).

This was Robert Rossen's debut as director and while he's adept at creating the pessimistic ambience of noir, as co-writer he doesn't generate any dramatic intensity, at least until the climax. So it lacks energy. Everyone stands around the threadbare sets swapping sardonic wisecracks. And these often feel secondhand.

Its main merits are Burnett Guffey's luminous noir photography and Lee J. Cobb as the crumpled, dogged cigar chewing detective trying to make sense of it all. It's worth it for the atmosphere of the city at night, where it always rains and everyone smokes in the ominous shadows. While malign destiny closes in.

Twisty but implausible golden age film noir which elevates an assembly of capable support actors to lead roles with some success. Vincent Price- in the period before he became a horror star- plays a reptilian corporate investor who intends to erase a witness to a major fraud, now just released from state prison.

So he incriminates a troublesome lawyer (Edmond O'Brien) for the murder. And then frames his own lissom personal assistant (Ella Raines) who arouses his jealousy. William Bendix plays the determined, procedural detective. Which is a fine cast, but maybe O'Brien isn't quite a good fit for the romantic lead with his eye on Ella's nylons.

Though he's a decent fall guy. As was typical of postwar film noir, the arena of business and finance is portrayed as corrupt, and the filthy rich as rapacious sociopaths... and Price makes a loathsome villain. His schemes are so reckless its amazing he even got out of college. His solution to every setback is murder!

The photography is commonplace and looks like it was shot quickly and cheaply on rudimentary sets. There's a decent hardboiled script with some penetrating wisecracks, but nothing quotable. It's worth seeing chiefly for that relishable cast. Raines could do Lauren Bacall even better than the real thing.

Improbable but entertaining murder mystery with a lavish production budget which allows its trio of female stars to model some chic gowns on the elaborate sets. Which Michael Curtiz gives a striking film noir look. There's a touch of Columbo as we see the killer in the opening scene and then wait for the law to catch up.

So there's no spoiler in disclosing that Claude Rains plays a suave psycho-killer who murders an alarming number of his household residents without attracting much attention from the cops. It takes an interested gentleman detective to uncover his depravity. Rains is a bit too insidiously malevolent to watch with any pleasure though.

And those female stars: Joan Caulfield is the demure beauty Claude is looking to turn into a large inheritance; Audrey Totter, who must have been sewn into her clothes, is best as a sexy poor relation; and Constance Bennett sparkles as the sophisticated comic relief. The male roles struggle to make much impact among all this glamour.

It's one of those films where wealthy cosmopolitans stand around their lavish mansion while swapping supercilious bonmot in their evening wear. And wait their turn to die. If you can suspend disbelief, there's some fun to be had. And in our age of digital surveillance it's cute to watch the villain snare his victims using huge slabs of recordable vinyl.

Surprising that only a year after his success with Gilda, Glenn Ford was in such a minor film noir. And there are many echoes of that film; Janis Carter even looks like Rita Hayworth. It's a psycho-sexual power struggle between a scheming, sexy knockout and a pliable, alcoholic drifter. She wants his body. But not in the usual way!

The glamourgirl works in a sleazy bar looking for a man about the size of her married boyfriend to burn in a car crash, for the usual reasons. Ford is the perfect match. He arrives in an out of control truck. Given the influence of the Hollywood left on early noir, maybe this is intended as a critique of the unregulated haulage industry!

There are disappointments: Burnett Guffey is a great noir photographer, but this looks bright and realistic; and director Richard Wallace doesn't create much suspense. It was made quickly and cheaply. Ford doesn't look engaged, maybe because Carter has the better role. And she's pretty good. The title sometimes goes under her name, Paula.

It's the genre dynamic of the femme fatale versus the male dupe that still works best. The grim, violent premise is interesting, and this could have been a much stronger film, with a decent budget. It is a short, punchy thriller; second level film noir. Though that's intended as a compliment.

Ultra-pessimistic film noir which has many interesting genre features but is ultimately frustrated by Byron Haskin's uninspired direction. The premise is familiar from gangster films of the early '30s; a hapless stooge (Burt Lancaster) takes the rap for his partner (Kirk Douglas) when their racket gets tumbled during prohibition.

So when the fall guy is sprung from the big house 14 years later, he expects a share of his old pal's hot nightspot. But the ex-jailbird is an anachronism. The mobs are over. Now WWII has happened, the concept of the sucker coming home to find others have done very well in his absence and don't want to share the rewards, has a deeper resonance.

Burt was always a good punchbag in his noir days and Kirk is well cast as the vicious, impregnable top dog. Lizabeth Scott shimmers sensuously as the chanteuse who swaps sides. But Wendell Corey is best as the crooked, careworn accountant, slowly worn down by his guilty conscience. The quality cast gets some nice hardboiled dialogue.

When Lancaster assembles a gang to extract his cut by force, instead of exchanging gunfire, he finds he is holding up a cartel and he can't get his whack without a vote by the shareholders! This is based on a New York play (by Theodore Reeves) and this standout scene is all that's left of its negative critique of capitalism! Which is a shame.