Film Reviews by Steve

Prototype juvenile delinquent/teenage rebellion picture which was imitated in low budget motorcycle gang melodramas for the next 20 years. Two rival mobs smash up a small sleepy town in rural California in an orgy of vandalism which the police can't control. It was produced by Stanley Kramer so a serious scrutiny of pack mentality might be expected.

But that's not what it is. Or at least what it looks like now. It's just a cult exploitation film which is mainly of interest for how astonishingly influential it became. This inspired a wave of mainstream counterculture; for example, the rivals of Marlon Brando's gang are called the Beetles (sic). And the clothes, and the cool motorcycles.

But the narrative is dated, and while Brando is iconic on the back of his Triumph Thunderbird, his method acting now looks of its time. The teenage anarchy is supposed to be obnoxious, but so is his surly pursuit of the local good girl (Mary Murphy) which feels creepy. Lee Marvin is more engaging as his knockabout, drunken adversary.

And both are far too old. The film might have been immediately obsolete because these kids are into jive and rock & roll came to town two years later. But it energised that generation, and its cultural impact was massive. It was banned in UK for 15 years. Now it looks like a historical artefact, but at the time it was a grassroots revolution.

Polished psychological melodrama which was overlooked at the time, but has since accumulated a critical following. Jean Simmons plays a strange little rich girl who intends to murder her stepmother (Barbara O'Neil) so she can have her father (Herbert Marshall) for herself. Robert Mitchum is the family chauffeur she entangles in her insanity.

Simmons is the standout in a really eerie performance, deepened by the ambient piano music she improvises when alone. This can be read as film noir with angel face as the femme fatale, and Mitchum as the useful dupe she means to exploit. And it's fascinating up until the point she accidentally kills her father in a car crash with his wife.

But the court case isn't plausible. The deadly, narcissistic sociopath suddenly changes. And the conclusion might as well have been written by the officials of the Production Code, after they re-watched Mitchum in Out of the Past (1947). Still, this is melodrama and improbable plot diversions are part of the deal.

Much of the attraction is the pessimistic noir mood, enhanced by Dimitri Tiomkin's plangent score. The automobile smash is well done for the period. Otto Preminger directs the slender plot with style but little suspense. It's Simmons' haunting performance as the beautiful, broken angel of death which most endures.

Heartbreaking Italian neorealism about an elderly man struggling to survive in Rome during postwar economic austerity. There is political edge as the story begins with the city's pensioners protesting to the government. Though no one is listening. When Umberto is made homeless, he can dispose of himself, but what about his beloved dog?

Vittorio Da Sica again casts non-professional actors, with Carlo Battisti unforgettable in his only screen role. He's not just a political casualty, he feels like a whole person, diminished by a loss of status and dignity; irascible, oversensitive and unable to change, yet compassionate. There is a surplus of pathos, but it's too real to be sentimental.

The tragicomic ending is overwhelming. He imposes on the kindness of a young woman (Maria Pia Casillo) who is pregnant by a disinterested soldier and there is the impression of a Darwinist society where the weak will suffer. And of Rome after WWII where a new rentier class is in possession of resources. Not so different from now.

Like all De Sica's films in this period, he implies a socialist solution, but there is no tubthumping. We witness the inexorable downfall of an old, poor, disregarded man. Like millions of others. It met with irritation from a forgetful public eager to move on, and marks the end of neorealism. But it is an enduring masterpiece.

It's obvious in the opening scene that Howard Hawks sees this as a tribute to '30s screwball comedy when Ginger Rogers wears a dress with no back, revealing her lingerie... like Katherine Hepburn in the director's 1938 landmark, Bringing Up Baby. And two of the writers (Hecht and Lederer) are legends of screwball. Though the script is the main problem.

The premise is fine. Cary Grant- Ginger's husband- is a biologist researching an elixir of youth. But one of the lab monkeys escapes and mixes one that really works, and puts it in the water cooler... and mayhem ensues. Inspiration however soon runs dry and the audience must watch Grant, the greatest ever male screen comedy actor, goof around like Lou Costello.

Which is still ok because he makes it surprisingly funny. But, what a waste. The laughs disappear when he's off screen, though Marilyn Monroe illuminates the picture as Charles Coburn's sexy secretary. This is the one where he asks her to find someone to type a letter... She was still not yet a star, but unmissably ready to go.

There's satire at the expense of postwar teenagers aimed at an older audience. And the stars reflect on the passing years, and evoke the golden age of screen comedy. But classic screwball is a romance that ends at the church; this is about the married couple facing up to middle age. For the genre, as well as their relationship, it's never as good as the first time.

Lavish Technicolor copy of the 1937 classic, which is a success, but still disappoints because it just isn't as much fun. It reuses the same script, orchestral score and even camera setups... And Stewart Granger makes a fine adventure hero as Major Rudolph Rassendyll, formerly of the British army, thrust by chance into foreign intrigue. But unluckily...

In the earlier version, Ronald Colman gives the greatest ever performance in a romantic adventure. What this has to offer is colour and opulent set design. No-one messes with the famous story. The king in-waiting of a small middle European state is kidnapped on the day of his coronation; and his distant, but identical relative steps into the royal shoes on the big day.

Granger is capable in both roles and Deborah Kerr is ideal as the demure princess. James Mason is always a superior villain. But actually, I wouldn't swap anyone for the '37 cast. There is more acrobatic action and the climactic swordfight is well staged. Oddly for a romance, all versions are subversive because the conclusion is the royals shouldn't be ruling Ruritania.

Rassendyll is the natural leader. There is a subtle shift in tone between '37 and '52 when seen in historical context. The earlier film was produced in the aftermath of the abdication crisis. So the heroes are doing their duty. But the later was made during preliminaries for a coronation. And it feels more of a celebration. Though that could be the gorgeous Technicolor.

Sleazy exploitation thriller about a psychotic serial killer who is murdering random young women in San Francisco. It's all shot on location which gives a potent impression of realism, and the character of a police psychiatrist is on hand to explain the sexual motivation of the homicidal loner. There is some editorial content which advocates more progressive policing.

The same arguments were made going back to the precode era; but no one ever wants to pay tax. And we're still there now, especially regarding violence against women. Aside from the dated psychological content, this is a really exciting manhunt with the 'Frisco police hapless in pursuit of the anonymous maniac while public panic is stirred up by the idiotic news agenda.

It's all deliriously trashy and influenced low budget thrillers for a decade. In 1952 Arthur Franz was exclusively a B actor but he is mesmeric in the title role. The supporting cast of cops are in his shadow, though Richard Kiley is engaging as the crime shrink. Marie Windsor gives the investigation some convenient glamour as a night club singer/murder victim.

It was the first Hollywood film by Edward Dmytryk following imprisonment for alleged communism, and he gives it style without slowing the action. The final tracking shot which ends in a close up of the captive killer is a knockout. There's a procedural docu-noir approach and plenty is made of its social significance, but it's just a sensational, scuzzy crime picture.

Cult heist-noir which re-entered public consciousness 40 years later when mentioned as an influence on Reservoir Dogs. The title suggests the kind of docu-noir which was going out of vogue by '52, but actually it's a tough, twisty crime thriller which reflects the postwar relaxation of censorship; the suggestion of police brutality is unexpectedly candid.

The usual first two acts of the heist film- the plan and the operation- are over in 15 minutes. This is all about the disintegration. A discredited former police chief (Preston Foster) brings together a gang of degenerate hoodlums to hold up an armoured car. Under masks- worn so they cannot identify each other- they agree to divide the swag when the heat is off.

Most of the action takes place in a Mexican tourist resort for the big payoff. John Payne plays an innocent party snagged up in the enterprise... and gradually the story gets less interesting, especially his romance with Coleen Gray. He hasn't the star quality to spice up the longueurs. But there's an incredible support cast as the crooks: Jack Elam, Lee Van Cleef and Neville Brand!

The script says Payne wins the confrontation, but they dominate the screen. The primary noir theme of greed is dominant, and Payne- the ex-marine who loses out in the postwar settlement- is a genre archetype, yet this doesn't have the pessimism of the '40s classics. It's a cute caper with an effective climax, but the slender intrigue is overextended.

Slim, lightweight murder mystery from the author (Vera Caspary) behind the classic noir, Laura (1944). This doesn't have anything like a comparable reputation and is obviously a less prestigious production, but it's the same kind of golden age puzzle embellished with luminous studio gloss. I actually prefer this; it's a slighter story but the resolution is better.

Anne Baxter is a career girl who thinks she murdered a menacing womaniser (Raymond Burr) but was so drunk she isn't sure. He spent the evening loading her with supercharged cocktails in the sort of Hollywood nightclub where Nat King Cole sings the title number. Now we would call this date rape, so it's a topical theme. But anyway, he's still dead.

She recklessly turns to a news journalist (Richard Conte) for help. Baxter in particular gives the film star power. And Fritz Lang's sophisticated noir direction makes the mystery seem much more substantial than it actually is. It's his mastery of the genre that elevates everything else. You'll guess the twist, but it hardly matters. This is curiously more-ish.

There isn't the pessimism of postwar noir. Going into the '50s economic boom, it feels like austerity is over. Baxter and her girl pals- led by Ann Sothern as the waspish she-wolf- are independent women with their own lives and a deep wardrobe. This has been lost in the shadow of Lang's other 1953 release, The Big Heat, but is still an unexpected treat for genre fans.

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 mob. 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.