Film Reviews by Steve

Robert Mitchum plays a psychopathic serial killer who presents as a preacher: 'How many is it now Lord? Six? Twelve?'. It turns out to be 25. The character is based on a real murderer of widows in the US south of the depression. He marries Shelley Winters whose husband was hanged for a murder committed during a bank robbery. He intends to extract from her two young children the location of the loot 

And he doesn't just kill his new wife and leave her body among the weeds in a river. He spiritually tortures her. The children escape downstream chased by the nightmare figure of their stepfather. Everything is cruel and threatening. The country is scorched by the flames of poverty. Religion has gripped the minds of poor and uneducated and distorted them. 

Charles Laughton's only release as director is notoriously difficult to categorise: part horror, part fantasy, even perhaps a film for children. It's often called film noir, though the historic, rural setting isn't all that noir, and neither is its prominent religious theme. Part of the difficulty of classification is that it is unique. Even its imitators haven't repeated its genius.  Now it is usually called American Gothic, a kind of horror.

The adaptation of Davis Grubb's novel haunts the memory; it's a dreamy gallery of enchanted images. Mitchum is truly phenomenal and Billy Chapin gives one of best ever performances by a child. But its Laughton's film, the work of an auteur.  It is such a regret that it is the only chance he got to direct. This is a classic of American cinema.

Surely this is the best spy film ever made. Director Martin Ritt was an outsider, ostracised in Hollywood by McCarthyism. He was the perfect choice to direct this complex story of lies, subterfuge and betrayal. It's the chilly prototype for the spy-procedural genre, which annexed new wave realism to the glacial surfaces of John le Carre's classic novel.

And it introduces the motifs of the cold war thriller: the sedate bureaucracy of MI6; the locations like checkpoint charlie, and the Berlin wall; the laconic, elliptical dialogue; the grey, ultra realistic design. The superb support cast gives flesh to the layers of administration.

Richard Burton is profoundly credible as a spy who has been out in operation for too long, and is starting to think about the ethics. Control has an idea for how he can save their man in East Berlin. But it's not the clever, cynical double cross that he actually shares with his agent; he has a deeper, more devious scheme.

The astonishing narrative was allegedly taken from life. Most precious of all is the audaciousness of Le Carre's sleight of hand, which disorientates our moral perspective, and finds the burned out operative at the wall, with one last chance to subvert the dehumanising machinations of the Whitehall Circus.

Erich von Stroheim initially cut this to a running time of 8 hours and was devastated after MGM bought the production studio and slashed it to 140 minutes. But even the short version is an enormously ambitious work of great social breadth, with a well told, complex narrative. It has the expansive, labyrinthine design of a Victorian novel. It doesn't leave the impression of being a fragment. This is epic.

It's a moral tale on the nature of greed. John McTeague (Gibson Gowland) marries the fiancée (Zasu Pitts) of his best friend (Jean Hersholt). When the wife wins big on a lottery, her jilted ex is tormented by the ill fate of missing out on such huge wealth and consumed by a desire for revenge... while she grows miserly and suspicious. The couple slip deeper into madness and imagined poverty.

These aren't archetypes, they are flawed and vulnerable people. It is visually magnificent and the director unlocks the frame with his depth of field. There is a primal energy. It was photographed on location and there is a palpable impression of early century San Francisco and its immigrant population. The arduous shoot in Death Valley gives the film a stunning- and famous- climax.

 Apart from some clunky visual metaphors, the only real negative is the curiosity of what might have been. Von Stroheim never got over the the fate of his creation. Which is a shame because what we have is one of the great films of the decade. As often seems to happen in cinema, it is a vision of compulsion made by man who was himself an obsessive.

FW Murnau's dazzling expressionism and stunning camera effects make this a film unlike any other. The lavish deco sets of the big city recall the ambition of Metropolis. It is the ultimate example of the visual reach of silent cinema, which achieved its apogee just as it was made redundant by Al Jolson singing Mammy in the Jazz Singer.

 It is a simple tale of a rural couple whose marriage is threatened by poverty and a predatory woman from the city. She convinces the husband to kill his wife and be free. He proves unable to do so, but the wife gets the idea... He must seek her forgiveness... but fate has a final twist to impart.

George O'Brien and Janet Gaynor are devastating as the couple, and then poignantly comical as they rediscover their love on a trip to the bright lights. There's a sweet scene when they walk out of a church having watched a wedding, and the passing public assume it is they who just got married.

 The story is realistic, but the frame is full of enchantment. It's a heartbreaker, but artistic too, and that's the magic of Murnau's achievement and his testament. And the wonder of all cinema. A hundred years on, he still spellbinds his audience, and provokes our tears.

After Hannah and Her Sisters Mia Farrow commented: 'He (Woody Allen) had taken the ordinary stuff of our lives and lifted it into art. We were honoured and outraged'. Deconstructing Harry examines the use of the personal in the life of the writer, both in terms of its impact on friends and family, and on the writer himself.

It is similar to Stardust Memories in that Woody takes a journey to receive an award, and the events of his life are illustrated by excerpts from his fiction. This time he is a novelist rather than a film director. As with the earlier film, Woody flits from the fiction of the film to the fiction of the character with skill and imagination.

 It was welcomed by critics as a return to form, which I can't endorse as he made other fine films at this time. It is a dense, complicated trip through the moral dereliction and personal inadequacy of a protagonist unable to see beyond his own superficial desires and whose philosophy is designed to excuse this failure.

 He reflects: 'I'm a guy who can't function well in life but can in art'. If this is intended to be a personal disclosure, then it's a pretty desolate, wretched confession and not always easy to watch. There are some great comic ideas. There's a lot of energy and some fine writing, but my most prominent reaction is to feel a little repulsed.

This seems entirely perfect. It is impossible to conceive of how it could be improved. Anyone who loves the book is spoiled. The casting is sublime. Tom Courtney is an uncanny fit for the title role. Is Julie Christie a touch too beautiful as Billy's girlfriend? Maybe. But she feels so right.

The dialogue expanded from Keith Waterhouse's novel is endlessly quotable. The impression of the changing northern town is vivid. The camera under the control of Deny Coop is lively and à la mode. John Schlesinger tells the story with eloquence and a lightness of touch.

Billy Fisher is an undertaker's clerk who prefers to live in a fantasy, rather than the uninspiring real world. Juggling a pair contrasting fiancées, too immature to make difficult emotional decisions, not ready for the yoke of employment, he retreats to Ambrosia, a mythical world of which he is President, and looks to install Julie Christie as his First Lady.

It is shot in the style of the British new wave, with a redeveloping Bradford forming its collapsing backdrop, and with many, many truly hilarious scenes. Some films are great because they contain a single aspect which is exceptional and transcends the rest. But this is flawless.

This is a devotional film, set in the western isles of Scotland. Wendy Hiller plays an ambitious middle class girl who travels north to marry a rich industrialist. Bad weather means she gets snagged up in a village harbour, tantalisingly a short boat trip from the small island of Kiloran and her wedding.

She comes under the influence of a hard up aristocrat (Roger Livesey) and the folklore and the enchantment of this unfamiliar world. With all her stubborn, materialistic single-mindedness, she tries to resist. She must get to Kiloran at any cost. Even if it destroys herself.

This is a lyrical love story of immense power. It is enriched by a mythic feel for the local traditions and people, and made beautiful by Edwin Hillier's gorgeous b&w photography. Livesey and Hiller are irresistible and matched by the striking, vivacious Pamela Brown. But it is the unique voice of Powell and Pressburger that makes this film so loved.

While there is realism, and the poverty of the islanders must have carried a punch to a country coming out of war, it is so profoundly historic, so intuitively optimistic, so different from the work of the others. It resonates deeply in our hearts, in our myths and in our culture.

Though Josef von Sternberg can be relied on for a gallery of striking images, he doesn't always tell the story so well. This does actually relate an interesting flashback to the Russian revolution. But what makes it compelling is the framing device which places an ex-Russian General in a Hollywood studio as an extra playing... a Russian General in a film directed by the former revolutionary he once jailed!

It's the archetypal Emil Jannings role of a once proud man who suffers the humiliation of reduced circumstances. He won an Oscar, and he brings the thrilling climax to combustion when he lives his part as an extra as if it was really happening inside his fragile psyche. There's an early credit for William Powell as the director/Bolshevik. His passivity contrasts with Jannings' histrionics!

 Von Sternberg adds another layer of interest by making the producer and director of the film in production as dictatorial and indulged as the Tsar and the Russian aristocracy, and likens the abused extras to the Russian peasants... There are fascinating insights into the making of a contemporary Hollywood film.

 We get the pathos we expect from Janning's, though it is hard to empathise with a General serving the Tsar. There are witty titles from Herman Mankiewicz (co-author of Citizen Kane), a part of silent cinema usually overlooked. There are many of the beautiful images typical of von Sternberg but allied to an interesting story. The legend is this was based on a real incident.

The final part of Franks Borzage's trilogy of silent romantic melodramas starring Janet Gaynor and Charles Farrell is probably the best. The leads are adorable and there is an endearing touch of comedy. She plays an uneducated country girl who falls in love with a soldier just back from the Great War.

He instructs her in the rudiments of manners and hygiene and uncovers the lovely, maturing woman within... There's a charming scene when he washes her hair over and over until he discovers... she's a blonde. But this is a Borzage film, so fate isn't quite so benign.

Farrell had an accident in France and came back a paraplegic. He is placed in the agonising position of educating Gaynor for the benefit of the mendacious and irresponsible Sergeant who partly brought about the injury. OK, Farrell's recovery just in time to save his sweetheart from a disastrous marriage is most improbable...

But that's the transformative potential of true love in a Borzage film! They have a spiritual quality; a miraculous expression of ethereal romance. Sure, it's sentimental, but it communicates a strange, intangible sense of the supernatural, of the out-of body. Of the soul as it struggles to survive the physical world.

The derogatory subtitle (no longer used) affirms just how long ago this was, close to the dawn of the feature film. It is sentimental, and the characters are archetypes, but its power to disturb remains undimmed.  Lillian Gish plays an abused girl of 16 growing up in poverty in Limehouse, in the docks of London.

Her brutal father (Donald Crisp) is a prizefighter who visits his frustrations on his uneducated, frail child. She finds brief respite in the platonic adoration of a poetic Chinese missionary (Richard Barthelmess) who has grown disillusioned with his hope of bringing zen to the ruffians of the East End.

There is a naturalistic look. But when the waif and the Buddhist are together, the image has a woozy, narcotic feel. Gish is tenderly photographed in these few scenes. Her portrayal is extraordinary, even horrifying. She has been traumatised not only by violence, but a lack of affection. She is dirty and in rags, but Griffith captures something finer in her luminescent, suffering face.

The pacing is good and it still works as entertainment, though it creates a believable world of incredible deprivation and cruelty. There is realistic offensive language on the title cards. But this is a plea for tolerance and kindness (from the director of The Birth of a Nation). DW Griffith remains a controversial figure, but was a gifted and innovative director. 

The middle part of Frank Borzage's celebrated trilogy of silent romantic melodramas starring Janet Gaynor and Charles Farrell. The street angels are sex workers and the film relates the luckless attempts by one of them to escape the poverty and iniquity of her birth and find love with a naive, moralistic artist. It takes place in a Naples of the imagination, a distant place of passion and tragic fate.

At times it feels there is little happening on screen other than the wonderful magic created by the two stars. Farrell and Gaynor are the great romantic partners in early cinema. Their enduring chemistry and the fragility of their love in the face of an agonising destiny, is still compelling. These are hyper-romantic films about outsiders, down on their luck, but not easily giving up on their dreams.

They usually end on an uplift, but the tragedy is more persuasive. Love can never be enough to beat off the curse of pitiless fate in a brutal world of injustice and poverty. It is easy to see how these wonderful melodramas found their way into the hearts of audiences as the world went into the depression.

When Gaynor is torn away from Farrell and put in jail, they both whistle the same Italian ballad (on the Movietone soundtrack), like two birds who might die if separated. It's that intense. The setting is atmospheric, with vast constructions of foggy harbour-side slums. But realism isn't a priority. This is a spiritual film, where love is a brief glimpse of happiness seized from an endless panorama of sorrow.

This is sometimes described as a western which I think understates its strangeness. It is a primal psychological drama, which is unconventional and quite complex in the way it describes the impact of environment on the mind, culture and behaviour.

 Lillian Gish plays a delicate lady of manners who travels west to live with a near relative in a desert wilderness populated by rednecks. And is driven out of her mind by the ceaseless, unstoppable wind. Manoeuvred into a marriage of convenience, she murders a menacing suitor and hides his body in the desert, which she fears will be uncovered by the maddening, mystical wind at any time. Or may be buried, forever.

 This is Gish's most fascinating performance, which develops from a demure archetype into something quite disturbing. Victor Sjöström creates a metaphysical film full of startling images. There was an arduous location shoot in the Mojave desert which brings realism to a film which touches on allegory and expressionist horror.

 It is a story about man encroaching into the dominion of nature and the tragic consequences. Which is way ahead of its time. Unfortunately MGM forced a happier ending on the director and star. But it remains a film of brilliant dramatic storytelling. It is an intense emotional experience and one of the very greatest silent films.

Legendary silent drama which tells the story of the anonymous face in the crowd. James Murray plays the ordinary man who lives a life of small triumphs but larger disappointments. Fate is either indifferent or cruel, leading to a genuine tragedy which destroys him.

We are introduced by one of the most famous edits in cinema, as the camera tracks up the numberless windows of a huge skyscraper and locks in on one opening in particular. It dissolves into an office interior with a vast number of geometrically positioned desks and locates by degrees the subject of the story. And the film concludes with an equally celebrated shot... 

 His life is ostentatiously ordinary. He goes to Coney Island, meets a girl and gets married and honeymoons in Niagara Falls... gradually he is robbed of his assumption of personal exceptionalism and absorbs conformity. The production was shot on the streets of New York, among real crowds. It surely anticipates neo-realism. There is quite a lot of The Bicycle Thieves in this.

It's easy to identify with Murray, who went into the production as an extra. King Vidor's visual storytelling is impressive, and while he doesn't eschew pathos, it feels realistic. Any Hollywood film maker who attempts to reflect the everyday experiences of ordinary people in the big city, does so in the shadow of this cinematic landmark.

Douglas Sirk's final American film is his best. It's a remake of the old Fannie Hurst best seller, revised for the era of black civil rights. Lana Turner becomes a big Broadway star while behind the scenes, Juanita Moore brings up both their daughters. The only way they can be together for mutual benefit, is for Juanita to act as the black maid, even though she isn't paid.

While bringing up the actor's child (Sandra Dee), she suffers the agonies of her own (Susan Kohler) who finds she can 'pass for white'. But this is a mirage. The reality is that her race will always limit her freedom. It is brilliantly acted, particularly by Moore as the black mother for whom American apartheid has been a lifelong trauma. This sounds like a soap. And it is, to a point.

 But the story suddenly mutates. Lana comments that she never knew Juanita had friends, and the 'maid' replies: 'You never asked'. And then the film becomes an overwhelming demonstration of the invisibility of black American lives in '50s America. This is a symphony of emotion conducted by Sirk to a conclusion which is so moving it is painful.

It has the opulence and glamour typical of Sirk's Universal melodramas. Lana wears a lot of fabulous gowns and diamonds in picture perfect domesticity. But never before has he exposed a sickness in American life with such passion. It is both subtle, yet operatic. It's a heartbreaker, but without the fundamental realism, it would be too much. It never falters. It is an extraordinary experience.

Elia Kazan's handsome epic only tells the last part of John Steinbeck's long novel of '52 and simplifies what remains. It is a loose updating of the story of Cain and Abel relocated in California, which plugs into the performance of its debuting star James Dean whose mannered, method inspired performance still crackles.

The theme which captured the spirit of the times is the generational schism between the introverted, maladjusted son (Dean) and his domineering, righteous father (Raymond Massey). Though with the early part of the novel omitted, this is hugely condensed. The search by the young man for personal identity and freedom was a sensation with '50s teenagers.

Dean's star performance feels like a great leap forward for Hollywood. What most attracts now is Kazan's spacious, artistic rendition of the Salinas Valley in Cinemascope. It is a beautiful production. The colour and camera effects still look amazing. The period of rural California on the edge of World War I is superbly realised.

Sadly the film ends badly with the boy seeking and finding understanding from the stubborn, dying patriarch, which negates the rest of the story. The plot is overstuffed,  but it remains an unflagging, ambitious blockbuster about all the big biblical sins. And the legend of James Dean still lives in his only starring film released before his death.