Film Reviews by Steve

The opening credits roll over a still of long legs in heels, promising salacious glamour. But nothing in all of film noir prepares us for how sleazy this film is. Maybe the censors were asleep; the narrative is occasionally sluggish. But Born to Kill lands a low punch of astonishing brutality. Even the good guy, the droll investigator (Walter Slezak) will let the murderer walk for a price.

It's a hard boiled noir about two insatiable sociopaths: Lawrence Tierney plays a violent, egotistical killer; Claire Trevor is a poor relation who wants some of the family fortune and doesn't mind how she gets it. They absolve each other's guilt. He murders a woman, and she covers up. Tierney then marries her wealthy step-sister (Audrey Long) but prefers sex with his broadminded accomplice.

Everyone is compromised in some way. The psychopath has a (plainly) homosexual relationship with his submissive, scuzzy sidekick, brilliantly played by Elisha Cook, who will kill to clear any obstacles to his boyfriend's desires. The spoiled step-sister will protect her dangerous husband from the police to satisfy her sexual obsession.

The dialogue is startlingly frank. When the moll tells an old woman how it will feel when the psycho kills her, she seems to experience physical pleasure. The lovers take a sensual thrill from how corrupt they are. This is a morally and visually dark film, with a rich film noir look. Tierney and Trevor are phenomenally trashy as well as degenerate. This one has to be seen to be believed.

Rural Warner Brothers gangster film which broke Humphrey Bogart as a Hollywood star. He is Roy 'Mad Dog' Earle, a stick-up man who is sprung from prison by a crime syndicate to pull off a heist in an exclusive mountain resort. Roy is an outlaw of the old school who knocked around with John Dillinger in the midwest of the depression. But now the wild country has been tamed and turned into health spas and hotels. Just another racket.

Earle is the most interesting gangster of the American pre-war era. He is violent, menacing and unpredictable but also sentimental, and often kind. When his resentful and righteous anger boils over, he doesn't recognise this brute as himself and soon forgets. He is a man running out of time. Doc says it best: 'Remember what Johnny Dillinger said about guys like you and him. Said you were rushin' toward death'.

Roy is an anti-hero. He is a gunman, but almost everyone else in the film is a monster in some way! The sympathetic characters are the old timers. After Roy arranges for a surgeon to fix the foot of a girl he meets on the road, without her disability she becomes spoiled and cruel. Roy has a woman, a no-luck dame, a taxi dancer from LA. She's played for maximum heartbreak by Ida Lupino.

High Sierra is an intelligent story, a road film heavy with pessimistic, noir atmosphere set in vivid rural locations. The climactic shootout is a blast. There's a poetic, slangy script from John Huston and WR Burnett (from Burnett's novel). It's another tough, fast-paced triumph for Raoul Walsh who made so many classic action melodramas in the golden age.

One of the great films of the '30s; a classic of social protest which played a role in ending the chain gangs in the US southern states. Paul Muni plays a bum wrongly sentenced to hard labour by a corrupt and sadistic penal system. Loosely based on a true story, the message is that this isn't merely an unjust destiny for an innocent man, but for anyone. 

Robert Burns (Muni) returns from WWI to penury; one of the forgotten men. A bystander in a petty crime he is sentenced to ten years on a Georgia chain gang. He escapes to become a successful engineer, but having been tracked down to Chicago he agrees to return to jail on the understanding that he will be pardoned after 90 days.

The state is offended by Burns' public criticism and sends him to the foulest chain gang in the south and withdraws its promise. I can picture Muni's face now, his pardon denied, sent back into hell. Muni is magnificent. Some of the support acting creeks like a haunted house, but most are convincing and very moving.

I Am a Fugitive... delivers a subtle appraisal of the purposes of the prison system. It's a gripping polemic about human dignity and the kindness of strangers delivered in the punchy, concise style of Warner Brothers in the thirties. There are many unforgettable scenes. And the famous ending is a heartbreaker. 

Sparkling and very entertaining Hollywood comedy-drama... about Hollywood. This was shamelessly ripped off in 1937 for A Star is Born. Constance Bennett plays a Los Angeles waitress who becomes a big star while the drunken director who discovers and marries her sinks into oblivion. It's full of cynical insider snippets about the trials of showbiz life: the obsessive fans, the paparazzi, the gossip columns.

Bennett is especially good at the comedy. She performs an understated Marlene Dietrich impression when she sings a ballad on a night club set. She's an appealing personality for the audience to identify with while she scales the hierarchy of celebrity. There's some screwball, but the character is not as dizzy as that suggests and the story becomes increasingly melodramatic.

The star re-marries to that ultimate signifier of early talkie male glamour, the polo playing millionaire. The support cast is capable but not prestigious. Louise Beavers makes an impression as the archetypal black maid with a sassy tongue. George Cukor was perhaps Hollywood's ultimate director of quality soaps and he keeps it light and frothy.

This is one of the more amusing examples of Hollywood self-analysis. There's a polished script which is relentlessly witty. There's some art deco interiors. Max Steiner's score is sophisticated. Bennett was one of the biggest stars of the early talkies. She's not remembered so much now, but this is a wonderful vehicle for her gift for romantic comedy.

This isn't a sequel to Frank Borzage's Three Comrades made a year earlier, but it follows on from its historical timeline, as the Nazis come to power in Germany. Margaret Sullavan returns to star. Both films are set in a similarly artificial studio recreation of middle Europe. The most significant change is that this film names the Nazis, and portrays them as a threat to humanity.

Which makes this a landmark Hollywood film, and of course it was banned in Germany. The narrative starts with the news that Hitler has become Chancellor. Instantly, the population of this small, idyllic Alpine town becomes infected by hostility. It's like a  disease that passes through the community. The aura of threat is appalling.

Though a drama, this is one of the great horror films of the decade. The people are possessed by militarism, populism and racial hatred. Those who are immune have no one they can trust. Every stranger is a threat. Eventually Sullavan and James Stewart, flee over the Alps to seek refuge. Robert Young as their former friend turned Nazi is extraordinarily ominous in their pursuit.

It's a Borzage film, so this is about the primal, transcendent nature of love. Humanity is the mortal storm. Stewart and the ethereal, agonised Sullavan as the lovers caught up in its turbulence are pitifully moving. The film doesn't attempt to suggest reasons for the rise of the Nazis, because there is no justification for the madness. It mattered because Hollywood, and MGM, had taken a side.

This is Bette Davis' signature role- as an inhibited, lonely spinster who escapes from the persecution of her mother and blossoms into a confident, independent woman. It's pure escapism for the women on the homefront in WWII. She is freed from domestic duty and escapes to a liaison onboard a ship to Rio with an attentive but troubled architect (Paul Henreid).

This is a medical melodrama which draws on Hollywood psychiatry. Bette's initial neurosis is swiftly treated, mostly with wisdom, by Claude Raines' fatherly doctor. The homely girl blossoms into a stylish and wealthy Bostonian. Curiously, the film doesn't give us completion; her love isn't consummated because the man cannot be free of his diabolical wife.

But, they mustn't ask for the moon, when they have the stars. So Davis takes care of the architect's daughter who is mentally tortured by her own mother. And so the film becomes about sacrifice, a common theme in the war years. OK, this is a soap and some of the situations are unrealistic, but Davis does create an impression of a whole person.

Henreid is too lightweight to stand up to the vortex of Davis' performance. The best of the support cast is Gladys Cooper as the domineering mother.  Now, Voyager is also remembered for Max Steiner's legendary love theme. And for Henreid's trick of lighting two cigarettes simultaneously. It's one of the great Warner Bothers melodramas and the ultimate Bette Davis vehicle.

Musical melodrama which sets Bette Davis' wealthy landowner up against the Oscar winning Mary Astor as a celebrated concert pianist. So there's plenty of rousing Russian classics on the soundtrack to stir the emotions. George Brent is the (unconvincing) playboy aviator that the two divas fight over, but it's really all about the female stars.

Following Brent and Astor's swanky New York wedding they discover that her divorce wasn't finalised and the new marriage is void. So he flies south to marry an old flame (Bette) instead, before crashing his plane in Brazil on secret government business. When Astor discovers she is pregnant, Davis takes her to a shack in the Arizona desert to secretly give birth so Bette can keep the baby in return for dollars.

Which is a hell of a pitch! It starts off as screwball, with Brent plainly uneasy in Cary Grant's shoes, then turns into pure soap. Most of the fun is courtesy of the two female leads wringing all the showbiz out of the preposterous set up. Bette's Maryland mansion is staffed by African American character actors and while there isn't much dignity in their roles, Hattie McDaniel handles the comedy with expertise.

But this isn't so bad it's good. The events happen within the conventions and locations of classic Hollywood melodrama and it succeeds on those terms. It's extraordinarily entertaining, and for that we thank the stars, Max Steiner's soundtrack, Orry-Kelly's gowns and director Edmund Goulding for spinning magic out of such an outrageous premise.

Five years after Laura, Gene Tierney re-teamed with Otto Preminger for another film noir. There are many echoes of the earlier hit including the sour wit of Ben Hecht's script, and the lingering shots of a large portrait over a fireplace which has no impact on the narrative but is a reminder of their previous success. Preminger gives Whirlpool a similarly attractive noir look.

Tierney is a kleptomaniac who falls into the clutches of a cultured but degenerate hypnotist (José Ferrer) who uses her to kill off an inconvenient woman who has the goods on him. It's up to the husband, a brilliant psychoanalyst (Richard Conte) to clear her with a mixture of Hollywood Freud and good luck.

It's possible to see this a forerunner of those eighties yuppie thrillers where an attractive, privileged couple are terrorised by an out of control antagonist just because they are in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like the characters in those films, the successful married duo are too entitled to be sympathetic.

There's nothing like an original story, but the stars make it work. Charles Bickford adds a little weight to the confection as a laconic cop. It's good to see the elegant Gene in contemporary clothing after a run of costume dramas for Fox and her fashions and the des-res sets have a period appeal. Whirlpool is a slender, dark film noir. And while familiar, it's still entertaining.

Olivia de Havilland won her second Oscar for this lavish mid-19th century period drama based on a Broadway adaptation of Henry James' Washington Square. And it's a perfect vehicle for the star, one in a series of exceptional roles she created after WWII, after she escaped from her unhappy contract with Warner Brothers.  

This is also one of William Wyler's many great films. Olivia plays a rich but gauche spinster from an upper middle class family who is suffocated by the authority of her dominant father (Ralph Richardson) who resents his daughter for not being as beautiful and sophisticated as his deceased wife.

When she is courted by an attractive, charming idler (Montgomery Clift), the patriarch seeks to sabotage the proposal by convincing her that no man could want to marry her because she is too plain and dull! We know that the gentleman caller is after her money, so the business of the film is to judge whether it is preferable for this isolated woman to be exploited, if it would save her from a life of emotional emptiness.

Olivia creates a powerful impression of an abused woman consumed by loneliness. She is a study of disappointment and repression. She has no artfulness but she learns how to deceive by finally closing down her heart to love. De Havilland's performance is sometimes raw, but she is also haunting, and tragic. 

This has a huge cult following; directed by critics' favourite Nic Ray, and with a once in a lifetime pairing of film noir superstars Humphrey Bogart and Gloria Grahame. And it starts promisingly with Bogart under suspicion for the murder of a cocktail bar hatcheck girl, and Gloria the witness who could clear him.

But like many Ray films, after the set up, it unexpectedly becomes something else. Once they fall in love, she becomes menaced by his violent jealousy. In the source novel, he is a serial killer and she is playing with fire. Maybe because of star protocol, in the film he is just responsible for an incandescent temper, probably due to PTSD after WWII.  

A mutual friend tells the girl that if she loves the man, she has to love all of him, including his volatility... Which is really bad advice! Grahame is sensational, and Bogart is impressively menacing. But he's too convincing to be forgiven when he turns out to be innocent. The only plausible conclusion was in Dorothy Hughes' book. 

It's set in Hollywood. Bogart is a scriptwriter and Gloria a minor actor in B films. There is some interesting insider chat about the industry. It looks great. But it's a disappointment. The suspect is such a dreadful, overbearing nutcase that no one would go near him. It's two different films implausibly welded together. Points though for the classic noir title.

It's not obvious which is more gorgeous, the sumptuous Technicolor location photography or Gene Tierney in her only Oscar nominated performance. No need for a line of dialogue explaining that she is hot trouble. Her beauty has bite too, feeding the narcissism which makes her a danger to anyone who threatens to come between her and her husband (Cornel Wilde).

Tierney creates a chilling portrait of a psychopath. The scene when she watches Wilde's disabled brother drown as she looks on from behind her shades is haunting, and it's astonishing that the Production Code allowed it to stand. Similarly when she kills herself while to frame her step sister (Jeanne Crain) who she suspects loves her man!

It has the dark pessimism of film noir, but in colour; the interiors are full of shadows and Tierney is a very malevolent femme fatale. However, much of the atmosphere of the film comes from its sunny rural exteriors, which isn't really noir. This is psychological melodrama.

A major weakness is Vincent Price's clodhopping performance as the idiotic lawyer who seeks to prove the crazy bombshell was killed by her sister. Wilde and Crain are fine, but the film is dominated by Tierney's stunning performance. This was Fox's biggest box office hit of the whole decade. While it's a little slow in places, it's a compelling, unsettling film.

Gothic romancer with supernatural themes which was a big factor in Gene Tierney's post WWII rise to stardom. She plays a farm girl from New England before the Civil War, who is invited to take a job as a governess in the stately home of an aristocratic relation. Vincent Price is the megalomaniac landowner who kills his wife in order to marry his beautiful country cousin.

Dragonwyck is the sort of old manor which has a haunted harpsichord. Where the servants mutter about strange goings-on. There's a lot of Poe in the story and that's a home draw for Price. His delusional philosophy conveys unmissable echoes of fascism. His performance is excessive, but it's not easy to imagine anyone else getting away with it.

There were many films in the forties about an inexperienced girl moving into a grand residence occupied by intimidating gentry and hostile staff. But this one isn't as fainthearted as most. Tierney plays her as a naïf, but she has ambition and stubborn values derived from her faith. Walter Huston is excellent as her unbending but protective father.

This was Joe Mankiewicz's directorial debut and he wrote the adapted screenplay. It creates is an impression of a believable, detailed historic society. It's a key American gothic film, and while the narrative is a little slim, there's a rich, eerie ambience thanks to Alfred Newman's score, the wonderful interiors, and the arcane language.

The first of Susan Hayward's trademark powerhouse performances which would make her the premier American female dramatic actor of the fifties. Smash Up gave her a debut Oscar nomination. She plays a nightclub singer who parks her career to bring up baby and support her crooner husband (Lee Bowman). Social anxiety leads to her becoming a drunk.

The Production Code didn't like this story at all, and many compromises were made. While the film is surprisingly realistic in its depiction of alcoholism, Hayward's descent into booze hell is much less ugly than in I'll Cry Tomorrow in 1955. Everything works out by the fadeout. But it's a typically emotional and volatile portrayal from the star.

There's a hot blooded face off between Hayward and Marsha Hunt as Bowman's lonely personal assistant who is in love with the boss. It's a great touch when Angie's swanky apartment fills up with gifts that her rival bought on his behalf. The feud finally erupts into a punch up in the girls-room, with the pie-eyed wife going in fists first.

Eddie Albert plays his standard best friend role with his usual warmth, and Marsha Hunt is excellent. Bowman is an insipid male lead. It's a pulpy melodrama with quite an expressionistic look as the singer loses her struggle with the bottle. The main pull is Hayward's star-making performance and she's on the screen all the way. She even has a soliloquy!

This is one of the great American dramas of the forties. It bears the signature of its German director Max Ophüls, who mostly made films in France. And it feels like the poetic realism that was popular there either side of WWII. It is set in turn of the century Vienna. Of course it's filmed in a Hollywood studio, but it does leave a persuasive impression of place.

Joan Fontaine plays an unremarkable, lower middle class child who falls in love with the handsome, talented concert pianist who lives in an adjacent building. Unknown to him. The man (Louis Jourdan) isn't a rogue but he is frivolous. She lives her life as a kind of homage to the musician but only meets him once, aged about 20. He leaves the girl with a child, and soon forgets about her.

The film isn't concerned with narrative realism; Lisa stands outside his house for years waiting for a chance to meet. When they do, they share a perfect day together, which for her is a kind of communion, but meaningless to him. It's a psychologically fascinating story framed in the masochism of the girl's obsession. She's the narrator, and it's not certain how much truth she tells.

The film confirms Fontaine's status among the great Hollywood film actors. Jourdan is exceptional too. Their initial meeting is a moment of cinema magic. It's such a beautiful looking film. Ophüls tells his story with a personal style and finesse; it feels more like a classic of world cinema than a Hollywood drama.

Bette Davis was always good when she was being bad, but here is poorly cast. She lack the looks her character is assumed to possess. She's ten years too old and wears so much makeup she's hard recognise. Davis plays a sociopathic monster who ruins her forgiving sister (Olivia de Havilland) by stealing her husband. After Davis compels him to suicide she comes back for Olivia's new fiancé...

The source novel won the Pulitzer Prize so perhaps it was more highbrow than this entertaining soap. This adaptation feels like the Hollywood southern melodramas of the fifties. There's a jazz soundtrack. The dichotomy between the good/bad sister is classic fifties. There is a corrupt, dying patriarch (Charles Coburn) who has a transgressive longing for his childlike niece. It's full of sexual innuendo.  

This was John Huston's second film and it's not typical of his work. Though maybe his liberal politics allowed for the more enlightened attitude to race, for the time. After the drunken bad girl kills a mother and child in a hit and run, she casually accuses an African American (Ernest Anderson) of taking the car. The film is explicit that her testament will be verified because she is white.

Amazingly the film wasn't allowed an overseas certificate because it represented USA as being racially biased! Possibly there is a much more intelligent film dormant within this production. What we get is a Bette Davis vehicle, and while she's grotesquely fascinating, this is not always for the intended reasons. It's an interesting, implausible curiosity.