Film Reviews by Steve

Thrilling WWII  action film which has become a document of British national identity. This account of the audacious bomber raid on strategically important dams in the German industrial heartland breaks into three distinct acts: the conception of the bouncing bomb by Barnes Wallis; the formation of 617 Squadron led by Guy Gibson to deliver the unique explosive; and the attack itself.

While the film is incredibly compelling throughout, it is the procedural realism of the night time mission which is most dramatic. And yes, iconic. Sadly, the models and effects reflect financial and period limitations, but the documentary style of Michael Anderson's direction overcomes this impediment. It is stirring, but credible.

The casting of Michael Redgrave as Wallis and Richard Todd as Gibson is inspired. Erwin Hillier's imposing aerial photography of the Lancaster raid is also a huge strength. But what most elevates the action is Eric Coates' stirring, heart pounding musical theme, the Dambusters March, which has transcended the film to become an unofficial national anthem.

It was too soon for the narrative to closely evaluate the raid's validity and unintended consequences, though it does reflect at length on loss of life in the RAF. Curiously it finds time to exaggerate the developmental drag of bureaucracy; perhaps a political dig. But it endures as a patriotic drama that memorialises the ingenuity of the inventor and the bravery of the squadron.

Intense, sombre adaptation of Graham Greene's catholic tragedy, shot on location in Sierra Leone. The soundtrack uses local music, played on improvised instruments. With the glistening noir photography and the tropical rain, the film is full of atmosphere. And there's a classic Greene premise, loaded with irony and moral twists.

Trevor Howard is a burned out colonial policemen, tormented by his alien environment and his faith. And the memory of his daughter who died of a tropical disease. He gets into the debt of a corrupt wheeler dealer to give his unfaithful wife (Elizabeth Allan) some respite in South Africa. And so is forced to help run diamonds across the border.

While his wife is away, the middle aged officer falls in love with a young refugee from the war (Maria Schell). He is trapped between his passion and his certainty that it will damn him. The great joy of the film is to hear Greene's precise dialogue spoken by the impassive British cast, supported by Denholm Elliott, Michael Hordern and Peter Finch.

Howard gives one of his greatest performances as a desperate man condemned by his conscience. All the Brits are hollowed out by their occupation, uncertain of their purpose and local customs, and usually fighting off malaria. It's a film saturated in despair, but elevated by its flawed hero; a wise conveyance of human pity who cannot save himself.

Heavy, pessimistic revenge drama, shot in oppressive, looming misty-greys on the desolate Kent marshes. John Mills has done 12 years for a murder he didn't commit, and is  looking for payback. His former girl (Elizabeth Sellars) lied under oath, but is now married to the honest cop who sent him down (John McCallum). And doing quite nicely.

Aside from the rural setting, this is British noir. It feels inspired by the novels of David Goodis, with its cast of inarticulate deadbeats, haunted by bad luck and frustrated by their stupidity. John Mills is no-one's idea of a dumb, tough ex-con, but he's actually pretty good and doesn't try and make the character a fake winner.

The mournful foghorns blast out in the mist like unceasing cries of pain. But there is redemption through the unconditional love of another victim (Eva Bergh). She's the soul of the film; human flotsam who has suffered too, from war and violent men. She scrubs floors in the grimmest joint in film history. Without her sad, sweet stoicism, this would be too brutal.

Men are driven by hate, which dies with them. The flimsy shacks they live in feel ephemeral on the eternal moors. It's a slow, lethargic film by design. This means there are longueurs but its numb, narcotic atmosphere is what most makes it memorable. Not a crowdpleaser then, but another cult classic from Robert Hamer.

World War II special-ops story directed by Hollywood's military film specialist Lewis Milestone who was in Britain to evade the reach of Joe McCarthy. It is based on a real life raid on German airfields on the island of Rhodes in Greece (but filmed on Crete), and was scripted with the close co-operation of the two survivors, portrayed by Dirk Bogarde and Denholm Elliott.

The film was trashed by the critics and unsuccessful at the box office, but this is an exciting commando film which is plausible and spotlights the bravery of the saboteurs and the sacrifice of the Greek people. Dirk Bogarde plays an ostentatiously flawed leader, who accomplishes his mission, but at great loss of life.

Milestone directs with intelligence and compassion and delivers plenty of suspense too. But the most memorable factor is the location, captured in sumptuous Technicolor. Particularly the deep blues of the Aegean sea and sky. While the film is a little touristic, the heat of the Greek landscape gives the film a rare ambience.

The comic relief is awkward, and minor characters underwritten. One of the Greek pathfinders is a hotheaded stereotype. But this is a thrilling SAS film. There is ambiguity, rather than simple heroism. Some liberties have been taken with the details, but the outline is solid. And crucially, the director conveys a strong impression of what they were fighting for.

A very English take on the women in prison genre, surely inspired by the 1950 Warner Brothers classic, Caged. This isn't as hard hitting. Or as good. It was based on the experiences of an ex-jailbird, though it lacks realism. There is little friction between the screws and the compliant cons. Not much is said about the state of the prison system.

There's no exploitation thrills either. No lesbian guards, or shower scenes. Glynis Johns is a brittle society girl who likes a flutter and passes a phoney cheque. She gets sent down for fraud and is forced to rub along with a mixed bag of career crooks and sociopaths, and first timer Diana Dors who appears to have a salon on speed-dial.

Glynis' slumming toff is too shallow to carry the film, and Di has little to do other than lay on some sullen glamour. The most memorable contribution comes from Jane Hylton, as a mother whose baby dies alone while she is out on a date. She brings some more convincing suffering to the cells.

By the time Athene Sayler and Sybil Thorndike are poisoning an inconvenient husband for his inheritance, the film gives up and feels like more of an anthology of backstories. Though it's an amusing episode. There's nothing new here, but it's still an entertaining visit to a vanished past when female convicts knew their place. Which was weaving rugs.

Inspired British comedy loosely based on Ronald Searle's celebrated comic strips set in an anarchic public school for girls. The younger pupils are feral tweenies, marauding in packs and brandishing hockey sticks. The sixth form are smokers and boozers who use sex to procure favours. And the staff room is a last chance saloon for crooks and fugitives.

 The plot is a lively farce about conflicting bets placed on a Sultan's racehorse which is favourite for the Gold Cup. While the comedy has incredible energy, it is surprisingly clever and witty too. It's full of absurd plot twists and droll one liners. And the circus-ragtime soundtrack is perfect. It's not exactly PC, but there are no real victims.

There's a classic cast of comedy stalwarts, led by Alastair Sim in drag as the devious headteacher, with quality schtick from Joyce Grenfell. And George Cole's definitive performance, as Flash Harry, a dodgy wide-boy who acts as the girls' middle man. Belinda Lee makes an impression as a blonde sex bomb, still in school for reasons never explained.

Or because St. Trinian's is a place where normal rules do not apply. Into the fifties climate of sedate conservatism, Launder and Gilliat loosed anarchy in the UK. Figures of authority cower in the path of an unstoppable wave of delinquency, violence and subterfuge. It's difficult to imagine another country producing a film much like this.

Stylish London noir which is elevated by an impressive mix of UK and US actors. It's a British version of a classic American genre, the heist film. But the first act, the coming together of the gang, is the main focus. The crime and the disintegration are quite exciting, and well staged by director Lewis Gilbert, but take up little screen time.

Three hard luck fall guys meet regularly in a pub to drown their sorrows. Stanley Baker is a washed up boxer who has lost his left hand and his savings. Richard Basehart is a demobbed GI with a kid on the way and no money in the bank. John Ireland is a soldier gone AWOL , whose sexy wife who is pure hot trouble. Yes, Gloria Grahame

Their latent criminality is activated by Laurence Harvey's psycho-aristocrat. And they hold up a security van. Stanley Baker gives the eye catching performance, primal and brooding. Harvey is nauseatingly over-ripe, but he's supposed to be a villain, so it sort of works. Gloria is the best of the WAGS, lifting some flat dialogue with her incomparable petulance.

Gilbert directs with great élan, though the suspense comes and goes. The film hints at political themes, but mostly concludes that life is unfair and people are users or losers. And as in classic noir, hope is a commodity hoarded elsewhere. It's not the equal of the great Hollywood heist films, but still a fascinating British variation.

Feelgood comedy-drama from Ealing studios, shot around Glasgow and the Hebrides. There's a premise which has been pitched many times, but never better realised. A wealthy American businessman (Paul Douglas) wants to get his modern bathroom furniture to his rustic island retreat. Through a logistics mix-up, the job is snatched by the wily old skipper of a dilapidated steam puffer...

So the stressed yank busts a gut trying to get his luxury goods off the ramshackle steamboat, partly because he doesn't want to be taken for a mug. Naturally, when he spends time on the old wreck, the tycoon re-evaluates his values. Though the story arc isn't as schematic as that suggests. The protagonist was never a monster, and he doesn't become a dupe.

What we mainly witness is the gradual loosening of the grip of modern life. The troubled stranger to the islands only knows conflict. But opening up to his humanity is painful. Which takes a subtle performance from Douglas. The crew is made up of nonprofessional actors, and Alex Mackenzie as the poor, canny captain, and Tommy Kearins as the feisty child are magnificent.

The b&w photography of the old puffer and its crew is impressive, with the shots of the Scottish islands a bonus. As a comedy, it is whimsical rather than hilarious, though there are some classic lines. While the film delivers a huge emotional uplift, it is shrewd and even-handed, which offsets the sentimentality. This feels like it was made with a lot of affection.

Britain's first ever animated feature film is a simplified but brutal and macabre version of George Orwell's political allegory about the betrayal of the Russian revolution by Joseph Stalin. Or in this case, Napoleon, the pig. Aside from an incongruously cute baby duck, there could hardly be a greater contrast with contemporary Disney cartoons.

The production was secretly financed by the American CIA to show to children in classrooms as anti-Soviet indoctrination. The uprising of the animals against the cruel farmer proves futile as the pigs merely assume the role of exploitative suppression.

But the film doesn't really work as anti-communist propaganda as it creates such a powerful impression of the transgressive cruelty of capitalism. Though the ending is changed to leave us with a little optimism, this adapts Orwell's theme with faithful clarity. The author abhorred Joseph Stalin's treachery, but he was still a socialist.

Mátyás Seiber's score and the sound treatment of Maurice Denman's animal voices are crucial contributions. The artists create a powerful sense of (often surreal) threat, but the landscapes rather charmingly evoke the idyllic poster art of Britain between the wars. There is impressive, old school animation, but this feels an incredibly dark film for kids!

1954 was the year that Dirk Bogarde became a major British star with Doctor in the House. But The Sleeping Tiger was a more significant indication of the actor's future direction. It was the first of many collaborations with Joseph Losey, an elaborate psycho-drama with Dirk playing a complex, dangerous criminal who moves in with a psychiatrist.

Alexander Knox plays the narcissistic shrink who wants to get into the head of the volatile delinquent, and unlock his suppressed trauma with Freudian analysis. But didn't reckon on his bored, beautiful wife (Alexis Smith) falling for the handsome, imperious younger man. Wrong move! She has hidden motives too. And the film becomes a malign power struggle.

It's the kind of cerebral, brooding psychological stand off for which Losey is remembered. It's an actors film, and Alexis Smith is excellent as an emotionally hungry neurotic who is outwardly assured and elegant. But Bogarde dominates playing a sardonic, insidious sociopath; a forerunner of his signature performance in Losey's, The Servant.

Losey released his UK debut under a borrowed name, because he was a refugee from McCarthyism. He became arguably the standout director of 50s-60s British films. This is an intelligent and unconventional drama, rather than groundbreaking. He wasn't quite there yet. But it's an early gateway into his oeuvre, and the dark charisma of Dirk Bogarde.

David Niven was the only British expat in Hollywood to return to fight with the onset of war in Europe in 1939. So he may have seemed ideal casting as a veteran combat hero. Certainly, he was always a natural in uniform, officer class. He plays a Major who won the Victoria Cross for valour at Tobruk.

But with the war now a memory, he is resented by some, and let down by the ministry and the army who are holding out on back pay. Most miserably of all, his wife is dismayed that the hero never amounted to a big shot in peacetime. When the Major is up in front of a court-martial for stealing army funds, she lies to shoot down his defence.

The principal theme is of post war malaise in the British army. Which is hung on a fascinating courtroom drama. It's directed for maximum tension by Anthony Asquith, and elevated by the performances of Niven and particularly Margaret Leighton as his neurotic, self-absorbed wife. The scene when she perjures herself to destroy him is a heartbreaker.

In a strong support cast of bristling army types, Victor Maddern stands out as a grunt who sticks his neck out for the accused. It's shot like a stage play and makes a virtue of the insular, isolated feel of the army camp, with its idiotic ceremonies and absurd exceptions. The wordy script touches on broader issues of military law, but this doesn't compromise the compelling suspense.

This is a conspicuous imitation of Carol Reed's own The Third Man, this time set in the ruins of Berlin. And almost inevitably it got lost in the shadows of a legend. The Man Between suffers in comparison in many way, but most obviously the script. There isn't the moral complexity of Graham Greene's story, where the McGuffin of the diluted penicillin is genuinely poignant.

This time there's an East German spy ring kidnapping agents from the west. Claire Bloom is a young English tourist visiting her brother in pre-wall West Berlin. She becomes entangled in the schemes of a former Nazi soldier now working for the Communists, played by James Mason. Her naivety makes it difficult for her to understand how corrupt he is.

And his cynicism makes him utterly unable to comprehend her innocence. Which is an interesting contrast, and the film deepens when they fall in love during a long sequence while he helps her escape from his own comrades. Leading to a classic denouement, trapped between the check points in no mans land.

While this can't match the famous visual imagery of The Third Man, the b&w photography is still gorgeous, particularly of cold war Berlin in the snow. The stars are well cast. There's a fine, moody jazz score. The story is a bit of a muddle. It succeeds most as an atmospheric period piece, a photogenic fantasy of espionage on the edge of a new frontier.

Box office smash adapted from Nicholas Monsarrat's best seller, which is the authoritative WWII film about the Battle of the Atlantic. It's an understated, procedural drama that explores the mental trauma of combat more than the history. In fact, these men are so isolated from home and HQ that they become alienated from the war, and the country they fight for.

Everyone remembers The Cruel Sea for the incident when the Captain (Jack Hawkins) sacrifices the lives of British men abandoned in the cold, oily sea, in an attempt to finish off a U boat. And over two hours, the film documents the psychological toll, until Hawkins becomes a numb predator. Ultimately we wonder at the cost of total warfare on the survivors.

Nearly all of the leader's colleagues die. The only human attachment comes from his relationship with his First Lieutenant (Donald Sinden) but even that barely endures. The story covers the whole war, and it has an epic dimension. The action is shown from the point of view of view of the skipper's two ships as they evolve in technology and efficiency.

Hawkins famously breaks down once, and emotes, 'it's the war, the whole bloody war!' He has no hatred for the men in the U-boats. To the Captain, the enemy is the cruel sea. So, it's a film of rapprochement. There's a superb script by Eric Ambler, and austere realism from director Charles Frend, but Jack Hawkins' commanding performance embodies the whole conflict.

Period drama set in Nova Scotia, Canada in the first decade of the twentieth century. A community of Scottish settlers has made a simple home in the snowy mountains, and is reluctantly accommodating new Dutch immigrants. The patriarch of a meagre smallholding (Duncan Macrae) is driven by resentment and prejudice, stoked by a land feud.

Philip Leacock was a specialist in directing films featuring small children, and The Kidnappers is mainly remembered for Jon Whiteley (aged 8) and Vincent Winter (5), who both won a special Oscar. Leacock does a great job in piecing together their performances, and they have plenty of natural charisma.

The boys travel across country to live with their inflexible grandfather, who rules by the bible and the lash. And the film is about how the family is traumatised by a lack of love. Not just the children, but his daughter (Adrienne Corri) who is growing old alone in the remote settlement. Refused a dog, the young brothers snatch a baby...

Which may give the film its title, but it's a brief, unlikely episode. The film is about the family dynamic and their frustrated emotions. There is a strong sense of location, with the Scottish highlands standing in for Canada. But the main attraction is the child performances, and even those allergic to the cutes are going to find them pretty irresistible.

Definitive film version of Oscar Wilde's immortal play, which brilliantly capitalises on all of its dazzling virtues, without ever overcoming the flaws. Anthony Asquith presents the scenes as if on a stage, and is extremely faithful to the text. And his ideal cast delivers Wilde's polished epigrams with aplomb, as the drollery of the ingenious plot unspools.

Michael Redgrave and Michael Denison are frivolous bachelors of the privileged class who adopt alternative identities to free themselves of their minor responsibilities. Joan Greenwood and Dorothy Tutin are pretty debutantes who fall in love with these alter-egos. But Margaret Rutherford and Edith Evans steal the film as their elderly chaperones.

As with the play, characters are mere cyphers, a means of moving the plot around while delivering sparkling bon mots. The men are charming, disingenuous fops. The older women are monsters, which makes them more interesting. But it's impossible to invest any care in them. It's all surface. Which is fine, because the scenes fizz with incredible lines.

A few witticisms inevitably fail to launch, and without anyone to care about, the film quickly stalls. The ironic inflection becomes irritating. But these are moments. The period costumes and Victorian habitat are richly reproduced in gaudy Technicolor. The stars perform the hilariously absurd frou-frou with expertise. And Asquith has genuine rapport with Oscar's unique depiction of the upper class.