Film Reviews by Steve

This 1931 version of RL Stevenson's classic novel is definitive for three main reasons; the amazing, innovative transformation of Jekyll into Hyde; its fabulously salacious pre-code content; and for the astonishing camera movement and POV tracking shots. That Rouben Mamoulian manages such fluidity in the era of camera booths is a miracle.

Credit for the above should be extended to cinematographer Karl Struss. They create incredible close ups and impressionistic images that mirror the hero's duality. There is also a wonderfully atmospheric pictorial of Victorian London, all candle and lamplit shadows and cobbled streets in the rain.

Fredric March deservedly won an Oscar for his split performance, but Miriam Hopkins steals the film as the Cockney sex worker living in terror of Hyde's brutality. Stevenson wrote a story about the ego versus the id, but it was Paramount that added the sexual motifs that still feel transgressive. It is a fetishistic film. The Hays office cut a lot of this for its reissue.

It presents a paradox: that Victorian sexual prohibition drove men to the services of prostitutes; but without these restrictions, man's animalistic nature is capable of terrible depravity. Eventually we see Jekyll as Hyde's mask, sanctimoniously obscuring his real nature and using it to mediate with a hypocritical society. It is one of the most brilliant films of precode Hollywood.

This is more a remake of Rouben Mamoulian's definitive 1931 version than a new interpretation of RL Stevenson's story. It keeps the same characters and narrative. And there are a few positives; it is a lavish MGM production with some of their top ranked stars. But it is sabotaged by one crucial factor.

And that's the implementation in 1934 of the Production Code, which strips out everything interesting from the Paramount classic. Victor Fleming gives us a longer film which is far less complex. This time, the duality is good and evil rather than the id and the ego. It's a Christian reading which omits all the hypocrisy of Victorian morality.

It sidelines the horror to give us a weirdly soporific melodrama. The transformation scenes are fair, but again, inferior to '31. Spencer Tracy is miscast in either role: he elicits no pity as Jekyll or menace as Hyde. Lana Turner deserves sympathy for a part which asks absolutely nothing, except to be decorative.

Only Ingrid Bergman brings any passion in a hyper-emotional performance as the courtesan brutalised by Hyde. She squeezes a little drama out of her sanitised exchanges with Tracy. The support cast is unusually irritating, especially Jekyll's obsequious butler! Stevenson's premise is immortal but it only just survives Hollywood censorship.

Atmospheric crime thriller which is parked right on the intersection between the '30s Manhattan murder caper, and the incoming film noir movement of the '40s. There is a freshness to the cast with emerging stars in Victor Mature and Carole Landis, and Betty Grable looking for a new direction away from the musical.

That never actually paid off as she became such an icon in WWII that she got typecast as a good girl in a swimsuit. And we see the famous legs. She plays the sensible sister of a murdered showbiz wannabe (Landis), whose slick agent (Mature) has to prove his innocence. Laird Cregar dominates though as the... Well, as a tough cop!

H.Bruce Humberstone was just genre director of B films and he doesn't create much suspense and the pace is sluggish. However, he gives it a classic expressionist look and its a fine showcase for the young leads. Landis shines as the working girl snuffed out in her quest for the big time. Cult favourite Elisha Cook Jr. features as the... Well, a hotel clerk!

There are the motifs from earlier screwball mysteries with the New York nightspots and cocktails and lamé gowns. And sassy innuendo. And there's a premonition of noir with the flashbacks and darkness and pessimism. And Cregar's shadowy menace. It's an interesting genre film which suffers slightly for the lack of a A-list director.

By '41, Hollywood was making films about the threat of Nazis in Germany. But no director was more alert to the menace of fascism at home than Frank Capra. Pressure groups pushed to enter the war on the side of Hitler and Mussolini, with the public made receptive by the depression. He touched on this in '39, with Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.

This time, Capra and screenwriter Robert Riskin, confront the danger of authoritarianism more directly. An unemployed deadbeat (Gary Cooper) is co-opted by a tabloid newshound (Barbara Stanwyck) as an authentic voice of the American people. But both are exploited by a megalomaniacal industrialist/media mogul (Edward Arnold).

And he intends to be the iron hand he claims the masses need. The film has stature because of its historical significance, but it is flawed. The script is longwinded and Capra directs without subtlety. The veneer of comedy is contrived. Cooper is fine, but Stanwyck's histrionics don't distract from implausible plot complications.

Five different endings were shot, which betrays its lack of clarity, yet censorship prevented the only one that would have worked. Sentimentality is a feature of Capra's style, but here it just dilutes the medicine. He has to leave his audience with hope; but fascism would be defeated with tanks and blood, not John Doe clubs.

By 1941, the Hollywood studios were ready to make anti-Nazi A pictures. So who better to direct than Fritz Lang, who fled Germany in '33 after being offered the role of head of film production by Joseph Goebbels? And this actually leaves the impression of one of his Dr. Mabuse series, with its spies and paranoia and expressionism.

The American censors complained the Nazis were portrayed too negatively and demanded changes! It is loosely based on a contemporary bestseller by Geoffrey Household about an English big game hunter who travels to pre-war Europe to stalk a psychopathic dictator, but is discovered and pursued back to London.

The novel doesn't name the target, but it's Adolf Hitler on screen. Walter Pidgeon is fine as the would-be assassin, though outclassed by George Sanders as his aristocratic adversary and John Carradine as a sinister Nazi agent. Then Joan Bennett fills the centre of the film with sweet marshmallow as a cockney sex worker!

She falls for the fugitive who just feels paternal towards her. Which isn't original or realistic and Bennett's accent is comical. It's just padding. Yet, she's a heartbreaker and the role revitalised her career. This is an interesting chase thriller with luminous noir photography, which makes for effective pro-British propaganda.

Leo McCarey's 1937 classic The Awful Truth was a massive box office hit, so he revisited the formula with this unofficial follow up. It reunites Irene Dunne and Cary Grant as another separated couple who scheme to get back together. She has been shipwrecked on a remote island for seven years... and returns on her ex-husband's wedding day.

McCarey couldn't direct after a serious car crash. But he co-wrote and produced and his signature is all over this, particularly the long sentimental scenes with the cute kids, which will be a matter of personal taste. At least they don't sing. Unfortunately, lightning doesn't strike twice. The stars do their stuff, but this is a misfire.

It's usually labelled screwball, but is more like the comedy of propriety which dominated Hollywood in the '50s. The gags emerge from the couple failing to conform to expected standards. Minor characters are not eccentrics but a tutting chorus of disapproval. It feels like screwball has finally been asphyxiated by the Production Code

Gail Patrick is suitably antiseptic as the now unwanted new wife and Randolph Scott is a lot of fun as the himbo who was castaway with Irene. But there is meanness of spirit, and a lack of wit. The estranged couple contort idiotically in search of laughs, which rarely pay off. It's not a washout, but it is a disappointment.

This MGM version of Jane Austen's comedy of manners isn't much admired by hardline Janeites because it messes with the tone of her satirical masterpiece. And the plot, dialogue, characters. And period costumes, etc. It was actually based on a stage adaptation (by Helen Jerome). Still, this is a fabulous entertainment on its own terms.

Greer Garson is too old to play Elizabeth, though she is polished and flirts deliciously. Laurence Olivier's Darcy is too arrogant, yet it works for this Hollywood story arc. The clothes are not contemporary, but they add to the comedy and spectacle. If not every line is from the novel, Aldous Huxley's epigrams are witty anyway.

The Hollywood studio version of an English provincial town in the Georgian era is quaint, but it won the Oscar for art direction. The iniquities of the period are present in the subtext, as they are in the novel. The large ensemble of mostly British expats play caricatures, but they are well cast, with Mary Boland hilarious as Mrs. Bennet.

Director Robert Leonard imparts an unstoppable momentum without it all seeming inconsequential. It's really very funny and it gets everything right for the stirring romantic resolution. So well done MGM. With Britain struggling in the war this must have seemed like a gift to the old country. It is such a happy film.

This is a landmark for Laurel and Hardy enthusiasts as it is their final film at Hal Roach studios before the late career decline at 20th Century Fox. Farewell also to stalwart collaborator James Finlayson. And it's pretty good too, with a decent premise and many big laughs.

It's essentially a couple of two reelers loosely joined together. Oliver Hardy is driven crazy by a particular tone among the many horns he tests in a factory. After a checkup by his doctor (Finlayson) the newly diagnosed hornomaniac goes for some therapeutic sea air with his old friend Stan Laurel...

If only they hadn't taken a fully grown goat along with them. Memorably, they end up making fake Italian food for a dangerous armed fugitive (Richard Cramer) out of string, a sponge and red paint. Some of the gags are familiar. It certainly isn't the first kitchen Stan and Ollie reduce to smouldering ruins.

It's not their absolute best, but still very funny, with that slight twist of poignancy that later vehicles have, as the enduring pals enter middle age. Older, but no wiser. When Ollie ruefully reflects: 'I'll not listen to another idea of yours as long as I live' it's reasonable to feel that it's much too late for that!

Lifelong Republican John Ford isn't the obvious choice to direct John Steinbeck's great American novel. But no matter how hard you squint, this is an unambiguously negative critique of American capitalism that promotes government intervention and workers unions. He brings his usual sentimentality, communal singing and folksy performances by the support cast...

But he doesn't bring his politics. Or indeed his Catholic faith. Changes are made because of censorship and there is no attempt to include the long editorial passages, but Nunnally Johnson's script is faithful to the book, which Steinbeck assiduously researched on the road. And in a couple of ways in particular, it is enhanced.

There's Henry Fonda's trenchant portrayal of Tom Joad's transformation from sharecropper to activist. And Gregg Toland's stark, austere b&w cinematography. Today it seems like a folly that apart from a handful of establishing shots, the mythic journey west from the Oklahoma dustbowl to the orchards of California was all filmed in the studio!

The novel was published only a year earlier. It is astonishing to consider that these events were contemporary. Now this is classic Americana, but the issues are still alive. When corporations sack their workforce and hire them back at 50% wages, who doesn't remember Fonda, gaunt and persecuted in the labour camp, making his famous speech?

The key theme of French Poetic Realism in the years leading up to WWII, is entrapment. And the impossibility of escape. The most evocative image of this is Jean Gabin barricaded alone in the shadows of his attic room surrounded by cops. While he delays his inevitable death, he reflects on what put him there.

With its long flashbacks and fatalism and gloomy expressionism, this is the pre-war French picture which most feels like film noir. And Gabin as the ill-fated everyman is a potent noir antihero: whether alone and brooding in the dark of his tenement; or the bruised romantic who dallies with Arletty's world weary moll.

The two stars as the seen-it-all romantic dupes are immensely affecting. Marcel Carné's forlorn imagery and Jacques Prévert pessimistic script deepen this mood of loss and disappointment. Like most pre-war Poetic Realism it was censored and then banned by the French government for being bad for morale.

The solitary man trapped in a hail of gunfire is also a potent image of the coming occupation. There is evocative set design; Gabin's isolation is illustrated by his remote rooftop home. And Maurice Jaubert's downbeat score. All these make for an emotional overload. But most of all, it's the absolute exposure of Gabin's bitter, abrasive performance.

This is the first screen version of a John Steinbeck story. He adapted his novella into a play, which is what we see here. It isn't opened out to show the working farms of California which exploited the victims of the depression. This is an actors film, about the interaction between these rootless wanderers.

Mainly the famous protagonists. Lon Chaney Jr. is Lennie, the simple minded giant who unwittingly kills what he loves, or feels pity for. And Burgess Meredith is his benevolent keeper, George. Chaney's performance is unsubtle, but as a combination they are emotionally unstoppable, as is the pathos of Steinbeck's moral tale.

The rural poor are distorted by what they lack: a home, family, security. And self respect. They are in fear of a lonely, miserable old age and get by on the dream of a better life that will never happen and is as intangible as religious faith. Their (all male) community is as blighted as the survivors of a post apocalyptic wilderness.

This is far from the depression of Frank Capra. Lewis Milestone directs the limited space with fluency, but mainly conducts the excellent performances, with Betty Field a standout among the support. Aaron Copland's score brings shade to the visual austerity. It feels like group theatre but it's my pick as the best of Steinbeck on film.

Sentimental romance about a celebrity playboy (Charles Boyer) and a pampered bride-to-be (Irene Dunne) who travel by luxury liner from Europe to New York to marry into fabulous wealth, but fall in love with each other. So they arrange to meet at the top of the Empire State building in six months if they decide to get together instead...

Which sounds familiar because Leo McCarey remade it himself in 1957 as the hugely popular An Affair to Remember. Which itself was heavily referenced in the smash 1993 romcom, Sleepless in Seattle. The original is the best, though it is uneven and as usual the director leans too heavily on a big emotional payoff.

It splits into three acts. First there's the shipboard screwball, which isn't classic McCarey, but still charming. Next it is a pious moral tale in which the frivolous lovers must pay for their avarice before they achieve their romantic destiny. And then there's a horribly sugary subplot about a choir of orphaned children at Christmas!

Which is surely only there to expand the narrative to feature length and allow Irene to sing. The story actually recovers for a pretty good ending. McCarey was a strong Catholic and the hand of god is in control of the action at every turn, which makes it feel sanctimonious. But the studio era know-how and irresistible stars make this the superior version.

With the implementation of the Production Code in 1934 Hollywood films didn't only become less salacious, they were also more conservative. The censors were strongly allied to religious groups and asserted their role was to enforce 'American values'. Plus the '30s was a foreign country and they did things differently there.

Some directors pushed back and some didn't. And it seems Mark Sandrich was one who didn't. The screwball plot of Carefree is regrettably sexist and perverse, with Fred Astaire as a psychoanalyst who uses his professional prerogative to influence the romantic choices of Ginger Rogers. Sometimes under hypnosis.

OK, this is screwball, but it is also creepy. Even allowing for 90 years of social change, this is the Fred and Ginger series in decline. The few dance routines are not among the duo's best and are set to some of Irving Berlin's lesser songs. Ralph Bellamy is one of the great comedy support actors, but there's not much for him here.

Set against all that, there are some big laughs and Luella Gear is fun as Ginger's sassy older sidekick. Rogers gets an equal share of the spotlight for once. The romantic dance duet for Change Partners may not be one of the stars' greatest hits, but it's still pretty good. There are merits for hardcore fans, but it's a guilty pleasure.

This looks fabulous on paper. It's directed by the maestro of the sophisticated, studio era sex comedy, Ernst Lubitsch, who as usual adapts his story from a successful European play. There's a script by Billy Wilder and Charles Brackett. It stars the  doyenne of '30s screwball, Claudette Colbert. And Gary Cooper was as big a star as anyone in the studio era.

Unfortunately it doesn't work. The contrived situations are heavy with salacious gags, but they fail to go off. Possibly because the slow and lugubrious Cooper is miscast. Lubitsch can't bring a sparkle to Wilder and Brackett's trademark cynicism and eventually the ironic tone gets tiresome. Though there is the most famous and inspired meet-cute in pictures.

An American tycoon (Cooper) on the Côte d'Azur is frustrated in his quest to buy pyjama tops as the posh department store won't separate them.  He encounters a penniless French aristocrat (Colbert) looking to purchase just the bottoms... At their wedding she discovers his seven previous marriages. So she- basically- withholds sex until he learns not to be a toxic male.

There's a regrettable male on female slap, though the wife wins the battle of the sexes through her wits. It's insubstantial frou-frou. There's some light subtext about the friction between US capitalism and European aristocracy but reality hardly intrudes. Colbert almost rescues it, and wears some eye-catching fashions. But everyone's best work is elsewhere.