Film Reviews by Steve

Twisty but implausible golden age film noir which elevates an assembly of capable support actors to lead roles with some success. Vincent Price- in the period before he became a horror star- plays a reptilian corporate investor who intends to erase a witness to a major fraud, now just released from state prison.

So he incriminates a troublesome lawyer (Edmond O'Brien) for the murder. And then frames his own lissom personal assistant (Ella Raines) who arouses his jealousy. William Bendix plays the determined, procedural detective. Which is a fine cast, but maybe O'Brien isn't quite a good fit for the romantic lead with his eye on Ella's nylons.

Though he's a decent fall guy. As was typical of postwar film noir, the arena of business and finance is portrayed as corrupt, and the filthy rich as rapacious sociopaths... and Price makes a loathsome villain. His schemes are so reckless its amazing he even got out of college. His solution to every setback is murder!

The photography is commonplace and looks like it was shot quickly and cheaply on rudimentary sets. There's a decent hardboiled script with some penetrating wisecracks, but nothing quotable. It's worth seeing chiefly for that relishable cast. Raines could do Lauren Bacall even better than the real thing.

Improbable but entertaining murder mystery with a lavish production budget which allows its trio of female stars to model some chic gowns on the elaborate sets. Which Michael Curtiz gives a striking film noir look. There's a touch of Columbo as we see the killer in the opening scene and then wait for the law to catch up.

So there's no spoiler in disclosing that Claude Rains plays a suave psycho-killer who murders an alarming number of his household residents without attracting much attention from the cops. It takes an interested gentleman detective to uncover his depravity. Rains is a bit too insidiously malevolent to watch with any pleasure though.

And those female stars: Joan Caulfield is the demure beauty Claude is looking to turn into a large inheritance; Audrey Totter, who must have been sewn into her clothes, is best as a sexy poor relation; and Constance Bennett sparkles as the sophisticated comic relief. The male roles struggle to make much impact among all this glamour.

It's one of those films where wealthy cosmopolitans stand around their lavish mansion while swapping supercilious bonmot in their evening wear. And wait their turn to die. If you can suspend disbelief, there's some fun to be had. And in our age of digital surveillance it's cute to watch the villain snare his victims using huge slabs of recordable vinyl.

Surprising that only a year after his success with Gilda, Glenn Ford was in such a minor film noir. And there are many echoes of that film; Janis Carter even looks like Rita Hayworth. It's a psycho-sexual power struggle between a scheming, sexy knockout and a pliable, alcoholic drifter. She wants his body. But not in the usual way!

The glamourgirl works in a sleazy bar looking for a man about the size of her married boyfriend to burn in a car crash, for the usual reasons. Ford is the perfect match. He arrives in an out of control truck. Given the influence of the Hollywood left on early noir, maybe this is intended as a critique of the unregulated haulage industry!

There are disappointments: Burnett Guffey is a great noir photographer, but this looks bright and realistic; and director Richard Wallace doesn't create much suspense. It was made quickly and cheaply. Ford doesn't look engaged, maybe because Carter has the better role. And she's pretty good. The title sometimes goes under her name, Paula.

It's the genre dynamic of the femme fatale versus the male dupe that still works best. The grim, violent premise is interesting, and this could have been a much stronger film, with a decent budget. It is a short, punchy thriller; second level film noir. Though that's intended as a compliment.

Ultra-pessimistic film noir which has many interesting genre features but is ultimately frustrated by Byron Haskin's uninspired direction. The premise is familiar from gangster films of the early '30s; a hapless stooge (Burt Lancaster) takes the rap for his partner (Kirk Douglas) when their racket gets tumbled during prohibition.

So when the fall guy is sprung from the big house 14 years later, he expects a share of his old pal's hot nightspot. But the ex-jailbird is an anachronism. The mobs are over. Now WWII has happened, the concept of the sucker coming home to find others have done very well in his absence and don't want to share the rewards, has a deeper resonance.

Burt was always a good punchbag in his noir days and Kirk is well cast as the vicious, impregnable top dog. Lizabeth Scott shimmers sensuously as the chanteuse who swaps sides. But Wendell Corey is best as the crooked, careworn accountant, slowly worn down by his guilty conscience. The quality cast gets some nice hardboiled dialogue.

When Lancaster assembles a gang to extract his cut by force, instead of exchanging gunfire, he finds he is holding up a cartel and he can't get his whack without a vote by the shareholders! This is based on a New York play (by Theodore Reeves) and this standout scene is all that's left of its negative critique of capitalism! Which is a shame.

Hyperemotional, genre-blending curiosity which starts with 16 minutes of gaslight melodrama and concludes a lot like film noir. But what it mostly resembles is those glossy '50s melodramas adapted from fat bestsellers about a loner who drifts back to his old home town to uncover the corruption of the powerful people he left behind.

The opening flashback shows the murder of her brutal stepmother by a teenage girl. Who grows into Barbara Stanwyck. Kirk Douglas plays her husband, a witness to the coverup. Between them, they own Iverstown, a small city in the midwest. Van Heflin is her former childhood sweetheart who stumbles back into their toxic marriage and malign influence.

He forms an alliance with a jailbird (Lizabeth Scott). She's on parole for theft, though maybe censorship code for sex worker. Their early scenes are alluring, like restless, rootless nighthawks in an Edward Hopper painting. Stanwyck stars, but has more of a support role, until she ultimately revives her psycho-killer persona from Double Indemnity.

Kirk gets more screen time in his debut, oddly cast as the panicky submissive under her thumb. There's plenty of gloomy noir fatalism, but it more persuasively suggests those febrile, small town melodramas of the next decade, like Some Came Running. This isn't in Technicolor and CinemaScope. But it would feel appropriate if it was.

Simply gorgeous first wave film noir. This description stands for the gleaming, stunning b&w photography as well as its photogenic future stars. Burt Lancaster (in his screen debut) is a dumb fall guy whose head gets messed around by Ava Gardner's luminous femme fatale. There's a landmark score too, from Miklós Rózsa.

The opening 12 minutes are taken from a short story by Ernest Hemingway, and this is the best part of the picture. It feels 10 years ahead of its time. Lancaster is gunned down by a pair of tough, laconic hitmen in a motel in New Jersey, and just takes it. And the rest of the film mostly looks into how the Swede got so fatalistic.

This is like Citizen Kane, only these flashbacks are in the wrong order. There's a touch of genius to Robert Siodmak's feel for film noir. This is choked up with pessimism. Unfortunately the many exceptional parts don't add up to a wholly satisfying experience. This is mostly because the huge back story about a heist gone wrong is so commonplace.

Burt and Ava look glamorous, but their screen presence isn't quite there yet. Edmond O'Brien is fine as a rather sleazy insurance investigator following up the minor policy triggered by the Swede's demise and finding a deeper crime. This is an incredibly inventive, groundbreaking film noir but not always as irresistible as it looks.

This reunites the director (Irving Rapper) and stars (Bette Davis and Paul Henreid) of Now, Voyager, which was a box office hit in 1942. It's another romantic melodrama, only with a twist of film noir; this is much darker, and even features a murder. But still what they used to call a 'woman's picture' back in the studio era.

Davis is a minor neophyte on the piano wedged in a love triangle between two musical genius': she marries a brittle, penniless cellist (Henreid) just out of a Nazi concentration camp; and throws over a wealthy and narcissistic composer (Claude Rains) whose orchestra may be able to give her new husband the big break.

So, it's an intriguing dilemma for postwar audiences. Rains' jealous mind games are cruel. But he pays the bills. There's the usual motifs of the genre, with Bette's fabulous gowns and furs and the des-res of her modernist, Manhattan loft apartment in stark contrast with her egomaniacal former lover's baroque townhouse.

So much luxury in a time of austerity. There's an abundance of orchestral music on the soundtrack, composed by Erich Wolfgang Korngold. It's a lesser Davis vehicle, but enjoyable for its excesses; mainly her and Rains' expressionist performances. Plus it's one of the Hollywood films post-WWII which refer, however obliquely, to the trauma of the survivors.

So many Hollywood classics are connected to a scare story that George Raft was close to being cast in the lead, like it would be be the worst possible calamity. Including The Maltese Falcon, Casablanca and Double Indemnity. Well he's actually in this RKO film noir, and while he sleepwalks through the role, he's ok. Though this isn't a picture of that stature.

It's a minor murder mystery about a rich playboy musician who is gunned down in his swanky Frank Lloyd Wright show home while playing the title song on his grand piano. The idiots at LAPD say suicide, but a maverick on homicide (Raft, naturally) suspects one of the many bombshells whose pictures decorate the walls of the death room.

So the detective chases them down. There are signs that this was once a longer film with more leads followed up, and the clumsy editing shows. Sometimes the search for the murderer seems to be forgotten while the cop cracks wise with the RKO starlets. Virginia Huston stands out among the photogenic suspects.

There's some decent smartass dialogue, and attractive noir photography. And there's a nice, studio impression of LA and a few sultry torch songs performed in a glitzy hotspot. Raft eventually gets suspended for his obsessive behaviour and goes solo, but really should have been kicked off the force for taking so long to solve the case!

Fast, laconic thriller that is mostly remembered now for the original screenplay by hardboiled poet Raymond Chandler, two years after his co-write on Double Indemnity kicked off the whole film noir movement. There's a dusting of classic dialogue but this leaves the impression he was saving the best lines for his novels; and was never the best at plots.

Critics claim film noir reflects the alienation of returning WWII combat veterans who find everything has changed in their absence. In this case, it isn't subtext. Alan Ladd plays a navy pilot who comes home to find his wife (Doris Dowling) is playing around, and he can't find a room...When the flyer's fitted up for her murder, he must clear his name.

Maybe the real guilty party is his best pal (William Bendix) back from the Pacific with PTSD and a steel plate in his head. Or the ex-gangster (Howard Da Silva) who has been playing house in the dead dame's apartment. He runs The Blue Dahlia hotspot and is married to Veronica Lake, who picks up the accused on the highway, to see what he knows.

So it's a vehicle for Ladd and Lake... though Bendix steals the film. The ending was compromised when the US Navy refused to have a sailor guilty of the crime. And director George Marshall was more suited to light comedy than stylish noir. But there's a nice big band soundtrack and period LA feel. Maybe a let down for Chandler fans, but still a decent noir.

Enigmatic psychological murder mystery from Joseph Lewis, maybe the best B-picture director of the studio era. It's film noir because of Burnett Guffey artistic, shadowy photography but the story is more of a golden age whodunit. There are no mean streets. The final twist isn't original, but is executed with considerable élan.

Steven Geray plays a famous Parisian sleuth who is released to the country to recuperate- for as long as it takes. The diffident, middle aged detective falls in love with a young woman (Micheline Cheirel) already engaged. When she and the childhood sweetheart are found dead, the grieving holidaymaker investigates.

It's an intriguing puzzle, though not difficult to unravel. There is a slight impression of the story being stretched to fit feature length. The cast is little known. Geray is familiar from support roles in Columbia's major releases, and his lack of star charisma suits his role as the modest suitor who has never experienced love.

It's the director's imagination which most impresses. He exploits the evocative studio setting of a rural French village with some wonderful visual flourishes. And accumulates a powerful sense of fatalism as we drill down into the killer's fractured obsession. He creates the kind of living dreamworld which will one day be explored by David Lynch.

Eccentric, implausible mystery with that eeriness which comes from complementing a standard film noir scenario with expressionism. This really could be a lingering, unsettling dream. The premise is from a Cornell Woolrich story, which he repeated many times; the suspect has lost his memory for a period when he really needed not to.

A sailor (Bill Williams) on leave gets drunk while the floozy he picked up is murdered. He stumbles upon a taxi dancer (Susan Hayward) and a cabbie (Paul Lukas) and they all try to piece together his missing hour. It was made by veterans of the New York Group Theatre, and leaves the impression of their politics; it's about how connected we all are.

Clifford Odets' verbose script gathers an ever increasing cast of suspects who stand around delivering the B-picture poetry. There's some decent dialogue, but eventually it smothers Woolrich's concept. Much of the attraction is Nicholas Musuraca's noir photography. Williams was an ex-swimmer, but not much of an actor and can't carry the film.

Susan Hayward became the great Hollywood female dramatic actor of the '50s. In this, she's mainly unexpectedly sexy in an otherwise uncharismatic cast. She's the main reason to watch. And the melancholy of the big city at night as the lonely, weary insomniacs pass through the picture, looking for peace, but finding only trouble.

This golden age film noir begins inauspiciously but develops into a pretty exciting thriller. The early scenes feel like they are made up of other better noirs. The pessimistic, wisecracking gumshoe with an office bottle is pure Raymond Chandler. And Clifton Webb duplicates his role from Laura (1944) to the extent of actually repeating dialogue.

Henry Hathaway starts in the documentary style he often adopted after WWII with a location shoot around New York. But later on we get some classic noir photography. The familiar Fox library music (first used in Street Scene in 1931) gives way to ambient sound. And a decent plot kicks in about the PI getting framed for murder.

Mark Stevens is too lightweight for the tough detective but Lucille Ball delivers as his girl Friday. Webb as a rich jealous, art dealer is a limited actor, though Cathy Downs is an unexpected bonus as the sexy bad girl married to his money, but playing around. William Bendix is authentically brutal as the hired muscle paid to do the dirty work.

Leo Rosten's narrative about an innocent man trying to clear his name with the assistance of a resourceful, lovestruck colleague evokes Cornell Woolrich. And like his stories, this film noir has aged well. The familiarity becomes part of the pleasure. The genre archetypes and the crimes that connect the rich with the underworld always seem to engage.

Quintessential John Ford western which climaxes with the legendary gunfight at the OK Corral. But takes a long, circuitous route getting there. Don't expect to find any genuine history because there isn't any. We get a slow shuffle of the director's usual motifs: a vocal harmony group, a lot of sentimentality and knockabout comedy, and a bashful romance.

Walter Brennan does his Walter Brennan impression as old man Clanton and there's the standard stuff about the coming of law to the west. It's set in Monument Valley... even though Tombstone isn't in Utah. Ford claimed he got the lowdown on what actually happened from Wyatt Earp! Well, maybe, but he doesn't reveal it here because the wrong people die!

Which hardly matters. It's an entertainment. Anyone who likes the director's films will love this. Best on show is Joseph MacDonald's striking high contrast b&w photography which gives it a noir feel. Henry Fonda brings his usual candid integrity to the role of Earp but fails to spark with the impassive Victor Mature as Doc Holliday.

Which is a flaw, as their bromance is usually the main driver. Other characters invented for the screen come and go without leaving much impression of why they are there, like Linda Darnell as Doc's rainy day gal. Alan Mowbray drops by to do a drunken soliloquy from Hamlet! There's everything but a punch up. It's rated a genre classic... but won't convince the uncommitted.

Credit to Sam Goldwyn Productions for making this sincere and sensitive drama about the big social issue of the period; the return of combat survivors after WWII. Fredric March plays an army sergeant demobbed to his well paid position at the bank. Dana Andrews comes home with PTSD and a decent rank from the air force, but to a dead end job.

And most memorably, representing the navy, Harold Russell, a non-professional actor who lost both hands for real. He has the most uncertain future of all. Some of the wives waited, and some didn't; life went on. There has been little preparation for the return of the veterans and business cuts the corners off any government legislation.

But this isn't a political film, it's more about the point of impact between the servicemen and their families. It tells us that without love and humanity, there is no future for anyone. The potential for sentimentality is mostly averted by skilful acting; Cathy O'Donnell does particularly well in a difficult role as Russell's girlfriend.

William Wyler gets the emotional pitch just right and his use of deep focus is masterly. Oddly, Gregg Toland's photography wasn't nominated but this won seven Oscars including best picture and director, and best actor for March. It was the biggest film of the decade at the US box office. It no longer has that sort of impact, but this is still a high quality production.

Micro-budget celebration of the work done by the scientists in WWII, particularly in the development of radar. It was released with the fighting over, which might account for the giddy holiday mood; this is more of a comedy than a drama and no one is going to learn any official secrets.

Peter Ustinov makes his debut as director and he opens up with a couple of ostentatious tracking shots to announce his arthouse credentials. But it mostly reflects postwar austerity with documentary lighting and a lot of talk. Ralph Richardson leads a group of superbrains to a coastal guesthouse for the duration to do some blue sky thinking.

And mostly explore their comic eccentricity. These boffins can think outside the box but can't boil an egg. Richardson is a genial presence. Maybe there is a suggestion of autism in Raymond Huntley's lack of empathy. Today, their input into the firebombing of Dresden and Hamburg doesn't seem so whimsical.

This was initiated as a training film for scientists enrolled in the cause, and later extended into a feature film. It seems war films were box office poison after '45, and maybe this suggests why. It's drab and unambitious, though amusing. And it at least offers an opportunity to remember the inventors, who also served.