Film Reviews by Steve

When Leo McCarey won the Oscar for best director in 1938 for The Awful Truth he said he should have won it for this one. He was mistaken, but this ultra-sentimental story about the struggles of a couple in their seventies after they lose their home in the depression is a big favourite of critics and other film makers.

Though this is Hollywood realism. The house the couple (Beulah Bondi and Victor Moore) have to give up is a country mansion... We're expected to believe that having lived in extraordinary wealth, they are suddenly plunged into absolute poverty and forced to sofa surf with their reluctant children.

It's unusual territory for a golden age studio film, but McCarey is no social realist. The performances are too folksy and it strays into whimsical fantasy and the cutes. Most damaging of all is the sentimental music score. Japanese director Yasujirô Ozu did all this better as Tokyo Story in 1953, which is even more celebrated.

The obvious conclusion is that USA was in need of national insurance so its people might not live and die in poverty. Which Roosevelt introduced. But McCarey was a Conservative and welcomed Senator McCarthy's blacklist. He was a hugely successful director of christian Americana, but was all wrong for this. The Awful Truth though, is a must.

Superior Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers screwball musical which is utterly typical of their collaborations while including a few curious departures. There's nothing new in the mistaken identity set up with Fred as an American in Paris posing as Russian ballet dancer, who gets snagged up with Ginger's hot jazz babe on the luxury liner back to New York.

Still, the plot is entertaining, and there's an above average script with some pretty good gags. There's even some lightweight thematic content which compares classical and modern dancing. The main difference is one of tone; George and Ira Gershwin's romantic songs have a comical touch. And they are all time classics.

Rogers sings They All Laughed; Astaire performs the Oscar nominated They Can't Take That Away from Me; they duet on Let's Call the Whole Thing Off and deliver a routine on roller skates! It's always great to see Eric Blore doing his unctuous hireling schtick. French actor Ketti Gallian adds a little chic bitchiness.

This is the seventh Astaire-Rogers musical so maybe they wanted to freshen up the formula. Regrettably we don't get a climactic ballroom romance number. Instead there's some mock-ballet. The box office was slow and Ginger sometimes looks bored... But there are only ten of these! Anyone who loves the '30s musical will adore this.

While this was released at about the crest of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers' box office popularity it's not among their greatest films together. Some of Irving Berlin's musical numbers are legend and the staging reaches the high standard we expect from the stars, but the comic plot is disappointing.

For the first time, Fred and Ginger are in America the whole way through. He is a sailor in the US navy on leave in San Francisco and she's an old flame with a nightclub act. And shipmate Randolph Scott has an on/off romance with a frumpy schoolteacher (Harriet Nelson) whose makeover transforms her into a knockout.

The star duo's plots are always flimsy, but this is extended to over 110 minutes. Of course, we're all here for the songs, and the dance routines. These are variable but Rogers belts out Let Yourself Go to good effect. She does a rare solo tap which is decent and Astaire does one which is peerless.

And then it all climaxes with Let's Face the Music and Dance, one of their best ever ballroom romances. And this plugs straight into the heart of the depression as they abandon their suicide attempts and elect to carry on, but with style. No cuts, all one shot. And the screen shimmers with stardust.

Sumptuous and expansive MGM production of Alexandre Dumas jr's 1852 novel about a courtesan who is destroyed by the hypocrisy of high society and her virtuous, transgressive love for a younger man. It's principally another vehicle for Greta Garbo which makes some sort of accommodation for her non-American accent.

She doesn't sound French, but then... neither does anyone else! She gives an impassioned but nuanced portrayal and thanks to sensitive direction from George Cukor her romantic scenes with Robert Taylor have an intimacy. Among a capable support cast, Henry Daniell is an effective bad guy as Camille's rich, ruthless patron.

Given this was released at the high tide of the Production Code, the script doesn't go into detail on the realities of life for a 19th century high society sex worker. But there is an impression of the iniquities of the period, especially for women, when the financial securities of the demi-monde are not even an afterthought.

Those born into the precariat either sell themselves to the aristocracy, or feed off each other. But this isn't social realism, it's a period melodrama with wonderful costumes and set decor and a superb score, which is the context for Garbo's baroque performance. Cukor keeps the mood buoyant. Until the famous death scene, at least.

Following the huge box office failure of The Scarlet Empress the previous year, Paramount slashed Josef von Sternberg's budget for his final release with his great muse, Marlene Dietrich. And it feels like the series is running out of time. The introduction of the Production Code in '34 undermined their dalliance with taboo themes...

And Dietrich looks a bit mature to still play the imperious goddess of love. Here she's a sex worker in turn of the century Seville who is so irresistible she destroys every man who loves her. Mostly Lionel Atwill as a blimpish aristocrat and Cesar Romero as a dashing freedom fighter. Naturally, they fight a duel over her.

And there are the usual signifiers of exotic Spain: with the flamenco and the bullfighters; the carnival and the hot passion. The staging of the masquerade with the grotesque costumes is the best and most characteristic part of von Sternberg's visual design. The story is familiar, basically a loose reshuffle of Carmen.

Dietrich sings a bawdy song which doesn't sound at all Spanish, and her German accent is a poor fit. Though no one goes to these films for authenticity. This marks the end of Marlene's tenure as one of the great Hollywood stars. Von Sternberg too was out of fashion. It is worth seeing for fans of their collaborations, but maybe best that this was the last.

Classic example of how the Hollywood studios would take a successful premise and disguise it in a different setting or genre. It's a retelling of Red Dust which was a big hit for MGM in 1932. An American adventurer slums around Asia pursued by an illiterate, unsophisticated sex worker only to be tempted by a refined lady from his past.

They even retain Clark Gable as the macho tough guy and Jean Harlow as the tart with a heart. Rosalind Russell stands in for Mary Astor as the high class dame and the whole adventure is relocated to a merchant ship operating out of Hong Kong. The main negative is the director Tay Garnet, who isn't much of a stylist.

But there's plenty of entertainment to be had with a droll script and an action climax as Wallace Beery attempts to relieve the shipping line of its cargo of gold. The stars and support cast make it fresh and fun. Robert Benchley brings abundant comic relief in his usual role as a habitual drunk.

Maybe this recycling betrays a lack of ideas. Or it's an example of how the studio system, with its roster of writers, technicians and stars was able to lavish gloss on almost any project and make it sparkle again. China Seas is formulaic, but also an unpretentious lively diversion. And no one does romantic foreign intrigue this well anymore.

Strange musical comedy which is a mishmash of miscellaneous ideas. There's Irene Dunne as a Russian aristocrat exiled in Paris who runs a fashion house and falls in love with a rich American jock (Randolph Scott). And there's Fred Astaire as a US jazz band leader abroad who romances Ginger Rogers, a compatriot posing as a Polish countess.

It feels like a classic Astaire and Rogers vehicle wedged into a subpar Ernst Lubitsch film. It's further unbalanced by some comisseration for the plight of Russian émigrés grubbing along in Paris since the 1917 revolution. It's the forgotten Fred And Ginger musical, yet there are some amazing numbers.

Of course, we get their wonderful dance routines together, especially the closing reprise to I Won't Dance. And a couple of songs by Otto Harbach and Jerome Kern are among the greatest compositions for musicals ever: Yesterdays and Smoke Get in Your Eyes. Though they are not presented in the fashion we are now used to.

Irene Dunne sings them in an operetta style, which was probably in keeping with the original Broadway versions. They are fine but far from definitive. Plus there's Hard to Handle and the Oscar nominated Lovely to Look At. And the exotic fashions and deco studio sets. It's a must-see for fans of Astaire and Rogers, but generally a mixed bag.

Handsome MGM production which reduces Leo Tolstoy's weighty novel to a 90 minute romance. So it's all about Greta Garbo suffering in the title role rather than the long haul of Russian political and social change. She'd already appeared in a silent version called Love in 1927 for the same studio, which has a happy ending!

Garbo got her favourite co-star for that, John Gilbert. This time it's the usually excellent Fredric March as Vronsky. The main problem is the lack of passion between them. She is inert and he lacks spark; there is no chemistry. Maybe the newly implemented Production Code kept the lid on. At least the censors let the famous suicide stand..

Clarence Brown seems more confident directing the lavish sets than he does the lovers. Some of the camera movement is stunning. There are good support performances, particularly Basil Rathbone as Anna's inflexible, conformist husband. And Maureen O'Sullivan is so beautiful, it's hard to take your eyes off her.

Part of the problem is that the Russian aristocracy is portrayed as entitled and yet useless, but there is little reflection on their privilege. Too much MGM, not enough Tolstoy. Instead there are closeups of Garbo. It's a listless, melancholy film with a patchy script, though the novel probably hasn't been done any better. In English anyway.

A title card in the opening credits claims this is based on the diaries of Catherine II, Empress of Russia. But it's a Hollywood melodrama which takes only an outline from history. Its principal impact is from the astonishing costumes, oppressive sets and fabulous expressionist photography. Its visual dimension is prodigious. Everything is spectacular.

Marlene Dietrich plays Catherine the Great... from the naive German ingenue to the ambitious Russian despot. She arrives in Moscow to marry Peter III (Sam Jaffe) and finds a grotesque promiscuous hell. And to prosper in hell, you become a devil. She has her husband assassinated and seizes the throne by sleeping her way through the army.

Dietrich hardly gives a performance. For the first hour she does open mouthed astonishment. And then we get a tyrannical Mae West, played out to a score of rousing Russian symphonies. Being a Joseph von Sternberg production, sometimes we're just watching him watching his star. It cost the studio a fortune and it bombed, but it's one of the standout films of the '30s!

Maybe there was no stomach in the depression for this reckless decadence. When it opens with nudity and a montage of torture and murder, it's clear this slipped out before the Production Code was enforced. There are moments which are scarcely credible. For my money, this is among the best historical melodramas. And surely the most excessive.

Low budget arthouse romance long acclaimed by critics and film makers. It's a simple rustic folk tale which feels like a salty, enduring ballad by Jacques Brel. Maurice Jaubert's waltz played on accordion is prominent. A young, unworldly couple marry and start a life together on his working barge.

And they go through a period of adjustment. The groom (Jean Dasté) is rough, and jealous and unromantic. The impulsive bride (Dita Parlo) is frustrated and aware of a more pleasant life out there, somewhere. Maybe in the fashions and dancehalls of Paris.

But they love each other. For guidance she draws on a raucous boatman who has experience of the world but lives like a complacent beast. He's played by Michel Simon who is a legend in French cinema and he gives the film its flavour. Dasté and especially Parlo bring the pathos.

It begins like social realism on the oily Seine, but gradually enters a state of enchantment. In that respect it evokes FW Murnau's 1927 silent masterpiece, Sunrise. This isn't as great but it is unique and haunting and beguiling. And reminds us once more of what a magical medium cinema is.

Mythic horror/crime hybrid which is a sequel twice over. There's the return of Fritz Lang's criminal Übermensch, 11 years after Dr. Mabuse: The Gambler. And he is pursued by the Inspector from Lang's 1931 film, M... Mabuse has been in a mental hospital since '22, constantly scrawling meaningless hieroglyphics on endless reams of paper. But it's '33 and time to return.

Mabuse controls the people through telepathy. Which brings a satisfying circularity to the end of golden age Weimar cinema which began in 1920 with The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, with another hypnotist in an asylum. Lang says Goebbels banned his picture and asked him to lead the Nazi film industry. So Lang fled the country. It wasn't shown in Germany until '51.

Critics like to undermine Lang's assertion that this was intended to be a warning about the rise of fascism. But it's unmissible. The interesting, exciting plot isn't much different from a Dick Tracy adventure. But Lang's villains actually repeat hate-speech and propaganda taken from Nazi rallies. The mood of panic, anarchy and paranoia is incredibly powerful.

This is a suspenseful thriller unbalanced by its weighty allegorical insinuations. Which then turns nightmarish as the mastermind runs crime from beyond the grave! It's pessimistic with an incredibly heavy, desolate score. Lang directs with panache, and even takes us back to the expressionism of the original. For me, this is his best German film.

The first half an hour is an above average musical about a big band which travels south of the border to Rio for a nightclub engagement, and gets involved in romance, and performs a few Latin numbers. There's a love triangle led by Dolores Del Rio who is tempted by the handsome band leader (Gene Raymond) away from her hometown squeeze (Paul Roulien).

It's one of many jazz combo musicals released in the golden age. But on about 30m, during a long Latin dance spectacular- The Carioca- there is suddenly magic. For the first time ever on screen, Fred Astaire dances with Ginger Rogers. And it all briefly becomes sublime. And then the number ends and we're left with Del Rio, Raymond and Roulien and a poor script.

The stars are actually fine, and quite sexy. We see Dolores momentarily in a two piece bathing costume a year before Maureen O'Sullivan did famously in a Tarzan film which led to a ban under the Production Code! Gene emerges hunkily unclothed from a shower. And the big title finale with the showgirls strapped to the wings of light aircraft... is astonishing.

This would be the esoteric delight of precode nerds, if not for the debut together of Fred and Ginger. They sing one song each, without much impact. But when they come together on the dance floor, lightning strikes. Fred wasn't looking for a partner but the public response meant the studio starred them in a further nine musicals, which would substantially define '30s cinema.

After their success with Grand Hotel in '32, MGM released this in its image; another all star comedy drama based on a Broadway play. It retains many of the crew, and some of the stars in similar roles. So there's Lionel Barrymore as a dying entrepreneur. Wallace Beery returns as the bumptious capitalist. John Barrymore plays another bankrupt washout.

But this is much better, mostly because MGM's ace director George Cukor is in charge. He gets more disciplined performances from his stars. John Barrymore is especially poignant as an egotistical, alcoholic actor, which must have felt close to home. And there's Jean Harlow as a sexy gold-digger and Marie Dressler as the sardonic observer.

The support is fine too, with Billie Burke a stand out as a ditzy social climber who hosts a dinner for some visiting aristocrats and invites all of her diverse acquaintances. We see the ensemble cast preparing for the event, with comedy from Harlow and Beery as quarrelling nouveau-riche, and heartbreak from Barrymore.

It's precode so there are some skintight satin gowns for Harlow- by Adrian. Cukor benefits from an excellent script adapted from George Kaufman and Edna Thurber's stage play which is funny and satirical. And we observe that the best laid plans of mere mortals are ultimately futile! Particularly in the depression.

The quintessential Greta Garbo talkie. MGM solved the problem of what to do with her Swedish accent by casting her as the 17th century queen of Sweden. Though this is Hollywood history. Garbo is said to have been bisexual, but Christina's homosexuality is in such soft focus that you won't see it unless you know. The star does wear male clothing almost throughout.

But this isn't really precode exotica, it's history as romantic melodrama. Garbo plays the enlightened monarch who came to the throne as a child, but on maturity falls in love with a Spanish ambassador (John Gilbert) and abdicates. There isn't a realistic impression of the period. The wonderful sets and costumes are extravagant rather than authentic.

Any film directed by Rouben Mamoulian is worth seeing, but the quality of this one depends on Garbo's performance. As a silent actor she is sublime. That flawless visage in close up is peerless. The final image as she sails into an uncertain future is so famous it's difficult to live up to its reputation. But it's still stunning. Yet her voice is inflexible and lacks resonance.

 And she is adorable as a lover, but unimpressive as a politician. There are contrasting moods: the complex dialogue is tangled with commentary; the unsubtle comedy resorts to thigh slapping kitsch, yet the scene when Garbo- incognito as a man- and Gilbert share a room, could be from Lubitsch. It's the great Garbo who brings it all together with her gravity and class.

This is the sort of prestigious production that MGM had in mind when they claimed to have more stars than there are in heaven. It is based on a hit Broadway play, itself adapted from Vicki Baum's popular German novel about 24 hours in a luxury hotel in Weimar Berlin. There are three interlinked stories which reflect differences in social class.

So there's the aristocrat with John Barrymore as a hard up gentleman jewel thief. And the capitalist with Wallace Beery as an overbearing, crooked Prussian businessman. Greta Garbo is the artist, as a the most temperamental prima-ballerina in pictures. And then the workers: Joan Crawford as a jazz-babe stenographer; and Lionel Barrymore as a gauche, dying accountant.

They all basically play their star image. None of them is particularly appealing, but Beery is the nominated bad guy. It takes quite a lot of effort to get all the drama and the egos off the ground and the first hour lacks vitality. Eventually the situations engage, but there is nothing inspired here. It's well directed with a lavish budget, but it is hard to care.

It won the Oscar for best film, maybe because of the stars. Now, Barrymore looks shabby and Garbo is tiresomely theatrical. She does utter the immortal line: 'I want to be alone'. Crawford comes off best. The art deco sets and the fashions- by Adrian- are chic. It's the quintessence of what a big MGM drama was in '32. But now feels overwrought and weary.