Film Reviews by Steve

Eerie low budget arthouse horror which has gathered a strong cult following. It's based on the same vampire story by Sheridan Le Fanu as the 1970 Hammer favourite, The Vampire Lovers, which is just about apparent, but could hardly be more different in style. This is b&w and dreamlike, with very little dialogue, and mostly sustained by a gloomy string score.

It was financed by the Russian aristocrat who takes the lead role as Julian West. Its micro-budget determines the aesthetic. It's all atmosphere and suggestion. The frame is haunted by transient, superimposed figures of uncertain reality. A researcher visits a country home to investigate rumours of the supernatural and finds young women preyed on by vampirism.

Carl Th. Dreyer creates an expressionist hallucination which has been copied mercilessly. Like Carnival of Souls in 1962. The narrative is uncertain. Reading a plot summary may elicit a few surprises. But the spectral imagery worms into the subconscious. Particularly West's vision of being buried alive seen from his point of view through a window in his coffin.

The only professional actor is Sybille Schmidt who earns her wage for a single emotive look of pure transgressive evil. Aside from Wolfgang Zeller's score, Rudolph Maté deserves mention for the blanched, impalpable photography. This is a hypnotic, uncanny dreamworld, an unsettling immersion into an astral sphere of occult folklore.

Sentimental musical melodrama set among the colourful inhabitants of the Parisian demi-monde. It's make-believe, but René Clair creates such a rich atmosphere with the wonderful studio sets, costumes and expressionist lighting that it's how we come to imagine Paris between the wars, courtesy of the nostalgia of cinema.

A street singer (Albert Préjean) seeks romance with a penniless immigrant (Pola Illéry) but fate conspires against him. The triangle is completed by Edmond Gréville, who film buffs will know as a director of B features in UK after WWII. There's a lot of underworld malarky with a gangster and a pickpocket, which facilitates a highly stylised portrayal of life on the streets.

Clair became a success in Hollywood, usually making ambient pictures like this. There is a peculiar impression of the talkie era arriving during production. It fluctuates between sound and silent approaches. The soundtrack is mainly for songs, including the guileless singalong waltz of the title, naturally played on accordion.

The director's use of crane shots is prominent, and his mastery of montage. The camera sweeps us from the rooftops of Paris and down to the gutter. For the poor, life is sorrowful and unjust and love is the only glimpse of happiness. The audience is positioned as tourists in their world. It's very slight, but an unusual vignette lifted from the big parade.

This is framed as René Clair's follow up to his 1930 musical, Under the Roofs of Paris. It opens with the camera tracking over the chimney tops and then entering the skylight of a large attic room. The story is heard from the people within and there is an impression that it is another random episode from the diverse pageant of the great French capital.

Rather than the underclass melodrama of the earlier film, this is a musical comedy, mainly set among the petit bourgeoisie. A struggling artist (René Lefèvre) has won the lottery but his resentful girlfriend (Annabella) has given away his coat with the ticket in a pocket. So it's a caper as the couple and other interested parties chase the jacket around the streets of Paris.

Which takes in many eccentric characters, like an elderly gang boss and a flamboyant opera singer. This is a critics favourite, partly because it's an entertaining comedy, but also for the imaginative uses of early sound technology, which were widely copied. And there is an engaging fluidity, as Clair blends speech, songs and silence. And sets and models too.

It a fantasy where sometimes the dialogue rhymes and characters fluctuate between singing and talking. It's an optimistic celebration of the capricious consequences of fate and the lives which are swayed by them. Most critics prefer this to Under the Roofs of Paris because of the playful use of sound. Personally, I lean towards the pessimism of the previous film!

Another whimsical musical from René Clair in the early sound period, though this one has a political edge. It became controversial because the producers sued Charles Chaplin who quite extensively steals from it for Modern Times, released in '36. Though Chaplin brings in his own surrealism. And arguably Clair was influenced by the Englishman anyway.

A couple of jailbirds who escape from prison find very different fortunes on the outside. Raymond Cordy becomes a capitalist who gets rich enslaving workers on his dehumanising production line. Henri Marchand is a dropout who fails to be a good worker because he really doesn't want to play by the rules of industrialisation. He prefers to smell the flowers.

The leads make a likeable double act as their friendship ultimately overcomes the difference in status. For the workers, life on the outside is the same as prison. There is no freedom and people are destroyed by its spirit crushing conformity. If Clair was alive to see conditions today at an Amazon warehouse, he'd have a heart attack. This is quite a familiar dystopia.

There are wonderful expressionist sets, and a score by Georges Auric which occasionally bursts into satirical political songs. There's a lot of Fritz Lang's Metropolis (1927), except the resolution is not to bridge capital and labour, but to opt out completely. Our heroes become a pair of (Chaplinesque) tramps. Given a choice between fascism and socialism, Clair picks anarchy.

My pick for the best precode Hollywood melodrama, which exploits a range of standard situations but elevates them with quality. This is partly due to the superior dialogue taken from Robert Sherwood's Broadway play. And even more for James Whale's fluent and sympathetic direction. But most of all, for Mae Clarke's stunning lead performance.

Anyone who only knows her from having half a grapefruit shoved in her face by James Cagney (in The Public Enemy, also '31) is in for a big shock. She is heartbreaking in an extremely natural portrayal. She's well directed by Whale and really delivers in a some agonising closeups. This is one of the great dramatic performances of the decade.

She plays a former chorus girl forced into sex work when the theatres close down during WWI. She meets a Canadian soldier (Douglass Montgomery) on leave and gets the customary glimpse of redemption before fate, and her overwhelming shame, closes down all hope. This doesn't deal with the facts of life as bluntly as the play, but it's still pretty candid.

Plus the 23 year old Bette Davis has an early support role! The vast painted Thames and the slum interiors bring atmosphere. It wasn't seen for decades after the code was enforced in '34. Then the cleaned up MGM remake became popular. But Whale's version is supreme and far more realistic. And features Clarke's definitive portrayal, as yet another casualty of war.

Cinema landmark which is often called the first horror film. This overlooks that it is already a remake of FW Murnau's silent classic from 1922, Nosferatu, which is a much superior film. But Dracula is hugely influential and Bela Lugosi as the Count is legendary. It's a straightforward telling of Bram Stoker's novel, though actually based on one of the many stage spinoffs.

The screenplay takes time to explain the rules of vampirism, because all this was new to cinema audiences. Of course, Lugosi is accused of overacting, which is fair. But so does everyone else! Dwight Frye as Renfield hams most effectively and arguably steals the film. Helen Chandler and David Manners are very weak as the romantic leads.

Surely director Tod Browning is partly responsible for the issues with performances. He is said to have been routinely absent from the set. Much of the direction was actually done by legendary cameraman Karl Freund who photographed the expressionist, silent German horrors this heavily borrows from. There's a lot of atmosphere, and creepy set decoration.

The brides of Dracula are only glimpsed, but are splendidly sinister. Most prints now incorporate a musical score which wasn't on the original release. It's more entertaining with this, but maybe a touch less eerie. It's dated and poorly directed and edited. But it's more than a film; it's a cultural phenomenon. All later Dracula pictures are made in its shadow.

After the success of Dracula in 1931, Universal studios rushed Frankenstein into cinemas later the same year. And it is an improvement in every respect. Most of all, the direction of James Whale co-ordinates the production with greater imagination. And there is obviously more money for costumes, effects and set design. And crucially, for Jack Pierce's monster makeup.

He transforms Boris Karloff as the reanimated cadaver into a screen legend. Though I'd prefer him mute rather than voice that weedy growl. The performances are fine, with Colin Clarke expressive as the monomaniacal Doctor Frankenstein. Dwight Frye stands out as the hunchback. There's some witless comic relief and a weak romantic subplot, but still clocks in at a taut 70m.

This is a blockbuster and Whale doesn't labour the subtext of Mary Shelley's classic novel. We get another story about mankind overreaching itself and being punished for it. But there is an engaging impression that the monster is looking for a father. And so being brought to life by lightning, Karloff quite poignantly reaches out to the stormy sky, like a forlorn child.

It is a more transgressive film than Dracula and still delivers a few shocks; like the monster's killing of the hunchback. It's a proto-mad scientist film which borrows heavily from German expressionism but has artistic merit of its own. It's edited particularly well. And Karloff as the agonised victim of Frankenstein's hubris, is an icon of the decade and the emerging horror genre.

This is the third of seven collaborations between Josef von Sternberg and Marlene Dietrich made between 1930-35. The last six were for Paramount and are exotic studio melodramas set in romantic places. Critics search for unifying themes, but what they uniquely share is the director's visual style, and the fascination of his camera for his star.

Dietrich plays a sex worker who turns spy for Austria in WWI. Her mission is to take down her Russian counterpart (Victor McLaglen) which she does, but of course they fall in love and she saves him and is shot for treason... But really this is a film about how von Sternberg lights his great leading lady. Plus a lot of fatalism and atmosphere with cigarettes and snowstorms.

And Marlene is dressed magnificently. In my view, this is the least of their films. Mostly because McLaglen is disastrously cast and a limited actor anyway. Dietrich gives a languid, opiated performance which is probably intended to be mysterious, but just slows everything down. The narrative of romantic espionage is commonplace. The dialogue is absurd.

But in a way, none of this matters. This is an artistic production of extraordinary glamour, and that's why these films survive. No one can make pictures like this now; they're rare blooms which are rooted in their period and its technology. And in the unique relationship between the director and his star and Paramount's willingness to indulge them.

After Marlene Dietrich's success as an exotic Austrian spy of the Great War in Dishonored, later in the same year MGM released a very similar melodrama loosely based on the last few weeks in the life of Mata Hari, who (allegedly) was a German agent in Paris. And it makes an ideal vehicle for Greta Garbo as the infamous Dutch celebrity/dancer who was executed in 1917.

Joseph von Sternberg's film is more beautiful while the less exalted George Fitzmaurice creates a more coherent and satisfying entertainment. It still looks great, with artistic photography and extraordinary costumes. But some work has gone into the script too and Garbo delivers a performance, as well as being a star.

In real life, Mata Hari was middle aged and looking it by the time of her death. But Garbo plays a lissom femme fatale for whom besotted men gladly die. There a memorable scene where she compels a dashing, handsome Russian fighter pilot (Ramon Novarro) blow out the eternal flame on his religious icon before she'll seduce him.

It's a sombre precode adventure with the usual impediments of early sound. It's dated but still absorbing. After '34 the censors cut out some salacious content which has been lost, but Garbo's dance at the start of the film is still quite erotic. Until the tiresome histrionics of Mata's death, this is an irresistible treat for fans of golden age romantic melodrama.

This is the masterpiece of Fritz Lang's German period because of its innovative use of the camera and emerging sound technology. In 1931, this must have looked like a giant leap forward. And it's a suspenseful thriller too with Peter Lorre as the psychopathic child murderer the whole of Berlin comes together to capture. Including the criminals and beggars.

A mythology has collected around M that it is an anti-fascist polemic and an allegory about the need for all citizens to root out and destroy the emerging Nazi threat. This feels tenuous... though Goebbels did ban the film as soon as they were in government. Perhaps the atmosphere of paranoia, mistrust and panic captures the spirit of the times.

While Lorre haunts the memory of the film, he doesn't have all that much screen time. But he is horrifying as he pleads for mercy from his hostile criminal captors on the grounds that he kills because he has no choice. Mainly it's a realistic police procedural as the Inspector (Otto Wernicke) uses forensics to track down the murderer.

Lang based the events on interviews with the police and research into serial killers. He took his extras from the Berlin underworld. And there is sympathy for the left behind and the dispossessed of the depression. This is a long way from the German expressionism of the early '20s. It's an ominous, pessimistic crime thriller which was an influence on film noir.

Classy screwball musical from Gaumont which is bathed in the lustre of Jessie Matthews' stellar performance. She (yet again) plays a singer/dancer struggling to break into showbiz. Co-star Robert Young is a gossip columnist who fills column inches with stories about a made up madcap socialite called Mrs Smythe-Smythe.

Jessie simply steps into the role and becomes famous for being famous. The star gets to perform many excellent song and dance numbers in a variety of styles and is dressed magnificently. The costume and set design were by veterans of German cinema. All the crew would later get Oscar recognition. This brims with quality from top to bottom.

The actors squeeze all the laughs out of the witty screwball script. Jessie is superb at the comedy and is fortunate to be matched by a genuine Hollywood leading man. There is an obvious influence of American musicals. This was released over there, but these scanty costumes must have challenged the stricter censorship.

Matthews' elocution lessons left her with an old fashioned faux-posh speaking voice and her high vocal range was already dated in the age of jazz. But she has charisma to burn. She's no classic beauty but has one of cinema's most adorable overbites! It's not saying much to claim this is the best British musical of the thirties. But it compares with the best of Hollywood too.

Hardboiled newsroom comedy drama adapted from Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur's Broadway smash of 1928. The play is sometimes cited as an influence on the emerging screwball style; the verbal gags build up an unstoppable momentum, though the romance is peripheral. It is probably set in Chicago, but the material is so censorious it's never made clear.

It all takes place in the press office at the city jail as a political prisoner is due to be hanged for murder. The Morning Post's hotshot reporter (Pat O'Brien) intends to leave for New York to marry, so his manipulative editor (Adolphe Menjou) spins a web around his writer to keep him on the story. This is a frame for diverse observations on political corruption, race, Communism and the death penalty.

Some of the contemporary references are now obscure but the political climate hasn't changed much. Menjou was Oscar nominated, which is a stretch as he is mostly offscreen. The support cast plays the cynical and borderline crooked news hacks with gusto, and O'Brien stands out in a rare star role. Mae Clarke makes an impact as a sex worker agitating for the condemned man.

Lewis Milestone explores his single interior space with a fluency still rare in '31. He sets the dialogue to a breakneck speed, much as Howard Hawks did in his 1940 remake, His Girl Friday. This version isn't as brilliant, or as funny, but it is much more faithful to the source and still a pretty good precode talkie which captures the spirit of the roaring '20s.

*this is available as an extra on His Girl Friday.

Laurel and Hardy's debut feature is a mixed bag. Years of making shorts ensures their double act is fully evolved by '31. But the early sound production values are rudimentary and there's a meagre budget. It's a pastiche of the vogue for prison films, like The Big House, released a year earlier. The boys are sent down for bootlegging, where Stan's vibrating tooth gets them into the customary scrapes.

There's the usual problem for comic artists in adapting from short films; how to get the routines to stretch to feature length. This takes the standard option of padding out the comedy with musical numbers. The gags stop for about 15 minutes while Ollie sings (well), Stan dances (badly) and various guest vocalists get a turn in the spotlight.

All this was edited down to 55m to tighten the material for release. But ever since, film restorers have been putting the cuts back in! So now it's 68m and the pace is a little slow. The other negative is the stars appear in blackface. Viewers will adopt a diverse range of views on this, but it's at least disappointing to watch the eternal pals doing this stuff.

But for those willing to set this aside, Stan and Ollie are in fine form. When the material is weak, they still make it funny. It's great just to see them bickering. Then there's all the subtext for the critics. But my favourite bit is Ollie's line to Stan, which is a profound summation of his self-delusion: 'You're actually using your brain. That's what comes from associating with me!'

Offbeat variation on the Beauty and the Beast, relocated to British Columbia, Canada in the 1890s. Oliver Reed is a brutish trapper who drops by a trading post to buy an innocent, mute orphan (Rita Tushingham) against her will and take her back to the wilderness. And of course they fight and change each other and eventually fall in love.

Their rapprochement is secured by an extraordinarily visceral episode when they fight off a pack of wolves together. Reed plays a primitive man of appetites with a relishable excess of panache. And a French accent! Rita portrays the fears and frustrations of the damaged foundling as a wide eyed, melodramatic waif. It isn't realistic or subtle.

But it is passionate. These are Darwinian humans, fighting to survive in an incredibly hostile, remote environment. The perception of constant jeopardy is extremely well staged and photographed, at times slipping into a sensation of a primal altered reality. And their dependence on each other finds a way to an instinctive intimacy.

So she can't speak, and he doesn't want to hear anyway. It's a simple survival story which becomes breathtaking. The Canadian scenery is exhilarating. The impression of isolation and savage nature is prodigious. But way beyond the drama of the landscape, it's a compelling, unorthodox romance set in the context of extreme human experiences.

Follow up to the Marx Brothers debut feature The Cocoanuts, released the following year. Both are written by George Kaufman and Morrie Ryskind and adapted from the brothers' '20s Broadway hits. It's an improvement; there is more of Groucho, Chico and Harpo and less of the supporting musical acts. And the quality of the routines is so much stronger.

Partly the upgrade is due to improvements in early sound and camera technology. But mainly it's because for the first hour, this is as good as the Marx Brothers ever got. The unabated bombardment of classic puns, wordplay and general lunacy is inspired and very funny. For which Kaufman and Ryskind deserve more credit than they are ever likely to get.

The stars tear through pages of this stuff at reckless speed. Then they run out of gags with half an hour left. So everything stops for long musical recitals by Chico and Harpo, which I suppose are very much to taste. The show tune sung by Lillian Roth isn't as much of a killjoy, but the momentum never returns and the weaker sketches are kept for last.

The boys drop in on a Long Island mansion and get involved in some farce plotted around the stealing of a valuable painting. Groucho plays a famous big game hunter, and Chico and Harpo a couple of freeloaders. Zeppo is also present. The support cast just has to take it and like it, but Margaret Dumont is, as always, a brilliant stooge. It's the brothers at their crazy best. For an hour.