Sep 271950
Sep 261950
There is a rule about corpses not telling stories due to being dead. But all rules can be broken, and only a corpse could recount this gothic tale of a silent star stuck in the past and a man who sells his soul a bit too cheaply.
Jul 081950
Dixon Steele (Humphrey Bogart), a short-fused screenwriter, takes a hat-check girl home, and sheâs found dead the next morning. The police suspect him, especially due to his violent past. He gets a partial alibi from his neighbor, Laurel Gray (Gloria Grahame), and the two start a romantic relationship.
This is a strange film for Bogart. Around this time he was either playing sympathetic villains or strong heroes. Here heâs weak, mean, and unsympathetic. Similarly he was in so many beautiful films in the â40s and into the â50s, and this one is uglyâlike they bought cheap film stock. The shots themselves are OK, but several steps down from the sort of thing heâd been doing with Huston and Hawks and Curtiz. At times it is distracting. The secondary actors fit those elements. They arenât bad, but drab. The cops and his friendâs wife barely register. They bring nothing. Maybe it was a matter of budget.
But this is a Bogart film, and one that gives him a chance to stretch, which means Dixon is interesting and engaging. And Grahame is nearly his equalâŠnearly. When they are together, the problems are hard to notice. It is strange for a film that focuses almost entirely on these two characters, and with fine performances, that we know so little about them by the time itâs done. Sheâs a mess, but we donât know why or even in what way exactly, and he is a gigantic mess, but again, we donât know why.
The script is decent, if not brilliant. The dialog sings in some places, and is painful in others (the police inspectorâs lines stands out as ones best cut). As for the story, Iâd rank it as the best of the âIs my lover a murderer?â psychological dramas. It tosses in a red herring that is annoying in that it is so clearly a red herring, but thatâs a minor issue, and something needed to be tossed in.
In a Lonely Place is disappointing. Thereâs plenty of good moments, but those moments didnât keep me in the picture enough to hide the flaws.
Jul 081950
Harry Fabian (Richard Widmark), a penny-ante crook who is forever going after the big score, gets in far over his head when he attempts to become a wrestling promoter. To do so he crosses mid-level crook Philip Nosseross (Francis L. Sullivan), Norrerossâs scheming wife (Googie Withers), his foolishly faithful girlfriend Mary Bristol (Gene Tierney), wrestler âThe Stranglerâ (Mike Mazurki), and mob boss Kristo (Herbert Lom).
Director Jules Dassin, in the midst of being blacklisted, wanted to show a hellish London nightscape, and he does. Shooting at night and yet making everything visible, Dassin produced a fabulous looking feature, filled with sickness and despair in every frame and yet beautiful. You have to go back to Hustonâs The Maltese Falcon and Hawkâs The Big Sleep to find a Noir shot so well.
The acting is as good, but then it has a great cast, and all of them are at the top of their game. Widmark, Teirney, Sullivanâall of them spectacular. Itâs embarrassing to see Herbert Lom in those Pink Panther films after seeing what he could do here. And they all had such deep characters to play with.
Yet with all that talent, all that skill, I donât love Night and the City. I like it, but I should have loved it. And the problem is Harry Fabian. Heâs a great character, but thatâs not enough. This is a hard film to write because Harry is not only unlikable, but he is so in such a measly kind of way that I never cared about anything that happened to him. And thatâs a problem, but it is only a small part of the problem. Itâs that once I meet Harry, once I see what heâs like, everything that happens in the rest of the film is set. I could have written the story. Of course heâs going to fail, and of course heâs going to betray everyone, and of course heâs never going to âbe someone,â and it is so clear that there is no point to watching the film outside of those twisted night shots. Thereâs no moment of wondering where he will mess up or who will get him. I am not simply referring to the endingâthis is Noir after all so doom was more or less a givenâbut every step along the way. I knew what he was going to say and to whom he was going to say it and where he was going to go and how each of his moves would snap back on him. I knew because thatâs the only way it could work for Harry. I kept wishing theyâd made Mary the lead so that there might be a few mysteries; after all, it isnât clear what Mary will do every moment. Or maybe if something really new and strange was tossed into this environment. But the story we get is the story Harry had to have and that story is as predictable as any film story has ever been.
This is a great world with great characters brought perfectly to life. There just isnât a great story here.
Jun 191950
King Solomonâs Mines (1937)Â 
King Solomonâs Mines (1950)Â
King Solomonâs Mines (1985)Â 
Allan Quartermain, the great white hunter, finds himself, against his better judgment, as the guide for a rescue party into âunchartedâ Africa. Their destination is the diamond mines of King Solomon, an old wivesâ tale. Along the way they pick up an unusual native with plans of his own.
King Solomonâs Mines is one of those grand adventure tales. I canât say when I saw the 1950s film, but it was probably around the time I learned to talk. Thereâs a secret world and a brave, if a bit grouchy, hero. Thereâs a beautiful girl who at times is unreasonable but more often than not is correct. Thereâs breathtaking landscapes and exotic foreigners, and itâs all about as romantic as it gets. At least thatâs how it seemed to a child. I wonder how much of my conception of what adventure is was formed by this movie.
I never read H. Rider Haggardâs novel, though I read others of his works and enjoyed them well enough, particularly She. He wrote pulp adventure novels that were fun for an afternoon. How meaningful they were is a matter of opinion. But this is a story of vast landscapes and beautiful animals and an epic quest, which is exactly the sort of things movies excel at.
1937
The first film version came in 1937, though I didnât see it till more than forty years after seeing the â50s version. It was filled with some of the best character actor of the time. Allan Quartermain was played by Cedric Hardwicke. He leads a party consisting of Kathy OâBrien (Anna Lee), an Irish girl searching for her father, Cmdr. John Good (Roland Young), a stiff-upper-lip Brit looking for adventure, Sir Henry Curtis (John Loder), the romantic hero who likes Kathy, and Umbopa (Paul Roberson), the unusual native.
As pure adventure, it works quite well. It is less sweeping than what was to come and itâs hard to accept that they could accomplish their mission, or survive (they do very little planning nor worry much about supplies). The males fit the stiff upper lip Brit clichĂ©; Goodâs response to his eminent death via volcano: âI donât want to depress you any further, but I believe there is going to be an eruption.â That makes it a bit silly, but pleasant, as just having fun is the goal, not getting the audience worried or emotionally attached.
While it does have the old âColonialism was Greatâ feel, for a 1937 film about Africa, it doesnât go overboard with the âsavagesâ bit, although of note, they allowed shots of topless women in the scenes in Africa with locals (with stand-ins for the white leads who stayed in England). Apparently ânativeâ breasts werenât indecent in the way white womenâs were. The only really odd racial issue is with regard to Umbopa. Roberson was a musical star and had performed in Showboat, so he was given very non-African songs to sing that were obvious echoes of Old Man River. It is hard not to think of Blazing Saddles and the chain gang singing I Get A Kick Out of You. To make the racial situation more confusing, Paul Roberson was given top billing.
With the existence of a young romantic lead, Quartermainâs part is reduced and it becomes an ensemble picture, with each of the five having their moment. Since each actor is memorable and each character is fun, that works out.
It is an old fashioned film. As long as you donât mind that, itâs a good time.
1950
For the 1950 remake, they went a very different way. It was jammed packed with real images of Africa, the type that American audiences werenât used to and hadnât been attempted in twenty years. The cast and crew would suffer for their art in hot unpleasant conditions as dysentery and malaria swept through them. The animals would be real, and the natives would be played by actual African tribesmen, mostly Masaai, but also Watutsi; it was the first time members of the Watutsi had allowed themselves to be filmed.
This time, Allan Quatermain (Stewart Granger)âminus the first ârâ in his nameâis a rough, disillusioned widower, sick of the obnoxious rich white men who come to shoot animals that are better than they are. Heâs hired by Elizabeth Curtis (Deborah Kerr) and her brother (Richard Carlson) for what he sees as a suicide mission, but one that would pay enough to take care of his son back in England. The job is to find Elizabethâs missing husband that went searching for treasure in uncharted country. Along the way they encounter animals of all sorts, beautiful and dangerous countries, unknown tribes, and a strange native who joins them.
Granger was known as a manâs-man type, and they sacked the first director in favor of Andrew Marton who was as keen on real danger as Granger. Kerr was agreeable to join in the mutual insanity and they jumped into situations that would have modern insurance agents committing suicide. Is it this aspect that makes the film feel so real, or the tribesmen? It doesn’t hurt that the only music is tribal drums, which are mesmerizing. Itâs a strangely satisfying mix of utter fantasy and utter realism.
What is odd about the 1950 version is how absolutely compelling it is while avoiding the typical action beats. This is an adventure film, not an action/adventure film. It isnât about fights or sudden moments of excitement, but a constant feeling of wonder and a nearly constant tense undertone. They distilled the glory of discovery and put it on film.
It won the Oscar for cinematography (and received a Best Picture nom) and it deserved it. Not only is King Solomonâs Mines gorgeous, but it was shot in the most difficult of circumstances.
Considering its roots in colonialist fiction, it is amazing how this version manages to avoid racism, with a viewpoint that is progressive for modern times. The tribes are treated with respect and African society is looked at as a step up from that of the white interlopers. No doubt having actual tribesmen play the men of the tribes they encounter had a lot to do with this. The film is also sympathetic to animal welfare concerns.
This is THE adventure film, the icon of the genre. It has never been done as well. It wraps you up and doesnât let go. It is pure cinema.
It has been criticized for being filled with clichés, and it is, but then this is where the clichés came from, or at least from the book and the 1937 version.
Similar films followed, the most famous being Mogambo and White Witch Doctor, both in 1953. White Witch Doctor gives us Robert Mitchum sleepwalking his way to find gold with Susan Hayward as the widowed love interest in tow. Mogambo gives us a decade-too-old Clark Gable as the great white hunter. It comes off slightly better than Mogambo only because its focus is on the love triangle involving Ave Gardner and an overly stiff Grace Kelly, which isnât good, but doesnât involve anything truly silly. Both used poorly integrated stock footage and obvious sets, and in the worst case, a man in a gorilla costume. They also lacked the depth of character. The racism intrinsic to the sub-genre that King Solomonâs Mines managed to avoid is clearly visible.
1985
It feels a bit silly to include the third theatrical film with the title King Solomonâs Mines in this write up as it is a very different entity. But it is connected. With this 1985 film, weâve come full circle. The book, and the earlier movies, inspired Raiders of the Lost Ark, and now Raiders inspired this film. It is one of several Raiders rip-offs of the time, this one made by the low-budget company, Cannon. Nothing says quality like being known for Chuck Norris films. And low-budget it is. Everything looks cheap. Compositing is noticeable and painted backdrops look painted. Itâs as far from the real African vistas of the previous version as you can get.
Allen Quatermain (Richard Chamberlain)âthough still generally pronounced in the film as âQuartermainââis a stand in for Indiana Jones. He dresses like Indy, fights like Indy, and makes quips like Indy. He is not leading an expedition, but helping Jesse Huston (Sharon Stone) find her father who has been kidnapped by Germans. Yes, Germans, as the time period has been moved forward roughly forty years. The antagonists are no longer the environment, wild animals, and tribesmen, but a German colonel (Herbert Lom), a Turkish criminal (John Rhys-Davis), and all the wacky situations Jesse gets Quatermain into. Thereâs a minor supernatural element added at the end, because Raiders had one.
This manages to be both the most sexist and racist of the three. Suddenly 1937 is looking pretty enlightened. Jesseâs only purpose is to be cute, while acting stupidly and childishly. She causes problem after problem and is very surly when it is suggested she not do whatever dumb thing she is about to do. This isnât surprising as she is reminiscent of Willie from Temple of Doom. Well, at least she is cute.
The complex tribesmen of the earlier versions have been replaced by two-dimensional cannibals. Well, those and the magical, flying Negroes, who donât speak, but are magical, so⊠I got nothinâ.
OK, so it is socially regressive and artistically bankrupt, but it isnât unpleasant. It isnât a substantially worse viewing experiences than sitting through Temple of Doom. It is silly, but knows it is. Saying this is dumb and over-acted is like saying The Power Rangers is dumb and over-acted. Nobody cares. Iâd have been disappointed if Iâd paid theater prices for it, as I was with Temple of Doom, but for free on TV, it is OK as background. But it isnât the stuff of cinema history.
Cinema history is the point of this piece. There are loads of these great white hunter films. From the silent age to the â60s they were everywhere, and have trickled along ever since (Sean Connery even does another take on Allan Quatermain in The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen). They greatly influenced adventure films (just how many Tarzan movies are there?) and several generationsâ views of Africa. But only one is truly great. Only one avoids the pitfalls and gives us a beautiful adventure story that isnât embarrassing. 1950s King Solomonâs Mines may sit with lesser films, but it is something different.
Feb 281950
Frank Bigelow (Edmond OâBrien) is a rather bland businessman with commitment issues and a very clingy girlfriend, Paula (Pamela Britton)âreally, really clingy. He heads to San Francisco for a sudden vacation. After a night of wild partying, he discovers heâs been poisoned by a âluminousâ substance and has between a day and a week to live. His obsessive investigation into his own murder, carried out with a drastic deepening of his unpleasant personality, leads to double-cross upon double-cross, a weird array of characters, and schemes that donât make much sense.
Film Noir has been crossed with many genres, but half Noir/half Loony Tunes is something new. This is a wacky movie played straight. No level of overacting is sufficient. Frank yells at doctors like it’s performance art and everyone is happy to join him in taking things too far. But why shouldnât he yell when heâs an average accountant, who becomes a super-sleuth, beats up thugs, gets into gunfights, and runs around with a poison in him for days which takes out another character in minutes? A scene at a jazzy nightclub turns frenetic, and could have been slipped into Reefer Madness. And letâs not forget about Chester (Neville Brand), the way, way, way out there psycho killer who spends ten minutes drooling over how heâs going to kill Frank.
And then there is the soundtrack. Dimitri Tiomkin was never a subtle composer, but this overwrought symphony edges into comedy, although thatâs more to do with how it is used. Every over-the-top moment is pushed further with a blast of horns. But perhaps the strangest addition is the wolf-whistles. In the first act, whenever Frank stares at a girl (and he does often, with elaborate neck snapping), it is accompanied by a wolf-whistle. The first few times this happened I looked for an in-movie explanation.
Itâs all pretty silly for a supposedly serious filmâand the meandering plot with the magical glowing poison straight out of Re-Animator only adds to thatâbut thatâs much of the fun. If your film is going to be nuts, go for it, and it is clear thatâs the plan as soon as Frank shows up in the homicide department and responds to the question of who was murdered with an extended pause and then, âI was.â Cue horn blast.
D.O.A. is a B-movie. Gone is the beauty-in-sickness of the early Film Noirs, not to mention decent film stock. This is an ugly movie. Rumor has it that the street scenes were shot guerrilla-styleâwithout permits and with perplexed crowdsâwhich I believe as a controlled shoot would show some concern for lighting. That low-budget feel helps the film. Weâre never going to get involved with the characters nor look at this as art. This is low grade, joyful exploitation. All of D.O.A.âs failings make it better, except for the relationship material. Nothing with Frank and Paula works, mainly because their dialog is neither realistic or witty. They constantly make proclamations which are obvious and uncomfortable. But after a few minutes with her, weâre back to some skeezy location with two or three low-lifes and everything is OK. D.O.A. is not a good film, but it is a fun one, and sometimes thatâs fine.
Feb 261950
Singer Deborah McCoy (Yvonne De Carlo, best known as Lily Munster) is a stowaway on Capt. Duvalâs ship when it is captured by the infamous pirate, Baptiste (Philip Friend). She escapes and ends up in New Orleans under the tutelage of Mme. Brizar (Elsa Lanchester), where she is trained to be an entertainer at high class parties. There she discovers that Baptiste has a second identity as a local respected captain and heâs secretly trying to destroy the true villain, the wealthy Narbonne (Robert Douglas).
Well, itâs technically a Swashbucker. Thereâs a little sword fighting early on, and a bit more over an hour later. And thereâs plenty of attempts at wit. So, it falls into one of my review categoriesâŠunfortunately.
So, the story is simply, the dialog unimaginative, the action uninspired, and the songs missable (thereâs more singing than sword-fighting). None of that is bad. Itâs just that none of it is good. And I like something positive in my movies. Well, Buccaneerâs Girl does contain a nice performance by Elsa Lanchester as the pseudo-madam. Her quirky and intelligent line readings even make the script sound decent, an effect that vanishes when she does. Itâs also a pretty movie. Not in any way that stands out, but the Technicolor is bright and cheery, and the set designs are better than average for a budget Swashbucker. It makes me wonder if Universal Pictures just tossed this into production when a studio executive noticed they had a few days extra rental on the Technicolor camera at the same time their period interior sets were going unused.
Countering those few good features are the lead characters. Baptiste Is a nonentity, but the real issue is Debbie. Iâm assuming sheâs supposed to be bold, brash, and roguishly enticing, but sheâs comes off as stupid and obnoxious. When we reach the point where she gives away everything because a rich girl wasnât paying attention to her song, I was ready for someone to stab her.
Find a different film with Elsa Lanchester in a supporting role and give this a miss.
Feb 241950
While I cannot say that each of the Swashbucklers I chose changed the genre, I can claim that each is a signpost in the genreâs development (or in some cases, its stability). But Cyrano de Bergerac is an exception, it is not on that road; it is a detour. It is different than its predecessors and no other Swashbucklers followed its style.  But that doesnât mean it isnât an important and enjoyable dead-end.
Cyrano de Bergerac is a play that just happens to be recorded on film. Due to budgetary restraints and artistic inclination, the production does not take advantage of the capabilities of motion pictures, rather it takes its cue from the stage. And that isnât a bad thing. Movement isnât important for Cyrano de Bergerac, nor is lighting, nor camera angles nor innovative cuts. Dialog, and the expressions that go with the dialog are everything.
My French is far too weak (far, far) for me to enjoy the original, Edmond Rostand play. Luckily, Brian Hooker did what so few translators are capable of and created a poetic English interpretation. The film leans heavily on that translation. Most of the lines come straight from the play; the few that donât come from Hookerâs work lack his melodic quality and sound out of place.
JosĂ© Ferrer plays Cyrano de Bergerac, the greatest swordsman in France. He also is very sensitive about his enormous nose. He is in love with his cousin Roxane (Mala Powers), but canât bring himself to tell her. She has fallen for the good looking, but dim Christian (William Prince). Cyrano finds himself first the younger mans protector, and then, as Christian is incapable of romantic conversation, his voice. Cyrano writes beautiful letters and speeches for Christian, and Roxane finds herself deeply in love, but not with the empty, handsome man that is really Christian, but with the man who wrote those words. Unfortunately, she doesnât know that Cyrano is really the author, and so a comedy of mistaken identities turns into a tragedy.
This is the story of Cyrano. The other characters pale in comparison. Itâs about a man who appears to be a master of all things, but is insecure and frightened in those areas that are most important in life. He is loyal, caring, capable of deep love, and sometimes stupid. Three lives are ruined by an over use of virtue.
While the lyrical dialog gives the movie a great start, it really works due to JosĂ© Ferrerâs Oscar-winning performance.  Iâve pointed out before that great performances belong to actors with great voices and Ferrer has the requirements. Itâs a joy just to listen to him.
The rest of the production doesnât fare so well. William Princeâs Christian lacks life or sympathy. Certainly the character lacks the depth of Cyrano, but it felt like he was reading his lines. Mala Powers was quite attractive, but there was no spark in her performance to mark how Roxane called forth such love from Cyrano. The cast isnât poor, they just arenât at Ferrerâs level, or the level of a great film. With regard to the sets and lighting, the low budget is obvious, but Ferrer projects the honor and love in the story so well that it makes up for any flaws. This is a great film that could have been more.
Feb 201950
In London, Sir Percy Blakeney (David Niven) is an effete loudmouth and fool, but in France he is the heroic Scarlet Pimpernel, who frees the innocent from the worst excesses of the French Revolution. His adversary is Chauvelin (Cyril Cusack), who will stop at nothing to attain the Pimpernelâs head or torch him or shoot him, or generally kill him. But the Pimpernel and his loyal gang are too clever. Blakeneyâs one problem is his French wife (Margaret Leighton). He lovers her deeply, but she aided in the deaths of an aristocratic family, and he cannot forgive her.
For one of the foundational stories of cinematic swashbuckling, the tale of the Scarlet Pimpernel only swashed and buckled in the silent version. In its various talkie incarnations, it has the witty banter in abundance, but itâs more slow costume drama than adventure. Zorro, a clear descendant of The Pimpernel, leaps about with sword in hand for large percentages of his films, but Sir Percy avoids most confrontations. In this version, he has one mild fight and a coach race. Well, it could still be goodâthe 1934 version starring Leslie Howard is quite good.
But this one is not.
It is at times incoherent and when it makes sense it is dull. It flops about as a comedy without humor set in a tragic world without weight. The pacing is off and every action seems trivial. Not a single character feels human, nor a symbol; they just exist, more or less. It looks like the work of pining amateurs over their heads.
How does it go so very, very wrong? Itâs all in the production history. It was a British/American co-production, or was supposed to be, between Samuel Goldwyn and Alexander Korda. Korda had produced the 1934 version and planned for this to be much the same, but in color. Basically some easy money. Goldwyn saw it the same way, and agreed to supply half the budget in return for US distribution. But if what you want is an amusing but artistically void duplicate, why would you bring in The Archersâthe writing/directing/producing team of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger? They were artists of the first order with an actual written manifesto. Powell was at first excited for the project; he realized that it was long past the time when a film should have as its theme that aristocrats are intrinsically better than commoners, so he wanted to take the story in a more democratic direction, lighten it up, and make a musical. Korda wasnât pleased and Goldwyn was livid. Goldwyn had also been busy, forcing a very reluctant and newly married David Niven out of his home in California and over to England to star. Niven refused, was put on suspension, and sadly agreed. But he decided to get back at Goldwyn anyway he could, finding a legal loophole that allowed him to stall production. Goldwyn also insisted on casting Margaret Leighton, though Powell thought she was wrong for the role. After more fights, everyone was unhappy. Powell was angry, Pressburger was depressed, Niven was unruly, Korda was fearful, and Goldwyn was nasty. Well, Goldwyn was usually nasty. The songs were cut (before filming), and Goldwyn kept his hand in, twisting everything. The Archers didnât know how to cope. The result was clearly terrible and they all knew it, so they went back for expensive reshoots, having to drag Niven across the Atlantic again. Did that help? I donât know how bad the original cut was, but the final is a disorganized amalgamation. It seems to have been edited by a deranged monkey.
Itâs not surprising that Powell and Pressburger never found a proper tone for the picture. Nor is it a shock that Niven, who seems like he could have done this sort of part in his sleep, puts in a horrendous performance. He fails in the heroic role, but is even worse as the fop. Well, it’s not as if he was trying, and all of the acting is bad. No one seems authentic, nor charismatic, nor humorous. I doubt any of them knew what they were trying to achieve.
The sets are nice, and, as one would expect from The Archers, the Technicolor is gorgeous. But neither help the story. Yes, itâs pretty, but to what end? What emotions is the unusual pallet supposed to stir?
Goldwyn hated what he saw and refused to pay. Korda sued, and the film wasnât released for several years in the US, and when it was, under the name The Fighting Pimpernel, it was in B&W. Niven got out of his contract with Goldwyn and they didnât speak for years. And The Archers, who were the golden boys of British film, had their reputation tarnished, and they never fully recovered.
Jan 261950
Doc Riedenschneider (Sam Jaffe), recently released from prison, enters the city, where crime is rampant, though not successful, and the police are either on the take or suggest beating citizens because rights don’t matter. He has a perfect plan for a big heist, much bigger than the local low-life criminals are used to. Itâs too big for the nervous bookie (Marc Lawrence) to fund, so he brings in corrupt Lawyer Alonzo Emmerich (Louis Calhern). Emmerich could use the money, considering his expensive lifestyle, his troubled wife, and his beautiful young mistress (Marilyn Monroe), so he promises to back them. They bring in driver Gus Minissi (James Whitmore), safecracker Ciavelli (Anthony Caruso), and thug Dix Handley (Sterling Hayden). But in this city, they never had a chance, and things go wrong even before the betrayals.
Director John Hustonâs previous Film Noir, The Maltese Falcon, created a twisted dark world that was full of evil, but still beautiful. It was a nightmare wonderland. This, his second, is very different. Gone is that exquisite cinematography. In itâs place is the grain of a B-movie showing us a diseased, hopeless world. Thereâs no beauty here. Weâre not through the mirror, but in our own world, just in the ugliest part of it.
Our characters arenât shining evil either. They are pitiful, sick, and broken. Casper Gutman was searching for a dream. These people are trying to buy a sandwich, but even if they get the money, they are too stupid, too addicted, too proud to pick up that sandwich. If you donât think about it very hard, and ignore the beatings, you can fantasize that being Sam Spade would be fun. Thereâs no one here youâd want to be, or meet, or think about for too long. Spade can take an insult because heâs self confident. These folk attack or break down if not shown the respect they clearly donât deserve.
Yeah, itâs all pretty bleak, but thatâs what makes it such a good film. Noir lays out the worst in man and the worst in his world and here it all is: gritty, claustrophobic, tense, and filled with despair. No one in The Asphalt Jungle has the ability to make it in life (however you wish to define that) if given a chance, but thatâs OK because they never had one. And that makes them the least bit sympathetic. Yes, they steal and cheat and commit murder, but what else are they going to do?
We follow them through the caperâa rarity at the time as the censors werenât fond of showing how crimes were committedâand get to know each character surprisingly well. These arenât one-dimensional thieves. Dix Handley is the lead, and itâs a touch easier to sympathize with him than Emmerich or Cobby or Emmerichâs nasty PI Bob Brannom (Brad Dexter) as he has some sense of loyalty and is afraid of nothing, but he is stupid on an epic scale and it is never clear how much of his mistreatment of Doll Conovan (Jean Hagen)âa girl who might be a prostitute and might be an alcoholicâis due to his having no clue she loves him and how much is due to him just being nasty by nature.
The Asphalt Jungle sings when it is just displaying the stifling hopelessness that life can be, and it would be a top Noir if it stuck with that, but the last act gets a bit conventional (I suspect the production code was a factor), and it ends up being a very good film, instead of a great one.
Of note, this was one of Marilyn Monroeâs earliest movies and she is inhumanly gorgeous. This small part lea to her being cast in All About Eve which led to stardom.
Oct 081949
Sleazy promoter Max O’Hara (Robert Armstrong) travels to a stage-bound Africa in search of special acts for his new nightclub. He finds Mighty Joe Young, a giant gorilla, and his teenaged human friend, Jill Young (Terry Moore). With a little fancy talking, he persuades Jill to come to America where he uses her and Joe in various degrading theatrical shows until Joe’s had too much and runs amuck. Jill’s falls in love with cowboy Gregg (Ben Johnson) and the two try to save Joe.
Mighty Joe Young is the juvenile version of King Kong, and as such, it isn’t bad entertainment for the under six crowd. For anyone older, it wanders between insulting and frustrating. In Kong I was sympathetic to the great ape, but didn’t want horrible things to happen to the humans involved. This time, I wanted Joe to rip the arms off of everyone he runs into and was irritated that he never did.
Much of the King Kong team is back: director Ernest B. Schoedsack, writer Ruth Rose, co-writer/producer Merian Cooper, stop motion animator Willis O’Brien, and actor Robert Armstrong, who is playing essentially the same character. The one significant addition is Ray Harryhausen, who, working under O’Brien, was responsible for almost all of the effects. Harryhausen would go on to become the most important figure in cinematic effects history.
It would have been nice if that group had come up with a few new ideas, but Hollywood was a different place then. With no DVDs or video tapes, people didn’t have easy access to classics, like King Kong, so films could be made without the audience being able to easily compare them to previous efforts. Why not dust off a past success? Of course then why not keep the scope, the mystery, and the grandeur as well? Mighty Joe Young feels small, and I don’t just mean that the title character would only come up to Kong’s knee. The sets are claustrophobic and there is no grand adventure to inspire a generation. There’s just unappealing people and a jerking ape. Kong was a magnificent beast. Joe is all sweetness and light. This is a gorilla made for children. Not only doesn’t he kill anyone, he saves orphans from a fire. Orphans? I was waiting for Shirley Temple to show up carrying a sick puppy.
It isn’t a complete bust. Joe is the height of late ’40s special effects. He doesn’t have the realism of today’s CGI beasts, but his slightly halting movements are not a detriment. They lend him an air of fantasy he desperately needs. The film keeps up a reasonable pace and the final act, with car chases, gunfire, and a red-tinted building fire, is almost exciting. Also, I’m always amused by changing social morals. You don’t get a lot of movies now where a thirty-something guy ends up with an under aged girl.
Ray Harryhausenâs other features are The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms (1953), It Came From Beneath the Sea (1955), Earth Vs. The Flying Saucers (1956), 20 Million Miles to Earth (1957), The 7th Voyage of Sinbad (1958), The 3 Worlds of Gulliver (1960), Mysterious Island (1961), Jason and the Argonauts (1963), The First Men in the Moon (1964), One Million Years B.C. (1966), The Valley of Gwangi (1969) ), The Golden Voyage of Sinbad (1973), Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger (1977), and Clash of the Titans (1981).
Oct 061949
Three sailors, Gabe (Gene Kelly), Chip (Frank Sinatra), and Ozzie (Jules Munshin), have twenty-four hours to see New York before their leave ends. Gabe becomes infatuated by Ivy (Vera-Ellen) based on her picture on a subway poster, thinking that the title “Miss Turnstiles” means that she’s a celebrity. Searching for her, the other two pick up Hilde (Betty Garrett), a very forward cab driver, and Claire (Ann Miller), a man-crazy anthropologist. Eventually finding Ivy, the six are off for a wild night on the town of singing, dancing, and avoiding the police.
About as energetic a musical as you are likely to find, On the Town is exuberant, nonstop fun. Dumb fun with nothing approaching characters, but you can’t have everything. If you are a fan of old-time Broadway-style musicals, where people dance just because they are too joyful to walk and sing because speech fails to express how they feel, then you’ll have a good time.
The cast is strong, though the males are best when singing or dancing. Kelly gets by on his smile and charm. Sinatra plays it one-note (luckily, that’s his acting; singing he manages to hit all the notes), while Munshin is one slap and pratfall away from being the forth member of the Three Stooges. The gals are better both at comedy and sincerity, but the movie rarely pauses long enough for anything to matter but fancy footwork. Kelly and Vera-Ellen are dazzling, as always, and Miller shows off her award winning tap skills, and her legs, and in 1949, both of those were impressive.
What keeps On the Town in the also-ran category is the music. A musical is only as good as its songs, and here they rate as OK. Only four of Leonard Bernstein’s tunes from the stage show made it into the film, and only one is memorable. The new songs were written by Roger Edens, who isn’t likely to be mentioned with Porter or Berlin. Things start strong with New York, New York and never gets close to that level again. Several dances are top notch, particularly a fantasy balletâa Kelly trademarkâbut it would have been nice if there was something hummable to go with the leaps and twirls.
On the Town is a lot of fun and is very silly. Kelly, Sinatra, Miller, and Vera-Ellen all have far better work on their Résumés, but if you are in the mood for a pulse-pounding musical, this one will keep you smiling.
My other reviews of Gene Kelly films: Cover Girl (1944), Anchors Aweigh (1945), Ziegfeld Follies (1946), The Pirate (1948), Words and Music (1948), Summer Stock (1950), An American in Paris (1951), Brigadoon (1954), It’s Always Fair Weather (1955), Les Girls (1957), The Young Girls of Rochefort (1967).