Only now does it occur to me... DUEL IN THE SUN (1946)

Only now does it occur to me.... that David O. Selznick really should never have been writing romantic dialogue.

Exhibit A.


Exhibit B.



Case closed. David, you are hereby sentenced to a lifetime of inspiring Paul Bartel and John Waters.

Only now does it occur to me... A WOMAN'S FACE (1941)

Only now does it occur to me... oh, just watch this––it's a little ditty I call "Joan Crawford is Having None of Your Unflattering Light Sources."

Book Review: THREE BAD MEN: JOHN FORD, JOHN WAYNE, WARD BOND (2013, Scott Allen Nollen)

I'm a longtime fan of John Ford (who isn't, really?), the patron-saint of Monument Valley, born-again Irishman, and director of some of the best-constructed, most thoughtful films to come out of Hollywood, from THE INFORMER to THE MAN WHO SHOT LIBERTY VALANCE to THE QUIET MAN to THE GRAPES OF WRATH.
John Wayne is, so to speak, John Wayne, though his work frequently transcends the "movie star" mold with a dancer's grace and a touch of madness like in Ford's THE SEARCHERS, Hawks' RED RIVER, and Siegel's THE SHOOTIST.
Then, there's Ward Bond: a character actor extraordinaire who played brutes and cowpokes and priests and boxers across more than two hundred films.  Though his supporting work with Ford and Wayne is why he's included in this trio, my soft spot for him will always be his one and only shot at top-billing in 1942's HITLER: DEAD OR ALIVE, a film that clearly inspired INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS and contains the fabulous spectacle of Ward slapping the shit out of Hitler himself ...before proceeding to force-shave off his mustache! 

Anyway, I just finished reading Scott Allen Nollen's in-depth examination of the lives and work of these three cinematic giants, and I highly recommend it as a fascinating study for burgeoning old-Hollywood aficionados and serious fans of cinema alike.  Chronologically tracing the intertwining lives of these three "good-bad men" who were not unlike the characters in their films (Ford directed Bond and Wayne in nearly thirty pictures each), Nollen is at once objective and affectionate in his analysis, and there's a wealth of source material including documents, letters, telegrams, and plenty of rare photographs.  There are riveting anecdotes (I may now actually be inspired to read Harry Carey, Jr.'s autobiography), some great yarn-spinning (including tales of Ward Bond's brutish, high-flying, indecent-exposing, Wile E. Coyote-style antics and his ruining of a key scene in THE SEARCHERS when he unplugged the camera to plug in his electric razor!), and the work definitely touches on their peccadillos and absurdities, though never salaciously.

It's deftly written and never dry; while many books of this kind become bogged down by academic posturing, Nollen remains true to the spirit of his subjects and opts for a two-fisted, no bullshit approach.  I really appreciate how deeply he throws himself into the work, freely admitting "a meaningful (though a bit one-sided) conversation with a tombstone or two."  He's as a film writer should be– intense, obsessive, and highly-focused; reverent without succumbing to hollow adulation.

The main drive of the work is the examination of the complex personal and working relationship between the three (though large swaths of the book are dedicated to advancing the underrated Ward Bond to his rightful place in the pantheon).  None of these men could really be pinned down or branded with a particular stereotype– each had a volatile mix of id and ego (often sprinkled heavily with alcohol) that fused together to create a kind of perfect storm of filmic art. 
The complex psychology of Ford's relationships with the two men is indeed worthy of an entire volume– you see a strange kind of ownership emerge, resulting from Ford's "discovering" of the two actors.  This ownership was generally expressed in verbal (and often physical) sadism as Ford became master of his "whipping boys," something which may have even tied into his potential bisexuality:

"Ford loved John Wayne and Ward Bond, but his true sexual orientation wasn't something he would have discussed with them, or anyone else.  When it came to his own life and psyche, Pappy [Ford] avoided the truth, exaggerated, lied, or just didn't 'have any goddamn idea.'  The positive emotions he felt for his two favorite actors and whipping boys may have been the underlying cause of his negative, sadistic treatment of them (and himself); but even a lifetime of psychoanalysis may not have 'proved' anything."

Vindictive and controlling, Ford "froze out" Wayne for eight years when he appeared in a rival director's Western (Raoul Walsh's THE BIG TRAIL) and later, when Bond made serious forays into television (WAGON TRAIN) and Wayne tried to direct a picture of his own (THE ALAMO), Ford would sometimes install himself as a presence on set and attempt to undermine/co-opt the work therein.  These behaviors even extended beyond the trio– he punched out Henry Fonda (!) on MISTER ROBERTS and made cruel, deliberate use of alcohol to wring earth-shattering, hungover performances out of the likes of Victor McLaglen in THE INFORMER and Woody Strode in SERGEANT RUTLEDGE.

Though he reveals these men "warts and all," Nollen also paints a portrait of devoted friends and masterful artists whose lives and creative outlets meshed almost completely.  (For instance, despite the abuse, Ford chose Bond to play his own alter-ego in the deeply personal THE WINGS OF EAGLES.) 

Nollen takes on the accusations of racism in Ford's films, and reveals his struggle to show all sides despite the constraints of the system– especially evident in films like THE SEARCHERS, SERGEANT RUTLEDGE, and CHEYENNE AUTUMN.  He tackles the strange political spectrum of the men, too, with John Ford's patriotic progressivism, Wayne's conservatism, and Ward Bond's ultraconservatism (and yet it was Ford who took his camera overseas into the crucible of World War II while Wayne and Bond remained in Hollywood).  He doesn't shy away from Ward Bond's shameful behavior in the McCarthy era as a supporter of the blacklist:

"The social climbing Bond's ultimate political affront to Ford involved an invitation to a party he was throwing for Senator Joseph McCarthy.  His great mentor [Ford] simply answered, 'You can take your party and shove it.  I wouldn't meet that guy in a whorehouse.  He's a disgrace and a danger to our country.'"

Bond's involvement with the blacklist feels like a moral counterpoint to Ford's extensive work with the U.S. armed forces in World War II and beyond, and much attention here is paid to his military career (I learned that in North Africa a Nazi actually surrendered himself to John Ford!) 

Along the way, Nollen delves into a vast spectrum of material including Ford's relationship with his older brother Francis (mentor, actor, and silent film director), Ford's gleeful propensity for Chaucer/Shakespearean-style low comedy and his hilariously bizarre obsession with highlighting Ward Bond's "horse's ass" in shot compositions ("Although FORT APACHE is a serious examination of the mythology of the American West, it humorously can be branded Ford's 'ass-travaganza'").  Of particular interest to me were Ford's work with Victor McLaglen (whose performance in THE INFORMER is one of the greatest in filmdom), his direction of genius child actor and later genre-movie legend Roddy McDowall in HOW GREEN WAS MY VALLEY,  Bond's artistic process as unofficial show-runner on WAGON TRAIN, and the compelling, touching latter-day friendship between Ford and Woody Strode– and the book certainly has some genuinely emotional, poignant moments as the three "good-bad" men's lives dwindle to a close.

In the end, it definitely gets you amped up to watch some John Ford films– I've probably seen at least two dozen or so at this point, but there's still scores more I need to get my hands on, and there's obviously some big gaps in my knowledge.  For instance, since I've read THREE BAD MEN, MISTER ROBERTS, THEY WERE EXPENDABLE, 3 GODFATHERS, and WAGON MASTER have now leapt to the forefront of my queue.

THREE BAD MEN is published by McFarland (Order line: 800-253-2187), ISBN 978-0-7864-5854-7

Only now does it occur to me... THE PIRATE

Only now does it occur to me...  that Gene Kelly has an enthusiasm for explosions that may even surpass Michael Bay's!
 
 
These undeniably insane screen captures come from one of the musical numbers in THE PIRATE, directed by Vincente Minnelli (Liza's dad).  Gene Kelly and Robert Alton were the "dance directors," however, which leads me to believe that this sensational frenzy of pyrotechnics may have been Kelly's brainchild.  He gyrates, kicks, fires pistols, twirls a sword, stabs with a spear, and tosses torches that detonante on impact like Molotov cocktails.

All of this while a flurry of explosions erupt in the not-so-distant background, curling into dangerous mushroom clouds of flame.  I find myself wishing that Jean-Claude Van Damme had been around for the Louis B. Mayer era.  Oh, well.

Film Review: CAUGHT (1949, Max Ophüls)

Stars: 3.8 of 5.

Running Time: 88 minutes.

Notable Cast or Crew: Barbara Bel Geddes (VERTIGO, PANIC IN THE STREETS), James Mason (LOLITA, THUNDERBIRD ads, SALEM'S LOT), Robert Ryan (THE WILD BUNCH, THE DIRTY DOZEN), Curt Bois (CASABLANCA, WINGS OF DESIRE), Frank Ferguson (HUSH HUSH SWEET CHARLOTTE, ABBOTT AND COSTELLO MEET FRANKENSTEIN)

Tag-line: "The story of a desperate girl."

Best one-liner:  "Look at me!  LOOK AT WHAT YOU BOUGHT!!"

A hard-to-come by 40s melodrama that occasionally masquerades as a film noir, CAUGHT had been on my 'to-see' list for years, so I decided to take the plunge when I saw that it was expiring from Netflix instant at the end of the year.  A thickly-veiled portrait of Howard Hughes' love life (Ophüls was once fired from a Hughes picture, VENDETTA) and one of Martin Scorsese's favorite films (possibly the reason why he made THE AVIATOR?), the film walks that thin line between high art and low camp (or perhaps between low art and high camp?), and we all know that that's the sort of thing I enjoy.

Ophüls was a German arthouse filmmaker best known for making expressive, French romantic melodramas, packed with exquisite tracking shots.  He's at the height of his powers when he's presenting life as a lurid carnival– an endless dance rotating amongst different social milieus, like in LA RONDE or LOLA MONTÉS.  He's at his weakest when his carousel remains stuck in a single stuffy mode (i.e., THE EARRINGS OF MADAME DE..., a much-loved film that I happen to dislike).  In a film like CAUGHT, he's socially responsible, capturing the moments of life that exist between the stations of life.  However, his wings are rather clipped by the studio– he does get some nice tracking shots in there, but visual flair is few and far between.  As James Mason later wrote in a poem, "A shot that does not call for tracks/ is agony for poor old Max,/ who, separated from his dolly,/ is wrapped in deepest melancholy./ Once, when they took away his crane/ I thought he'd never smile again."

Basically, the plot follows Barbara Bel Geddes as she tries to further herself by saving up for an education.  Don't worry, it's 1949– she's not going to college:

I nearly did a spit-take when she pulls out this brochure after going on about educating and furthering herself.  Anyway, after gaining the necessary skill set for obtaining a husband, she marries an oddly named ("Smith Ohlrig") big shot played by noir-standby Robert Ryan, who seems to marry her only to vex his psychiatrist (!?).  He turns out to be a raging psychopath, á la Howard Hughes, who must destroy everyone whom he cannot own outright.

Robert Ryan, on the warpath.

Psychological abuse and boredom and melodramatic slapping take their toll

and Bel Geddes' character decides to reject this abusive life of Riley for a more emotionally fulfilling existence in a tenement house, working as a receptionist for a young doctor played by James Mason.  It's fun to see him as a caring pediatrician when in retrospect, he carries the cultural baggage of famous roles like "nymphet molester" (LOLITA) and "child murderer" (SALEM'S LOT).  At one point he says he'd like to "cut off of the curls" of an irritating, hypochrondriac little girl patient of his.  Stay classy, 1949!

 James Mason, incredulous.

It sort of turns into stock, well-acted melodrama at this point as she falls for dreamy 'doc Mason while still married to crazytown Ryan, but there were a few happenings that really set it apart:

#1.  Robert Ryan's benders that end in bouts of "angry pinball."  It seems like the sort of detail that was probably culled straight from Hughes' life.  I couldn't verify this in cursory Internet research, but I'm still going with it.

 Robert Ryan staves off sexual frustration and sociopathic tendencies with another angry pinball session.

#2.  This close-up from a gossip column montage about Ryan and Bel Geddes' declining love life.

Look at the story at the bottom, the one we're supposed to ignore during the course of the scene, because it's not highlighted and has nothing to do with our plot.  It appears to involve criminals, a radio show, a former circus clown named "Jebbo," and a volley of bullets.  I kind of wanted to be watching this movie!

 #3.  The finale, which involves shouting, the revelation of secrets, the destruction of the aforementioned pinball machine, and a happy ending featuring Dr. James Mason force-feeding liquor to a near-comatose pregnant woman (Bel Geddes).

 

 Though I'm still holding out hope it was Thunderbird!

 Not Ophüls' finest hour, but a pleasant enough and head-shakingly misogynistic melodrama with some noir elements.  Nearly four stars.

-Sean Gill

Film Review: STATE OF THE UNION (1948, Frank Capra)

Stars: 4.5 of 5.
Running Time: 124 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Spencer Tracy, Katherine Hepburn, Angela Lansbury, Van Johnson (THE CAINE MUTINY, BRIGADOON), Adolphe Menjou (PATHS OF GLORY, A FAREWELL TO ARMS), Margaret Hamilton (13 GHOSTS, THE WIZARD OF OZ). Based on the play by Howard Lindsay and and Russel Crouse (LIFE WITH FATHER, THE SOUND OF MUSIC). Screenplay by Anthony Veiller (THE KILLERS '46, THE STRANGER) and Myles Connolly.
Tag-line: "How's the state of the union? IT'S GREAT!" Not quite nailing the nuance, there.
Best one-liner: "No woman could ever run for President. She'd have to admit she's over thirty-five."

What with the state of the union address last week and the primary circus reaching new heights of wondrous absurdity, the timing feels right for a look at Frank Capra's STATE OF THE UNION.

I'd seen most of the "big" Capras as a kid, MR. SMITH GOES TO WASHINGTON, IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE, IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT, ARSENIC & OLD LACE, and LOST HORIZON– and of them, only MR. SMITH really made an impression. I'd sort of written off Capra as something of a craftsmanly sentimentalist, and that was a terribly reductive way to look at who's now, really, one of my favorite directors. While I was working on this ongoing "Junta Juleil's All-Time Top 100" list, MR. SMITH came up, and J.D. of Radiator Heaven strongly recommended some "bleaker Capra," which led me onto a real Capra kick, one that ended with a trio of hard-hitting, gut-ripping, compassionately progressive but bitterly true films: MEET JOHN DOE, MR. DEEDS GOES TO TOWN, and STATE OF THE UNION. As I wrote in a comment previously– I'm almost shocked that these things were allowed to be made, in that they highlight the *gasp* "socialist" ideals of the Founding Fathers; attack nearly all kinds of mass media; and rise above the pettiness of politics and instead piling on dollop after dollop of pure, bright-eyed Humanism in a world on the brink of tearing its own throat.

STATE OF THE UNION feels ridiculously prescient, though I suppose it's arrogant to believe that the problems of our era are in any way unique. We've got fights over government deregulation, pre-nomination doubletalk, fear-mongering politicians, a media kingmaking "primary" that's more important than the actual votes (see the much-spoken of "Murdoch Primary" for comparison) - the film even boldly dares to ask if there's any real difference between Democrats and Republicans anymore. And the line "Politicians have remained professionals only because the voters have remained amateurs!" has to be one of my favorite zingers in the history of political cinema.

I don't want to say too much about the plot, but it involves Spencer Tracy as an industrialist ("Any man's made as much money as him is a good sound American") who's pushed into running for president by the kingmakers and who decides to do anything he can to get the nomination. The respective angel and devil on his shoulders are his reluctant, conscionable wife (Katherine Hepburn) and the ruthless, power-hungry media magnate (Angela Lansbury). And, as anyone will attest, an evil Lansbury in your movie is always a good thing. (Futhermore, Lansbury is the most vicious, calculating character in a movie whose cast includes Margaret Hamilton, the Wicked Witch of the West!)

Evil Lansbury refuses to acknowledge the help.

So go see STATE OF THE UNION. It's pretty damn good, and it's extremely damn relevant. Which makes it all the more hilarious that Google offered the old chestnut "I'm sorry, did you mean to search for XXX 2: STATE OF THE UNION?"

So on to my secondary point: I watched STATE OF THE UNION later on the same day that I rewatched BARTON FINK, which is probably my favorite Coen brothers film. I was treated to some extremely bizarre and possibly intentional coincidences; some so specific that I probably never would have noticed them had I not happened to view the films back to back. Since the Coens love to repackage and adapt past works (CUTTER'S WAY and THE BIG SLEEP become THE BIG LEBOWSKI, THE GLASS KEY and RED HARVEST become MILLER'S CROSSING, etc.), I'm probably not way off base here.

Now, BARTON FINK and STATE OF THE UNION are both set in the 1940s, so there's nothing extraordinary about overlapping fashion and decor and popular slang of the time like calling guys "heels," yet, as I watched on, these general tonal similarities began to strike me as odd. And, you know, Judy Davis is kind of like 1991's answer to Katherine Hepburn in her own way.

There's nothing terribly remarkable about that. But then I realized that the plots are basically the same– a man fighting to be in touch with the common man is whisked from one opportunity to another by soulless and strange entourages and handlers who use him as a tool to advance their own self-interests. Also, both films take place largely within the confines of hotel rooms. And, hey!– there's even a creepy little bellhop who prefigures the bizarre-itude of Buscemi in BARTON FINK.


Then, IMDB lists the infamous (of Ed Wood, Jr. fame) Tor Johnson as an uncredited wrestler. It must have been a blink and you'll miss it walk-on, because I must have blinked and missed him, but aficionados of BARTON FINK will take note of the wrestling connection.
But finally, the last parallel, and the one that vindicates my craziness: there's a scene whereupon Tracy and Hepburn are going through the campaign mail bag. They finish reading a letter and marvel, in a strange little moment, about how it's signed "Madman Mundt..."


...who is John Goodman in BARTON FINK!

I'm not sure what I've proven, precisely, outside of "The Coen brothers must love STATE OF THE UNION," but I suppose I'll take that.

-Sean Gill

Film Review: HANGOVER SQUARE (1945, John Brahm)

Stars: 5 of 5.
Running Time: 77 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Laird Cregar (I WAKE UP SCREAMING, THE LODGER, Satan in HEAVEN CAN WAIT), Alan Napier (MY FAIR LADY, MARNIE, Alfred from the 60's BATMAN series), Linda Darnell (MY DARLING CLEMENTINE, UNFAITHFULLY YOURS), George Sanders (ALL ABOUT EVE, REBECCA), Glenn Langan (DRAGONWYCK, THE ANDROMEDA STRAIN). Music by Bernard Herrmann. Cinematography by Joseph LaShelle (THE APARTMENT, LAURA, Pilot episode of THE TWILIGHT ZONE, Cassavetes' A CHILD IS WAITING). Written by Barré Lyndon (THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH, THE WAR OF THE WORLDS) and based on the novel by Patrick Hamilton (writer of the plays from which ROPE and GASLIGHT are both adapted).
Tag-line: "THE SCREEN'S MOST Terrifying LOVE STORY! EXCITING MYSTERY AND STRANGE EMOTION!"
Best one-liner: "'All for you. There's not a thing I wouldn't or that I couldn't do.' You wrote that for me, George. But you've never really tried to find out, have you!?"

Welcome to Hangover Square. Population: YOU.

"All my life I've had black little moods..."

And so we enter a shadowy, off-kilter world of wet cobblestone and encroaching fog, shining gaslights and miserable lunatics, raging bonfires and downtrodden masses, discordant tones and eerie echoes- it's all here in HANGOVER SQUARE. Often referred to as a film noir, I have to disagree: HANGOVER SQUARE is expressionistic horror at its finest– every canted angle, inharmonious sound, and bulging eyeball taking you closer and closer to the very edge of sanity. Your head spins with the stupor of a blackout, your breathing becomes labored from the stifling claustrophobia, your hands grow clammy with perspiration, your ears ring from the pandemonium in the streets!


I'd prefer not to give too much away with this review, so I'll limit my spoilers only to what's apparent from the film's very start. As the composer George Harvey Bone, the inimitable Laird Cregar is a man cut in two: any screeching, cacophonous noise divides his personae- and often sends him into a murderous frenzy of which the 'sane Bone' has no recollection.

Sometimes accompanied by proto-Argento POV killings!

To say that the ex-bouncer Cregar delivers an 'intense fucking performance' would be something of an understatement. He takes things so far– to such levels of commitment– that by the end of the film, you feel like collapsing. Graced with a sinister, velvet-tongued voice (shockingly similar to Vincent Price's- and more on him in a minute!) and the ability to convey sympathy, depravity, pitiability, and malevolence with ease...and generally all at once(!), Cregar was one of Hollywood's greatest up-and-coming character actors in 1944.

Generally confined to roles of villainy (I was still rooting for him), Cregar pined to play a romantic lead. A crash-diet lost him one-hundred pounds, but he succumbed to a heart attack shortly after filming on HANGOVER SQUARE was completed. He was thirty-one. At his mother's request, he was eulogized by close friend Vincent Price, who many have theorized (due to their similar vocal intonations and comparable roles in which they were cast at Twentieth Century Fox) went on to experience a career that surely would have resembled Cregar's, had he lived.

But back to the film– it's brilliant. It's the CITIZEN KANE of 1940's Hollywood horror flicks, and I say that not as an obnoxious prig, but as someone actually making the comparison–


beautiful, lavish, intricate sets; innovative, immersive, and roaming camera work from Joseph LaShelle; striking, tragic, intimate imagery; and another mind-blowing score from Bernard Herrmann. Acknowledged by Stephen Sondheim as his inspiration for SWEENEY TODD (and Sondheim borrowed certain elements of the plot as well), Herrmann's score- particularly the "Concerto Macabre" which becomes the centerpiece of the film– is in turns sweepingly majestic and horrifically unsettling. It's certainly a contender for being his greatest score, and I say that even having recently listened to his scores for CITIZEN KANE, VERTIGO, TAXI DRIVER, FAHRENHEIT 451, PSYCHO, THE SEVENTH VOYAGE OF SINBAD, and THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL. Because his work in HANGOVER SQUARE is actually meant to be the work of our unhinged composer-hero, I think Herrmann was able to delve deeply into the mind of the character, as well– and he emerges with some of the finest music ever composed for film.

Before I gush to the point of embarassment, here are a few more things worth watching for–

•Netta (Linda Darnell), a sleazy turn-of-the-century Rita Hayworth-type who loves a good gravy train, makes her first appearance doing a call-and-response number to a phalanx of sweaty drunks in a bar so crowded, it's gotta be in violation of some sort of fire code.

Later, she's headlining a show called "I'm A Bad Little Girlie."



•A Thuggee-knotted strangling device makes an appearance. I'm not too proud to admit that I'll always associate the Thuggee immediately with INDIANA JONES AND THE TEMPLE OF DOOM.

•Laird Cregar's character orders up some Benedictine at one point- I heartily approve. Whatever zany nutballs out there require the idea of drinking game in order to watch HANGOVER SQUARE...take note. I pity you, but take note.

•Alan Napier. You probably know him as Alfred the Butler from the 60's BATMAN series, and here, he's just as classy, if not more so.


In the end, it's a work of tortured genius about a tortured genius, and it's a clear influence on everything from Ken Russell's 'composeramas' to Guy Maddin's THE SADDEST MUSIC IN THE WORLD. I hate to hand out too many five star ratings, but HANGOVER SQUARE- you earned it. R.I.P., Laird.

-Sean Gill

Film Review: BILL AND COO (1948, Dean Riesner)

Stars: ?! of 5.
Running Time: 61 minutes.
Tag-line: "You've never seen anything like it!- It's tremendus says Schnozoll-a Toucan!" 'You've never seen anything like it' is right!
Notable Cast or Crew: Burton's Birds, Jimmy the Crow, Coo.
Best one-liner: "Hey! You better send them vittles up to Ma Singer- she's gettin' burned up!"

So imagine that they remade "Our Town." But it's not set in Grover's Corners, it's set in a place called "Chirpendale." Chirpendale's somewhere in the general vicinity of 42nd Street and Birdway.

And this version has a new, racially charged––alright, overtly racist––subplot about a marauding, ignominious villain moving into town known as "THE BLACK MENACE." This version also has a circus, damsels in distress, and a lot of ill-considered puns. But it's still basically "Our Town." Oh yeah, I just realized I forgot one important detail: it has an all bird cast. (With the exception of a few kittens and other small creatures in cameo appearances.)




I don't know what to say. Just when you think it can't get any more ridiculous, it raises the stakes a notch further. Birds in silly hats? Birds on swingsets? I don't even consider myself an aficionado of cutesy things, yet every twenty seconds I was clutching my gaping mouth and pointing at the screen in wonderment like a little girl in her petticoats.

Life is now worth living.

Who knows what torture they put these birds through in order to choreograph these sequences, but, I have to say... it was probably worth it. Birds driving a fire truck and fighting a blazing inferno? Check. Circus birds towing around caged kittens? Check. Birds in love sharing a milkshake? Check. Is that bird wearing a plaid cloth bowtie? Check. All of this and more.

This marks the only directorial effort by former child actor Dean Riesner (winning an honorary Academy Award for this bizarre achievement), who later was a frequent collaborator of Don Siegel (writing such films as DIRTY HARRY, COOGAN'S BLUFF, and CHARLEY VARRICK). I guess the only thing holding all these disparate works together is a sort of cheekily endearing fascism (?).

500 berries reward for information pertaining to the whereabouts of the Black Menace.

Take that, Black Menace! And, uh, stay the hell out of suburbia!

Also see: A RAISIN IN THE SUN.

-Sean Gill

Film Review: DARK PASSAGE (1947, Delmer Daves)

Stars: 4.2 of 5.
Running Time: 106 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Agnes Moorehead (CITIZEN KANE, CAGED), Houseley Stevenson (ALL THE KING'S MEN, THE GUNFIGHTER). Music by Franz Waxman (REAR WINDOW, SUNSET BLVD., REBECCA). Cinematography by Sidney Hickox (THE BIG SLEEP, TO HAVE AND HAVE NOT).
Tag-line: "Two Of A Kind ! Tough . . . Torrid . . . Terrific!"
Best one-liner: "The artist in me wishes he could see what a nice job I've done, but I never will. Goodbye, and good luck."

I guess 1947 was the year for 'POV Noir' (with the first half of DARK PASSAGE and the entirety of LADY IN THE LAKE unfolding from a direct, first person perspective). DARK PASSAGE, however, uses this gimmick with purpose, intelligence, and visual flair... and knows when to abandon it. Still, the POV portion of this film (you ARE Bogart on the lam until he finds himself at a plastic surgeon's) is an unsettling tour de force, and kind of feels like a 'Choose Your Own Adventure' Film Noir- which is, of course, a real good thing. An oddly dreamlike tone pervades the film, from the mind-blowing plot to the Fritz Lang-style surgery sequence, full of rotating, expressionistic overlays and distorted sounds. Lauren Bacall's smoldering intensity and unknown, possibly dangerous motivations;

Houseley Stevenson as the lopsided, eerily helpful doctor ("I could make you look like a BULLDOG or a MONKEY!");

and Agnes Moorehead's inquisitive, fiendish acuity... no wonder Bogart's bewildered eyes are able to speak such volumes. It's an uncertain world where everyone wants to play 20 questions, and the slightest misstep could spell a 100 year steel-and-concrete vacation at San Quentin.

It's a black and white film that overtly references specific colors- and that's very deliberate: writer/director Delmer Daves realizes quite profoundly that speaking of "orange" in a world of black and white is like speaking of the "individual" in a world where that word doesn't quite hold the water it used to. A new face, a new name, a new lie, a new line- it's now all par for the course for the innocent man. Dream-like, but not a dream; this is the world now- you're laid out and sliced up on the table, and everybody wants a piece.

Confusing, confounding, claustrophobic, Kafkaesque. (And a tremendous influence on David Lynch- particularly MULHOLLAND DR. and LOST HIGHWAY.) Four stars.

-Sean Gill