The Prisoner Of Shark Island (1936)

John Ford’s account of the trial, imprisonment and eventual redemption of Dr Samuel A. Mudd (Warner Baxter) for his supposed involvement in the assassination of Abraham Lincoln is fine drama but probably poor history. This version of the story presents Mudd as an innocent bystander, who unknowingly treats John Wilkes Booth’s broken leg and then finds himself a victim of the bloody scapegoating that followed the assassination and the killing of Booth two weeks later. This white-washing of Mudd – who certainly knew Booth, and who certainly lied to the investigators – places The Prisoner Of Shark Island amongst a curious subset of American films that, while paying lip-service to those theoretical ideals we all hear so much about, seems to have surprisingly little faith in them in practice. (Rail-roading and vigilantism are only really wrong, these films seem to imply, if the person on the receiving end is really innocent.) But be Mudd’s innocence or guilt what it was, the section of this film dealing with the operation of the Military Commission and the execution of Mudd’s alleged fellow conspirators is absolutely chilling. (Prior to the trial, the Secretary of War instructs the commissioners not to let their judgement be troubled by “trifling technicalities of law” or “pedantic regard for the rules of evidence”, and not to be swayed by “that obnoxious creation of legal nonsense”, reasonable doubt.) Escaping execution by a single vote, Mudd is exiled to Fort Jefferson in the Florida Keys, the “Shark Island” of the title. The film then follows him through his imprisonment, his persecution by one of the garrison, his attempted escape and solitary confinement, and finally his pardoning due to his conduct during the yellow fever epidemic that swept the island prison. Warner Baxter is fine as Mudd, who he depicts as well-meaning but possibly a little dim, and Gloria Stuart lends good support as Mudd’s loyal wife. The film is completely stolen, however, by John Carradine. He is nothing short of terrifying as Sergeant Rankin, who dedicates himself to making Mudd’s imprisonment as miserable as possible. (The film is perhaps a little unjust to Rankin, never making it quite clear that he was fanatically devoted to Lincoln, and not just a random sadist. In any case, the character’s late film volte-face is entirely unconvincing.) Harry Carey, the star of a string of John Ford-helmed silent westerns, plays the Fort Jefferson C.O. in his only sound performance for the director. Francis Ford also appears.

Underwater Warrior (1958)

This docu-drama is based upon the experiences of Commander Francis D. Fane, who played a major part in the evolution of the US navy’s Underwater Demolition Team between the end of WWII and the Korean War. The film follows its Francis Fane stand-in, David Forest (Dan Dailey), through the UDT’s gruelling recruitment program, his almost-involvement in an invasion of Japan – when word comes that the war is over, Forest and his men are, for a moment, disappointed – his active role in campaigning for his sometimes-scorned branch of the service, and his courage in testing out new equipment and strategies. The film is necessarily episodic, and different sections may appeal to different viewers. I’m sure no-one out there will be surprised to hear that I found most interesting that part of the story dealing with Forest’s attempts to boost enlistment in his beloved underwater unit, during which he recognises that the main barrier to recruitment isn’t fear of the enemy, but fear of sharks, and embarks on a project to determine just how much of what man “knows” about sharks is accurate. (While I appreciate Fane/Forest’s debunking of a lot of shark mythology, I could have done without his testing the toughness of shark-skin first by firing spear-guns at them, then by grabbing a small shark by the tail and poking it repeatedly with a knife!) The story climaxes with the crashing of an experimental military plane just chock-full of top secret new technology, and the aging Forest’s perilous attempt to find and destroy the plane before it can fall into the wrong hands. The role of David Forest is an interesting change of pace for song and dance man Dan Dailey, and he is well-supported by James Gregory as the medical officer who works with him, Claire Kelly as his wife, and Ross Martin as his inevitable Noo York-spawned best friend.

Flight From Glory (1937)

In South America, an aviation crew consisting of disgraced pilots in sub-standard planes fly dangerous missions over the mountains, delivering supplies to a mining-camp. The man in charge, Ellis (Onslow Stevens), keeps a scrapbook of aviation mishaps and disasters, and from it recruits new employees who cannot get work anywhere else whenever an accident occurs to one of his existing crew....which is often. This tactic brings to the team a young American flyer, George Wilson (Van Heflin), who had his licence to fly revoked after crashing his plane while drunk and killing a bystander. To the horror of the veterans of the flying team, Wilson brings with him his new wife, Lee (Whitney Bourne). Soon taking the measure of his new surroundings, Wilson tries to send his wife away, only to find that Ellis’s manoeuvring means that he has arrived in debt, and must work that off before he can afford Lee’s ticket home. As Lee bravely makes the best of things, she becomes the object of romantic interest of two other pilots, Smith (Chester Morris) and Hilton (Douglas Walton), while George Wilson’s drinking spirals out of control.  Meanwhile, the question of which man flies which plane becomes a deadly game of Russian roulette.... This obvious fore-runner to Only Angels Have Wings is a gritty and quite suspenseful little drama, presenting the aviation camp is a kind of purgatory, with each man suffering from and being punished for his various weaknesses and guilts. Lee Wilson is the only true innocent here, and the film treats her as gently as it can under the circumstances. (This film is a lot kinder to its female lead than Only Angels Have Wings.) Onslow Stevens is unnervingly convincing as the cold-blooded Ellis – that scrapbook of disaster is a chilling touch – while Chester Morris is good as Smith, the least guilty – or rather, the most clear-sighted – of the pilots, whose bitter cynicism begins to conflict with his feelings for Lee. There is also a nice supporting performance from Douglas Walton – Percy Shelley in Bride Of Frankenstein – as the doomed romantic, Hilton; you get the feeling that had the budget been higher, it would have been Leslie Howard in this role.

My Dear Killer (1972)

While overseeing the dredging of a quarry, a man is decapitated by the claw scoop of the excavator. Soon afterwards, the man who supposedly was in charge of the excavator is found hanging in a barn, but Inspector Luca Peretti (George Hilton) determines that the apparent suicide is really another murder. Peretti learns that the first victim, Paradisi, was an investigator for an insurance company, who suddenly quit his job some time before. As he pursues his investigation, Peretti stumbles over frequent references to “the Moroni case”, and realises that the death of Paradisi is somehow linked to the unsolved kidnapping-murder of a young girl and her industrialist father more than a year earlier.... My Dear Killer is an unwontedly straightforward giallo, following Inspector Peretti as he tracks down the person responsible for both the gruesome deaths of the young Stefania Moroni and her father and the recent rash of murders. While not amongst the top echelon of its genre, the film nevertheless offers gialli fans plenty of the standard tropes to be going on with: a black-gloved killer, a child’s drawings as clues, the case solved through some outrageous deductive leaps, an Agatha Christie-like suspect-gathering denouement and a couple of spectacularly over-the-top killings. (While the quarry decapitation is a lulu, the high point of the film comes when--- Well, let’s just say that if you’re a character in a giallo, you probably shouldn’t keep a circular saw in your apartment.) There’s also a smattering of some very black humour. As the bodies start to pile up, the Inspector’s talent for arriving on the scene just five minutes too late becomes increasingly gigglesome, but the best bit is his demonstration of why the second victim couldn’t have committed suicide....which uses the still-hanging dead body as a prop. On the other hand, there’s nothing remotely amusing about the fate of Stefania, and this aspect of the film may be too much for some. We are shown her, bound and struggling, at the beginning of her captivity, and the script is blunt about her lingering death by starvation. Most appalling of all, though, and all the more so for just being a minor plot detour, is when the Inspector’s questioning of an obviously unbalanced sculptor is interrupted by the entrance of a buck naked little girl. “She’s a model!” explains the sculptor hurriedly, shooing her away – and who knows? – he may even be telling the truth. All we know for sure is that Our Hero doesn’t bother to stick around and find out.... George Hilton and Salvo Randone as his tart-tongued colleague make a fairly sympathetic pair of protagonists, while the rest of the characters are the usual hateful giallo crowd. Lara Wendel, who plays Stefania (and is billed here as Daniala Rachele Barnes), would appear ten years later in Tenebre, while the saw victim is Patty Shepard of La Noche De Walpurgis and La Tumba De La Isla Maldita.

Kansas City Bomber (1972)

Single mother Diane “K.C.” Carr (Raquel Welch) struggles to make a living as a professional roller derby skater, having to deal with her constant separations from her children and her mother’s disapproval of her lifestyle. Catching the eye of lecherous businessman Burt Henry (Kevin McCarthy), K.C. is transferred to his Portland-based franchise, where she finds herself locked in a bitter struggle for supremacy with fading former star Jackie Burdette (Helena Kallianiotes). This overlong and over-obvious sports drama is sickly compelling as long as the women are out on the rink kicking the shit out of each other, but grows tiresome whenever it focuses instead on the personal travails of its heroine. The screenplay tries to posit K.C. as an innocent abroad, the one nice and sincere person in a world of corruption and violence, but overplays its hand by making her naive to the point of stupidity – and beyond. She’s astonished that the skaters she’s brought in to headline over resent her; she’s astonished that her team mates have a problem with the fact that she’s having an affair with their boss. (The best bit, though, is when her boss-lover gets rid of K.C.’s room-mate, who was kind enough – or dumb enough – to take her in, by trading her without warning. Henry’s “explanation”, that he just wanted to be alone with K.C., is evidently enough to soothe her qualms about this arrangement – so much so, she goes on living in her friend’s now vacated house.) While K.C. is an annoying “heroine”, Kansas City Bomber nevertheless presents a fascinating if depressing portrait of the world of lower-tier sports, and the people who fight to make a living at them. The uncertainty of the life, the boredom and loneliness of the road, and the terror of the future for the aging athlete are all vividly sketched. (This film may well have influenced George Roy Hill’s infinitely superior Slap Shot.) Raquel isn’t a good enough actress to make K.C. credible, but she does a pretty good job on skates. (When it’s her: sometimes it’s obviously a double.) The film’s memorable performances come from its victims: Mary Kay Pass as Lovey, K.C.’s former room-mate; Helena Kallianiotes as borderline alcoholic Jackie; and Norman Alden as roller derby’s eternal butt, “Horrible” Hank Hopkins. A ten-year-old Jodie Foster appears as K.C.’s tomboy daughter.

Rachel And The Stranger (1948)

Hunter Jim Fairways (Robert Mitchum) visits the farm of his friend David Harvey (William Harvey), only to discover that David’s wife, the woman they both loved, has died, leaving him with their young son. David struggles on alone for several months, finally concluding gloomily that he needs a woman around the place, both for chores and to raise the young Davey (Gary Gray). David rides to the nearest stockade town, begging help from Parson Jackson (Tom Tully). The parson suggests that David buy bondservant Rachel (Loretta Young) from her present master – warning him, however, that he will have to marry her, as they cannot live together at the isolated farm otherwise. David reluctantly agrees, while Rachel’s opinion isn’t asked. After the hastily arranged wedding, David and Rachel return to the farm, where Rachel must struggle with the harshness of frontier life, her step-son’s hostility, and her husband’s indifference. Matters change abruptly, however, when Jim Fairways turns up without warning and invites himself for a visit. With growing resentment, David watches Jim’s attentions to Rachel, and her blossoming under them – and another romantic triangle begins to form.... Rachel And The Stranger is a hard film to categorise. It isn’t a western, although it climaxes with an Indian raid. It isn’t a romance, since its central couple spend most of the film oblivious to one another. It certainly isn’t an action film, since most of its “drama” involves three people running a farm. It isn’t even historical in the usual sense, never getting away from the day-to-day life of the frontiersman-farmer, whatever might be going on in the bigger world. It does, however, draw an absorbing picture of the hard realities of the pioneer life: the quiet courage of those undertaking it; the bitter isolation of it; and the pragmatism needed to survive it. When David rides into town after numerous months, the parson greets him with an inquiry after his wife; by the end of the conversation, he’s arranging a second marriage for him. Rachel And The Stranger is perhaps most interesting in its examination of the eternal question of “what women want” – or rather, of what, in dangerous times, constitutes a desirable husband. The screenplay stresses the intelligence of both Rachel and her predecessor, then has both women make the same romantic choice: the unimaginative but dependable David over the attractive and insightful but footloose Jim. The film is most thoughtful in its handling of David. There is a certain ironic distance kept – the screenplay is entirely in sympathy with Rachel’s growing exasperation at David’s obtuseness – but it isn’t unkind, making it clear that most of his myopia stems from the simple fact that he is still mourning his wife, and that his unnecessarily brusque treatment of Rachel is due not to any innate unkindness, but from an involuntary resentment of her simply for being a woman, but not the right woman. (There’s a wonderful moment when David comes suddenly upon Rachel with her hair down and looking quite stunning. He eyes her for a moment and then says crossly, “You sure do have a lot of hair.” We infer that the late Mrs Harvey kept hers cropped.) Having firmly established David’s indifference to Rachel, the film allows itself a little discreet fun on the dreaded subject of s-e-x. After outlining Rachel’s duties with respect to the farm and the boy, David adds that there will be “a few other things”. “Figured there would be,” responds Rachel grimly, gritting her teeth – only to have the oblivious David start talking about his late wife’s flower garden and her plans for paving stones. All this changes when Jim Fairways turns up out of the blue and, in effect, starts courting Rachel under David’s very nose – and the increasingly indignant David finds himself looking at her through Jim’s eyes. All three of this film’s stars were at the top of their game here. Loretta Young, gorgeous in colour, was fresh off her Oscar for The Farmer’s Daughter, while Robert Mitchum had, over the preceding two years, earned his stardom with a series of strong performances. William Holden, at this time still making his reputation and two years away from his break-out performance in Sunset Boulevard, nevertheless holds his own against his high-powered co-stars with a shaded performance that manages to make David as sympathetic as he is frustrating.

King Solomon’s Mines (1937)

In Africa, the eternally optimistic treasure-hunting Irishman Patrick O’Brien (Arthur Sinclair) and his loyal and loving daughter, Kathleen (Anna Lee), finally admit defeat and decide to head home to Ireland. Through some quick talking, they manage to secure transport part of the way to the coast with hunter and explorer Allan Quatermain (Cedric Hardwicke). On the way, they encounter another oxen train. With it is a mysterious native, Umbopa (Paul Robeson), while inside the wagon lies a dying man, who speaks feverishly of the fabulous treasure of King Solomon’s Mines. O’Brien’s imagination is immediately fired, and he determines to seek this treasure, but also to leave Kathy with Quatermain, who promises to escort her safely to town. Discovering her father’s departure, the frantic Kathy pleads with Quatermain to go after him, but Quatermain refuses, explaining that he must return to town to meet Sir Henry Curtis (John Loder) and his friend, Commander Good (Roland Young), who have hired him to take them hunting. Determined to go after her father, Kathy tricks Sir Henry into giving orders for his expedition’s wagons to “go on ahead” in the direction she wants. Realising the deception, Quatermain, Sir Henry and the Commander go after Kathy, finding her and the wagons in charge of the enigmatic Umbopa. When Kathy declares her intention of going on regardless, the men capitulate and agree to go with her. A perilous and near fatal journey across the desert follows, while beyond the desert lies a land of mountains and a tribe ruled by terror and violence.... This is a brisk and enjoyable version of H. Rider Haggard’s venerable tale. There has been some tampering with the text, of course – there’s no white girl along in the book, and the person the expedition is looking for is Sir Henry’s brother – but otherwise it follows the novel with reasonable accuracy. It certainly reproduces all the expected set-pieces: the journey across the desert, the revelation of Umbopa’s true identity and the war that follows, and the discovery of the not-so-mythical Mines. This adaptation is, in its way, rather subversive, inasmuch as the white woman and the black man spend much of their time conspiring together and rebelling against the white male authority figures – and not only are they not punished for it, they are both ultimately rewarded! Paul Robeson – who, remarkably, was top-billed – is believably regal as Umbopa (and yes, he sings); Anna Lee makes a likeably feisty heroine, as usual; and Cedric Hardwicke is an acerbic Quatermain. The two that everyone remembers, however, are Robert Adams as the psychotic usurper, Twala, and Sydney Fairbrother as Gagool, the terrifying witch-hag who “sniffs out” the enemies of the king.

Hitler’s Children (1943)

In pre-war Germany, Professor “Nicky” Nichols (Kent Smith) runs the American Colony School, which is next door to a German school. To Nicky’s growing worry, his students and the German youth fall ever more frequently into fights. Particularly hostile – at least at first – are the German boy Karl Bruner (Tim Holt) and the American girl Anna Miller (Bonita Granville). Attracted to each other against their will, the two become friends and spend much of their time together; but it is not long before their ideological differences drive them apart. Years later, while Anna is working as a teacher at the school, she is claimed by the Nazis as a German citizen by birth, despite her American breeding, and sent to an indoctrination camp. As Nicky works feverishly to win her release, he discovers to his horror that Karl is now a Gestapo officer. Reminded of his past, Karl must fight his feelings for Anna, while the girl’s rebellion against Nazism puts her life in dire danger.... It’s hard to know how to react to these mid-war propaganda pieces. On one hand, we know now that the various horrors depicted are not only true, but grossly understated. On the other, such films still come across as uncomfortably exploitative and, somehow, dishonest. It’s probably the selective vision that makes them seem this way: Hitler’s Children is desperately concerned for the American Anna, but hasn’t too many thoughts to spare for the “undesirables” – non-Germans – taken at the same time as her. Concentration camps rate a mention only in passing – at this time, American films were still propagating the notion that these were just a more severe kind of labour camp – while the J-word is never used, of course. Another problem is the indiscriminate nature of the film’s moral outrage: it is just as horrified by the thought of a girl having an illegitimate baby as it is by a state-run program of enforced sterilisation as punishment for “incorrect political thought”. The plot, such as it is, is undermined by its own contrivances. Why on earth Anna’s German-born parents, safe in New York, don’t get her the hell out of there years earlier is a mystery that is never addressed. Nor is Karl’s own American birth, which is brought up at the beginning, ever mentioned again: given the wavering of his commitment to Nazism, you’d think his superiors would be using this “flaw” as a stick to beat him with. The film’s ending is also absurd, but absurd in a way very popular with screenwriters of the time (see This Land Is Mine for another example of it). Tim Holt and Bonita Granville are quite good as the film’s Romeo and Juliet. The ubiquitous Kent Smith has another thankless “everyman” role; Otto Kruger really lays it on as Karl’s Gestapo boss; and H.B. Warner has a moving cameo as a Christian bishop who makes a fatal stand. Made for only $200,000, Hitler’s Children was a surprise smash hit for RKO, grossing well over $3,000,000. (Just to put that in context – it out-grossed King Kong!!)

Yesterday’s Target (1996)

Three amnesiacs find themselves targeted by two different covert organisations. The Company, led by Miles Holden (Malcolm McDowell), uses the psychic Winstrom (LeVar Burton) to locate and track the three, while the president of The Foundation, Aaron Winfield (Richard Herd), is similarly guided by a young near-mute telepath called Roland (David Netter). While working at his cleaning job, Paul Harper (Daniel Harper) is approached by Winfield, who tries to warn him that he is in danger. Harper brushes this aside, but soon after is attacked by Holden’s goons, and while defending himself discovers that he is possessed of tremendous telekinetic abilities. Harper’s injuries land him in the hospital, where an x-ray reveals that he has a strange metal object embedded in his leg. Meeting up with Winfield, Harper learns to his disbelief that he is a time-traveller, sent back from 2025 on a vital mission; a mission left undone due to the amnesia brought on by the time transfer. As he struggles with this knowledge, Harper’s memory begins to return in flashes as he recalls a future of violence and persecution, but also the woman who for three years he had forgotten: his wife, Jessica (Stacey Haiduk). Harper discovers that the travellers’ mission was two-fold: to prevent the formation of The Company, but also to remove Aaron Whitfield from the leadership of The Foundation – even if they have to kill him to do it. The issuer of these orders? Aaron Whitfield.... Yesterday’s Target is a fair little science fiction offering whose ambitions are bigger than its budget – and also of the abilities of those trying to realise them. Original it is not; it pinches ideas from all manner of sources; but at least it tries to do something interesting with its pilfering. It is revealed that the three time-travellers, each of whom possesses some extraordinary mental power, are part of a group of people who represent the next stage in human evolution, and who have just begun to be born at the time of the story’s main setting after their mothers undergo eleven month pregnancies. (Like Larry Cohen’s It’s Alive movies, Yesterday’s Target suggests that Homo sapiens won’t exactly be thrilled to meet his successor.) The old time-travel paradox chestnut is always welcome, and they play their cards well enough here to hold the interest (even though the punchline to this plot thread is the revelation of a blood relationship between two of the characters that should, truthfully, have had both of them shrieking in horrified denial). The other thing that holds the viewer’s attention, although not in a good way, is star Daniel Baldwin, whose resemblance to the latter-day Steven Seagal is quite terrifying: the baggy clothing unsuccessfully concealing a weight gain, the little piggy eyes, the bandanna, the carefully staged action scenes....it’s all here! (Unsurprisingly, the sex scene, when it happens, is shot in tasteful silhouette; and hilariously, when Paul and Jessica are woken in the middle of the night in response to an emergency, they both emerge from their bedroom fully dressed!) Trevor Goddard has a small supporting role in this as one of Holden’s goons, and once again the poor SOB is stuck doing an accent; this time he seems – when he remembers – to be trying to sound English. The ending of Yesterday’s Target is oddly indeterminate, in a way that suggests this was shot as the pilot episode to a series – although it’s hard to know where the story could have gone from here.

Caught (1949)

Max Ophüls’ ode to the horrors of wish fulfilment might as well have been called Be Careful What You Pray For. Working girl Leonora Eames (Barbara Bel Geddes) marries multi-millionaire Smith Ohlrig (Robert Ryan) after a whirlwind courtship, not knowing that the dangerously unstable Ohlrig proposed merely as a way of lashing out at his psychiatrist (Art Smith), who unwisely begged him to leave the girl alone. The newspapers proclaim Leonora’s “Cinderella romance”, but a year later the girl is a near-prisoner in Ohlrig’s cavernous mansion, her life totally controlled by her erratic husband’s whims. After a final violent argument, Leonora walks out, finding a tiny apartment and a job as receptionist to two doctors. Dr Larry Quinada (James Mason) finds Leonora’s inexperience and disorganisation aggravating but, as a paediatrician, appreciates her way with children. Leonora’s new life is disrupted when Ohlrig reappears, promising reformation and begging her to return to him. She does – only to have it made bitterly clear that nothing whatsoever has changed. Returning to her working life, Leonora begins to take pleasure in her job, making herself as useful as possible to both doctors. Dr Quinada begins to take a romantic interest in her, while Leonora herself finds herself bitterly torn when she realises that she is carrying her husband’s child.... Caught is never quite the film it should have been; it never seems quite to make up its mind how far we should blame Leonora for her situation; but it certainly doesn’t consider her faultless, going so far as to have Larry Quinada, the film’s voice of reason, call her bluff. “No, you didn’t,” he retorts when she insists she loved her husband. “You thought it was wrong to marry for money, therefore you told yourself you loved him.” Melodramatic this might be – and quite straight-faced about it, as Ophüls usually was – but its portrait of domestic misery is deeply unsettling, as Leonora’s dreams of “marrying well” shrivel into an airlocked existence as the mink-draped puppet of her control-freak husband. As Smith Ohlrig, Robert Ryan again proves himself one of filmdom’s most terrifying – because most believable – psychopaths, giving us a man destructive by instinct; a man both neurotically acquisitive and neurotically insecure; a man who suffers a psychosomatically-induced heart attack any time he doesn’t get his own way. Ohlrig has no hesitation in using Leonora’s pregnancy as a weapon. On the contrary, he revels in it, offering her a divorce in exchange for custody of the child. “I can’t do that,” moans Leonora. “I know you can’t,” grins her husband. (The character of Ohlrig was, evidently, intended as Max Ophüls’ revenge upon Howard Hughes, in whose employ he spent a miserable period upon first reaching Hollywood.) The third point of the uneasy triangle gave James Mason his first American role, and he fleshes out what could have been a typical movie cardboard cut-out hero role into something rougher and more interesting. Quinada is a man of wealthy background devoting himself to poor patients, but refreshingly, he’s certainly no saint: at one point he becomes so annoyed by a mother’s hypochondria-by-proxy, he almost overlooks her daughter’s serious illness; while when his partner, Dr Hoffman (Frank Ferguson, in a lovely supporting performance), diagnoses Leonora’s pregnancy, he immediately assumes that Quinada is the father. It is the emotional complexity of Caught that separates it from its lesser brethren. Indeed, extraordinarily for its era, it manages to create a situation where a woman divorcing one man and marrying another while carrying the first man’s child is the morally correct thing to do. Alas, the film loses its nerve before the end – or perhaps the studio interfered. In either case, the actual ending of the film is thoroughly disturbing – a piece of absolutely cold-blooded practicality, the likes of which we rarely see....and that’s probably a good thing.

The Mean Season (1985)

On the verge of quitting his job to become editor of a small-town newspaper, Miami Post journalist Malcolm Anderson (Kurt Russell) is sent to cover the murder of a young woman. Anderson’s reports draw the attention of the killer, who begins to contact him by phone, telling him, among other things, that there will be four more murders. As the killer makes good on his threats, public attention begins to shift to Anderson himself, who suddenly finds that his exclusive reports have made him a celebrity. The killer, furious at losing the public eye, contacts Anderson again and tells him he knows a way to get back all the attention he craves.... The Mean Season is half a very good film. Its set-up is fascinating, and about as morally convoluted as you could possibly desire, as Malcolm Anderson moves from writing the news to making the news to being the news. It is also bitterly critical of the tactics employed by certain sections of the media in pursuit of “the news”. The scene that lingers most when all is said and done is that in which Malcolm and his photographer contrive to be with the victim’s mother when the phone-call confirming her daughter’s fate comes: the photographer carefully times his shot to catch the woman at the height of her grief, while Malcolm takes advantage of the moment to steal snapshots of the girl from the family album. Our hero, ladies and gentlemen! But once the killer steps out of the shadows, the film deteriorates into just one more generic thriller, and one, moreover, that never bothers to tie up any of its loose ends. It is also far too dependent on the courageous – read, stupid – behaviour of its characters. Well, maybe that’s unfair, I don’t know. People in films always do that “If I change my routine, the killer has won!” thing, when in the same situation, I know I’d be barricaded behind about sixteen locked doors and demanding police protection. I guess I’m just a coward. Then again, the people who defiantly go about their normal business always seem to end up kidnapped and/or dead, so maybe there’s something to be said for cowardice, after all. Kurt Russell is very good as Malcolm Anderson, not afraid to be unsympathetic; but as his girlfriend, Christine, Mariel Hemingway is all too obviously just there to end up kidnapped and/or dead. A young Andy Garcia is one of the cops on the case. The film was shot in Florida, and uses its locations well.

Hotel Reserve (1944)

In 1938, French-Austrian medical student Peter Vardassy (James Mason) is on the verge of obtaining his French citizenship when his holiday is abruptly interrupted, and he finds himself accused of espionage. The bewildered Peter is interrogated by intelligence officer Michel Beghin (Julien Mitchell), and learns to his horror that on the roll of film he put in for development were photographs of French military installations. Peter is initially relieved to learn that he is not the real suspect, but that, as Beghin knows, his camera was somehow swapped with that of the real spy, who is one of Peter’s fellow guests at the Hotel Reserve. However, Peter’s relief turns to dismay when Beghin compels him to act as his inside man, threatening him with deportation back to Austria if he refuses.... Based on an Eric Ambler novel, Hotel Reserve is an uneven effort that can’t quite make up its mind whether it’s a light-hearted or serious spy thriller, and vacillates fatally between the two attitudes. There’s certainly nothing funny about the threat used by Beghin to coerce Peter into co-operation – “First jail, then deportation, then the Gestapo” – or about the subplot involving a hotel guest who turns out to be living under a false name; but for the most part this is a fairly trivial exercise following Peter’s blundering efforts at playing spy, and the “colourful characters” who make up the rest of the hotel’s guests. Moreover, the real spy turns out to be exactly who you expect, and the ending is one of those annoying set-ups where there are a dozen professionals around, but only the amateur hero manages to catch the bad guy.

Highly Dangerous (1950)

It was a big week here for Eric Ambler. British entomologist Frances Grey (Margaret Lockwood) is contacted by government official Hedgerley (Naunton Wayne) and asked to undertake a dangerous mission into Eastern Europe, where reports indicate a new form of biological warfare is under development, using a particular strain of insect. After some hesitation, Frances agrees, and sets out posing as a travel agent investigating tourism in the area. Almost immediately, however, she attracts the attention of a man who turns out to be Commandant Anton Razinski (Marius Goring), the head of the local police. When Frances reaches her destination, her contact is not there to meet her; unbeknownst to Frances, he has already met a grim fate. Instead, Frances falls in with American reporter Bill Casey (Dane Clark), who has been banished to this gloomy region by his editor as punishment for a politically unwise article. Recognising Frances from a magazine article, Bill decides, to her frustration, to stick with her, scenting a story that will put an end to his exile. Things take a bleak turn when Frances falls into the hands of Commandant Razinski and must suffer through imprisonment and interrogation. Having stood up to the treatment, Frances responds not by running away with her tail between her legs, but by swearing that she will carry out her mission – to the horror of the bewildered Bill, who rapidly finds himself in way over his head.... Yet another spy thriller about amateurs outdoing a literal army of professionals, Highly Dangerous is ridiculous, of course, but still quite a lot of fun – not least because, let’s face it, how many films do you know where the hero is a female entomologist?? Anyway, we’re certainly not meant to take any of this seriously. The film signals its intentions early on by treating us to an episode of a radio serial to which Frances’s young nephew is devoted, featuring the adventures of “Frank Conway and his sidekick, Rusty”....and later has Frances masquerading under the name “Frances Conway”. (Bill is understandably puzzled when she starts calling him “Rusty”.) Margaret Lockwood and Dane Clark make a likeable couple, while Marious Goring is both sinister and charming as Razinski. Naunton Wayne and Wilfrid Hyde-White are the British officials mixed up in all this, both of them so very proper in the midst of all the scheming and violence. Highly Dangerous is worth watching purely for the sequence in which Frances, having withstood interrogation, is drugged – presumably with sodium pentathol – in order, as Razinski puts it, “to plum the very depths of your mind”....only for the startled police officer to discover that the depths of a female entomologist’s mind is a very scary place indeed....

The Company She Keeps (1951)

Convicted forger and thief Mildred Lynch (Jane Greer) is paroled and sent to start a new life in Los Angeles under the care of her parole officer, Joan Wilburn (Lizabeth Scott). Changing her name to “Diane Stuart”, Mildred is given a job and a small apartment, but chafes against the numerous restrictions of her life, while remaining hostile and suspicious of Joan and her efforts to help. The patient Joan persists, regretfully declining a proposal of marriage from businessman Larry Collins (Dennis O’Keefe) in order to fulfil her professional obligations. Mildred and Larry later encounter one another and go out together; but what begins as act of calculation on both their parts becomes something else as they begin to develop feelings for one another. Mildred continues to struggle with her readjustment to society, beset on all sides by opportunities to lapse back into a life of crime, all the while living in fear that Larry will discover the truth about her.... After the success of Caged the year before, which revealed to shocked eyes the truth about female convicts and their brutalisation by the prison system – albeit in a way that looks hilariously polite these days – director John Cromwell took his concerns a step further with this drama about the difficulties and temptations of parolees. Like its predecessor, The Company She Keeps is rather too neat and clean to be convincing, but it isn’t without interest. Where it scores points is in not making Mildred some kind of injured innocent. Yes, she’s had a lousy life, which has left her unable to trust anyone; but she’s also weak, incapable of taking responsibility for her actions, and both a little lazy and a little greedy: her crimes are those of someone unwilling to wait and work for what she wants. Her growing love for Larry Collins is probably the first sincere emotion of her life, and the one thing capable of really reforming her – but can she keep out of trouble in the meantime? In one beautifully staged scene, Mildred, sick of the cheap clothes that are all she can afford, is very nearly tempted into shoplifting herself a new outfit (not least because of her realisation of how damn easy it would be), but ultimately wins the battle against herself. Mildred may not always be likeable, but she is always understandable....even in the rotten way she treats Joan. This film provides an interestingly different role for one of the era’s best bad girls, Lizabeth Scott (when I first read its synopsis, I assumed that she was the convict), as the too-good-to-be true Joan. Well....perhaps I should try to be a little less cynical here, and say that Joan is the parole officer that everyone would love to have. Typically of when this film was made, though, Joan’s dedication and professionalism do her no good at all. The ultimate message here is that any woman who hesitates for so much as a fraction of a second to accept a proposal of marriage can expect to have her man off chasing another woman before the word “no” is well out of her mouth....and she will be the one who’s in the wrong. The Company She Keeps holds an extra point of interest these days thanks to a sequence towards the end set at Union Station, where Mildred and Larry are seated next to a harassed woman with two children, a young boy and a baby. These three are played, respectively, by Dorothy Dean Bridges, Beau Bridges and Jeff Bridges – the latter making his film debut at the ripe old age of nine months! Director John Cromwell also appears, uncredited, as a police officer.

Best Of The Badmen (1951)

Yet another take on America’s most notorious outlaws. In the aftermath of the Civil War, Union officer Jeff Clanton (Robert Ryan) and his men corner the remnants of Quantrill’s Raiders, a gang that includes both Frank (Tom Tyler) and Jesse James (Lawrence Tierney), and the three Younger brothers (Bruce Cabot, Robert J. Wilke, Jack Buetel). Clanton offers the outlaws immunity in exchange for an Oath of Allegiance. Left with little option, they agree, over the violent objections of Curly Ringo (John Archer), who despises Clanton as a “traitorous” Missourian. Matthew Fowler (Robert Preston), the head of a “detective agency” that has strongarmed its way into de facto government of the region, plans to turn the outlaws in for the reward – and the notoriety – but Clanton defies him, administering the Oath and releasing the former outlaws. Clanton then learns that his discharge was granted some time back – and that the Oath he administered was therefore invalid, and his shooting of one of Fowler’s deputies in the violent struggle, murder. Rapidly tried and convicted, Clanton is helped to escape from jail by a mysterious woman who turns out to be Fowler’s estranged wife, Lily (Claire Trevor). Now a wanted outlaw himself, Clanton joins up with the men he released, and soon a new “Quantrill’s Raiders” is waging war on Matthew Fowler and his organisation.... Best Of The Badmen is only fair as a western, but its certainly worth watching for its remarkable cast: besides those already mentioned, it also stars Walter Brennan and Barton MacLane. The film suffers, unusually, from a bit too much going on, and it loses focus over the course of its story. Robert Preston makes a thoroughly hateful villain, though – even if they do chicken out and pull that thing where he is accidentally killed by one of his own men during the climactic fight with Jeff Clanton. Jack Buetel shows that despite the evidence of The Outlaw, he can act; while Walter Brennan steals the show – surprise! – as a “collector of bridles”....which sometimes just happen to have horses attached. Poor Claire Trevor takes an awful beating, as usual, although the script does grant her a happy ending. Of a sort. And only if you have more faith in the justice system of the time than this film gives us any reason to.

Bulldog Drummond’s Secret Police (1939)

In preparation for his marriage to Phyllis Clavering (Heather Angel), Hugh Drummond (John Howard) moves out of Rockingham Lodge and into The Towers, which hasn’t been open for the past twenty years. An unexpected visitor, historian Professor Downey (Forrester Harvey), brings even more unexpected news: that somewhere within The Towers is concealed a treasure that has lain hidden since the days of Charles I. So saying, he reveals a diary written by one of Drummond’s ancestors, which describes some of the hidden passages below the house, and in cipher, the whereabouts of the treasure. In the face of Phyllis’s dismay, Drummond tries not to involve himself in these matters, but in the middle of the night he is attacked by someone who steals the diary from him. Professor Downie, however, announces that he has broken the cipher – but before he can speak further, he is murdered.... This next entry in the Bulldog Drummond series is a relatively amiable little film – the depressing murder of absent-minded historian Downie aside – which sees the team embarked upon a literal treasure hunt within the bowels of Hugh Drummond’s ancestral home, wherein tunnels, whirlpools and descending spikes abound. As for the bad guy, I don’t think I’m giving anything away by saying – yes, it’s true! – the butler done it. For one thing, there’s no-one else it could be; for another, said bad guy, Henry Seaton aka Albert Boulton the new butler, is played by one “Leo Carroll” – he hadn’t yet acquired his “G”. H.B. Warner is this episode’s Colonel Nielson, Reginald Denny and E.E. Clive are both back, and so is Elizabeth Patterson as Aunt Blanche – who for the first time in the series addresses Tenny by his real name, “Tennison”. By this stage, the strain of the series was beginning to show. The film isn’t even an hour long, and still has to be padded out to a ridiculous degree: Drummond has an extended dream sequence, in which he recalls all his previous adventures – or all his excuses not to get married, however you prefer to look at it. And no, they’re still not married by end of this – which concludes with Phyllis walking out and leaving for Africa to hunt lions with her auntie: “It’s safer!” If only I thought she meant it! (Uh, the walking out, that is; not the lions....) 

The Return Of Doctor X (1939)

“Interesting stuff, blood.” Rookie reporter Walt Garrett (Wayne Morris) is sent to interview stage actress Angela Merrova (Lya Lys), but finds her stabbed to death – although strangely, there is no blood. Intent on establishing himself professionally, Garrett breaks the story in his paper before alerting the police, and when they do belatedly investigate, the body is gone. Not just gone: the next morning, Garrett and his editor are confronted by an ill-looking but definitely alive Angela Merrova, who threatens a lawsuit. Swiftly out of a job, the mystified Garrett takes his case to his friend, Dr Mike Rhodes (Dennis Morgan). Their investigation leads them to a second murder, where the blood at the scene isn’t blood, and to researcher Dr Flegg, whose oddly pallid assistant bears a strange resemblance to a man executed for murder some years previously.... The Return Of Doctor X gets badmouthed a lot, but I find it both hilarious and fascinating: fascinating, because of what it reveals of the state of medicine at the time, with blood groups “1, 2, 3 and 4”, and professional blood donors, on call to be present during operations, because no-one had figured out how to store blood for transfusion. And hilarious because of, well, everything else! Like all Warners horror films, this one is acutely uncomfortable about being a horror film in the first place, and for the most part plays out like a straight mystery, with a puzzled reporter trying to make sense of things. But the reveal, when it comes, makes it all worthwhile: mad science, artificial blood, the living dead, and Humphrey Bogart in his only horror role! And never, my friends, never will you see any actor more uncomfortable in a part than Bogart is here, with his deathly (heh!) white face, a skunk stripe in his hair, and a bunny rabbit to cuddle. John Litel is the mad scientist (doctor, actually) who brings Marshall Quesne, aka Maurice Xavier, aka Doctor X, back from the dead so that he can have access to his brilliant scientific theories....and never mind that in life, those theories led Doctor X to starve a number of children to death! Despite its title, The Return Of Doctor X has no connection to Doctor X. On the other hand, in his makeup here, Humphrey Bogart bears an unmistakeable resemblance to one of the characters in the serial Dick Tracy, made two years earlier. Which brings us to....

Dick Tracy (1937, 15 episodes)

A syndicate led by The Spider – also known as “The Lame One” because of his clubfoot – unleashes a crime wave. Federal Agent Dick Tracy (Ralph Byrd) leads the investigation, all the while suffering due to the mysterious disappearance of his younger brother, Gordon (Richard Beach, Carleton Young). Unbeknownst to Dick, Gordon has been captured by The Spider, who has his assistant, Moloch (John Picorri), perform brain surgery upon him, in order to remove his sense of right and wrong. The surgery leaves Gordon so disfigured, his brother is later unable to recognise him. The Spider and his gang, Gordon included, continue their reign of terror, only to be thwarted at every turn by Tracy and his assistants.... Dick Tracy is probably one of the most famous of all serials, but truthfully, it isn’t very good. Part of the problem – and this is something that, I am learning, afflicts a great many serials – is that it cannot live up to its absolutely frenetic opening episode, which features a car crash, a kidnapping, two murders, some brain surgery, an adoption, a puppet-show, the revelation of “The Wing”, a flying machine capable of reaching the stratosphere, and an attempt to destroy the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, which was completed the year before this was made. After this, the serial settles down into a pattern of one attempted heist, one thwarting per episode. (Although we never do find out what, if anything, all this is supposed to achieve.) Weaknesses and annoyances abound. The good guys discover three of the bad guys’ hang-outs during the early episodes – an abandoned power station, a waterfront dive and a particular dock – but not only do they never raid or guard them, they are astonished when they discover during the later episodes that they’re still hanging out there! In addition, this serial inflicts upon us one of the most odious of all Odious Comic Reliefs, in the shape of federal agent [*cough*] Mike McGurk (Smiley Burnette), who is moronic and unfunny to a squirm-with-embarrassment degree. (Oh – and don’t even ask who “Oscar and Elmer” are. Trust me, you don’t want to know.) Fortunately, Tracy does get some help from “Junior” (Lee Van Atta), the orphan he picks up rather casually in the first episode – adoption was apparently a lot simpler back then – and from Gwen Andrews (Kay Hughes), who is Tracy’s lab assistant, secretary, telephonist and all-purpose girl Friday, as circumstances dictate. In fact, Gwen gets the serial’s most exquisite moment when, upon one of the bad guys leaving an incriminating footprint behind, she whips a test tube out of her pocket, performs “a test” and announces, “It’s sesame oil!” There are some other enjoyable things here, like the enemy agent who chooses to travel inconspicuously – by dirigible – and The Wing, which is simply fabulous. But the best thing about Dick Tracy is undoubtedly Moloch, who in a piece of efficiency rarely witnessed, is both the mad doctor and the hunchbacked assistant! John Picorri, with his perpetual grinning and tittering and hand-rubbing and eye-rolling, and with a black cat clutched in his arms all the while he isn’t operating – or rubbing his hands – is just marvellous in the role. It is his operation – “a simple altering of the glands” – that makes the newly amoral Gordon Tracy his brother’s implacable enemy; although we never do find out why a brain operation should leave you with a scar on your cheek and a skunk stripe in your hair. On the side of light, Ralph Byrd’s performance as Dick Tracy is perhaps best described as enthusiastic. He runs, he jumps, he dodges, he leaps, he waves his arms around – whether it is called for or not. Indeed, at times he begins to channel John Cleese. Unfortunately – and now, halfway through the same year’s SOS Coast Guard, I can state this with some authority – Ralph Byrd is one of the worst fake fighters ever, simply flailing his arms about and never bothering to close his fists. After the first one hundred and sixty two fist fights, it does get a bit ridiculous....