AND YOU CALL YOURSELF A SCIENTIST!

Criminal “Gruesome” (Boris Karloff) is no sooner out of jail – for “good behaviour”, heh, heh, heh – than he has his pal “Melody” Fiske (Tony Barrett) cut him in on a big deal. The following day, making a phone-call while at the bank, Tess Trueheart (Anne Gwynne) witnesses an astonishing thing: the bank fills with gas from a small bomb, and everyone there becomes completely immobilised. While they are so, Tess, protected by her sealed phone-booth, watches in disbelief as two men – who have not bothered to disguise themselves – rob the bank. Tess manages to call Dick Tracy (Ralph Byrd), but the robbers get away, with Melody killing a guard outside in the process. A police chemist analyses the remains of the bomb and declares its content to be an unknown substance. Tracy suggests taking it to Dr A. Tomic (Milton Parsons), a university physicist who earlier contacted the police seeking protection after what he believed to be two attempts on his life. However, when Tracy reaches the university, he learns that Dr Tomic has disappeared.... Now, this is more like it! Poor Morgan Conway: public opinion was allowed to have its way in 1947, and Conway was replaced as Dick Tracy by Ralph Byrd, who had played him in half a dozen hugely successful serials during the 1930s. Byrd made two Tracy films during the year. The second of them, Dick Tracy Meets Gruesome, features Boris Karloff as the titular criminal, and his mere presence lifts this modest little film to a whole different level of fun; there is something quite irresistible about listening to Boris – in that voice – spit dialogue that sounds like it was written for Bogart about ten years earlier. Ralph Byrd was physically a much better choice for the role of Dick Tracy, and the script makes more of an effort to conjure up the Gould universe....although this time the inevitable downtown dive isn’t “The Dripping Dagger”, it’s “The Hangmans Knot”. (You can tell it’s owned by criminals: no apostrophe!!) There is less comedy than usual, too, and less side-kickery; Tess is useful as the witness, then isn’t seen much more. The fate of several of the characters, and the near fate of Tracy, is also, well, pretty gruesome. But of course, what endears this film to me is the SCIENCE!! Four scientists amongst the major characters – one of them, played by Skelton Knaggs (!!), is “a disgraced doctor of science”, no less – mysterious experimental gases, physicists doing chemistry, guinea-pigs in cages everywhere....oh, be still, my heart! (Actually, I don’t want to say too much about this aspect of the film because, frankly, there is enough wacky science here, and enough wacky scientists, possibly to warrant a full-length review at a later date.) And as usual, the devil is in the details; that is, in the supporting cast. Milton Parsons – yay! – is back again as Dr Tomic. Skelton Knaggs gets promoted into one of his most substantial roles, and actually manages to steal a scene or two from Boris. Those with sharp eyes will also spot Jason Robards Sr as a bank official, future Tarzan Lex Barker as an ambulance driver, and future Hideous Sun Demon Robert Clarke as the police chemist.

Quote: “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear we were doing business with Boris Karloff.”

Gem courier Lester Abbott (Trevor Bardette) is confronted in his liner stateroom by Harry Lake, aka “Cueball” (Dick Wessel), who demands the diamonds Abbott is carrying – and strangles him when he fights back.... Dick Tracy (Morgan Conway) finds on the body a card that leads him to a local jeweller’s business, where he meets proprietor Jules Sparkle (Harry Chesire) and becomes suspicious of Sparkle’s cutter, Simon Little (Byron Foulger), and his secretary, Mona Clyde (Rita Corday). These two are in fact part of a conspiracy with antique dealer Percival Priceless (Douglas Walton). The three are using Cueball to get the diamonds, imagining they can buy him off cheaply. However, Cueball has come to suspect that his collaborators are trying to double-cross him; and when he gets double-crossed, he gets mad; and when he gets mad, well.... This second entry in the Dick Tracy series, which was directed by Gordon Douglas, is not as good a film as Dick Tracy, but it is a better representation of the bizarre Chester Gould universe, with characters like – groan – “Jules Sparkle”, and much of the action taking place at the delightfully named “Dripping Dagger”, a dive owned by one “Filthy Flora” (Esther Howard). Cueball himself is about as sharp as the anatomical feature he’s named for – his idea of a cunning disguise is to put on a hat – but his penchant for solving every difficulty by whipping the leather band off that hat at least ensures that there’s plenty of action. Viewers should be warned, though, that this time around Tracy has no less than four sidekicks: Pat Patton, who gets knocked unconscious about eight times (it isn’t nearly enough); Tess Trueheart, who after spending the entire previous film trying to get Tracy to dinner, spends all of this one trying to get him to attend his own birthday party, ha-ha; Junior, here chiefly so that his buddy from next door can provide Tracy with a vital clue (and what a clue!); and Vitamin Flintheart, who actually does something useful in between popping vitamin pills. (Actually, I was confused by this characterisation. I’m certainly no expert on the Dick Tracy strip, but wasn’t Flintheart a Villain? Or at least, someone of Dubious Character?) To be fair, Tess is a bit less useless here, offering herself as bait for the jewel thieves when Tracy needs “a society dame” and is unable to find a policewoman without a Brooklyn accent. As usual, most of the fun comes via the supporting cast. Someone must have agreed with me about the contributions of Milton Parsons and Trevor Bardette being a highlight of Dick Tracy, because they are both back in action here – however briefly that may be true in the case of the latter. The astonishing Skelton Knaggs is also featured. Finally, those of you for whom the highlight of Plan 9 From Outer Space is the declaration, “Inspector Clay’s dead – murdered – and someone’s responsible!” will probably get a kick out of Tracy’s brilliant detective work upon examining the first corpse: “Well, it’s quite obviously death by strangulation.” Dick Tracy Vs Cueball was included in the Medveds’ “50 Worst Movies Of All Time”, which is patently absurd.

Made in two parts for Italian TV and directed by Lamberto Bava, Fantaghirò is the story of the unwanted third daughter – or should that be third unwanted daughter? – of the ruler of a country (Mario Adorf) that has been at war with its neighbouring realm so long, no-one can remember what the bloody conflict was about in the first place. Growing into womanhood in her father’s stronghold, Fantaghirò lives in a state of constant rebellion against the restrictions imposed upon her sex, and finally runs away to the woods, where she meets a mysterious, shape-shifting being (Angela Molina, in various guises), learns to talk to the animals and trees, and becomes an adept at sword-fighting. Meanwhile, the old king of the neighbouring country dies, and the new King Romualdo (Kim Rossi Stuart) decides to put an end to the war by issuing a challenge to a one-on-one duel, the victor’s country to be declared winner of the war. On his way to the next kingdom, Romualdo catches a fleeting glimpse of Fantaghirò and is instantly smitten, but is convinced by the White Witch (Molina again) that what he has seen is a wood-spirit, not a human girl. Receiving Romualdo’s challenge but lacking a son, the old king finally allows himself to be persuaded to send Fantaghirò to meet it. She, disguised as a knight, rides enthusiastically into battle against Romualdo, who, to his consternation, finds the eyes that have been haunting his dreams in, apparently, the face of a boy....

This Italian fairy-tale is both charming and audacious in its gender games. Poor Romualdo ends up with a serious Victor/Victoria thing going on, as he is unable to determine to his own satisfaction whether the person he is falling in love with is a boy or a girl. (In lieu of spying on Fantaghirò in the bath, Romualdo challenges her to a swimming-match, and there is an extended tease sequence as Fantaghirò must come up with reason after reason not to remove that last layer of clothing....) The lovely Alessandra Martines is a delight as Fantaghirò, who, refreshingly, is rewarded and not punished for her refusal to “behave like a woman”; and who, even when she is at length revealed to be both a girl and in love, is neither tamed nor (you should pardon the expression) emasculated. As Romualdo, Kim Rossi Stuart is perhaps a little too modern-day-pretty-boy, but his character is hearteningly progressive: he is determined to bring the war to an end, even at the cost of his own life; he genuinely doesn’t mind that the girl of his dreams can – and does – kick his ass; and when confronted by the possibility that he might be in love with another man, something he makes no attempt to conceal from his two close friends, his predominant emotion is simple bewilderment. There are plenty of enjoyable special effects on display here, and while none of them are particularly convincing, neither are they meant to be: there’s a deliberate pantomime feel to the whole enterprise. Its war kept as a distant backdrop, the story of Fantaghirò plays out in a never-never land of spirits and monsters and talking animals – most of them created by Sergio Stivaletti, never further from his bloody handiwork for the likes of Dario Argento and Michele Soavi; or, for that matter, from his other efforts for Lamberto Bava (Demoni and Demoni 2).

By the way: if you’ve ever wondered what the Italian for “uvula” is, here’s your chance to find out.

In turn of the twentieth century St Louis, Father Peter Dunne (Pat O’Brien) devotes himself to rescuing the city’s homeless boys, many of whom eke out a living selling newspapers. Before he knows where he is, Father Dunne has more than twenty boys on his hands, and must exercise all of his ingenuity to house and feed them. Meanwhile, the newspapers continue their exploitation of their young employees as a brutal circulation war escalates; while some boys simply won’t be helped.... RKO does Boys Town, only with Pat O’Brien instead of Spencer Tracy, and Darryl Hickman instead of Mickey Rooney. This was also based on a true story, so you are more or less obliged to rein in the cynicism reflex – and perhaps also to quell your knee-jerk reaction to some of the good Father’s more dubious money-raising tactics. (Did you know, for instance, that it is standard Catholic Church practice to run up huge bills you have no way of paying, and then, when the merchants ask for their money, to lay a guilt trip on them?) There is some historical interest here, in the strong-arm methods employed by the newspaper owners of the time, while the story’s denouement is, unexpectedly, a real downer. I have no idea whether the subplot concerning the fate of Matt Davis (Hickman) is true or not, but boy, oh, boy! The ultimate moral of these films seems to be, if a Catholic priest tries to help you, you’d damn well better let him.

Living under an assumed name, Boston blue blood Dick Powell tries to make it on his own as a Broadway songwriter, only to have his cover blown when he is forced to replace the “juvenile” lead of the show he’s written, who’s come down with lumbago. Outraged older brother Warren William and family attorney Guy Kibbee come to town to try and break up Powell’s budding romance with aspiring chorine Ruby Keeler, but end up being taken for a ride by the real gold-diggers, Keeler’s pals Joan Blundell and Aline MacMahon. Warners’ follow-up to the smash hit 42^nd Street has certain points over its famous predecessor (there’s less of Ruby Keeler singing, for one thing) and more than its share of bizarre and unexpected touches, like Ginger Rogers singing We’re In The Money in pig-Latin, or the fact that the Pettin' In The Park number very casually features a black couple amongst its petters; you wouldn’t get that from any studio but Warners. Also typical Warners is that this essentially frothy mixture of show tunes, cynicism and sexual innuendo proceeds to blindside its audience by climaxing in the shattering Depression era anthem, My Forgotten Man.

The Gorilla Man (1943)

During WWII, a group of British commandos carry out a daring raid in France, learning in the process German plans for an invasion of England. The leader of the men, Captain Craig Killian (John Loder), is injured in the raid, and to save time is taken to a sanatorium on the English coast. However, unknown to the authorities, the sanatorium is a front for a nest of Nazi spies headed by Dr Dorn (Paul Cavanagh) and Dr Ferris (John Abbott), along with an Englishwoman, Nurse Kruger (Mary Field), whose husband and son in Germany are being used to compel her obedience. Dr Dorn is unable to prevent Killian from passing on his information to General Devon (Lumsden Hare), but concocts an elaborate plan to discredit Killian by making it seem that his experiences have left him mentally unbalanced and violent. Soon, wherever the Captain goes, a dead body is sure to be found.... This is one weird little effort – sort of a war movie, sort of a horror movie, and sort of a suspense movie. It is supposed to be about Killian’s battle to attend a meeting of the brass at General Devon’s house – and to convince his superiors of his sanity – but it is the script’s amazingly gruesome details that linger when the film is over. Most of these come courtesy of Dr Ferris, who is both a Nazi and wanted as a “psychopathic killer” in Glasgow. Inflicted with the most unnerving pair of glasses ever, Dr Ferris has a habit of experimenting on anyone unfortunate enough to be brought to the hospital....all for “the advancement of science”, you understand. (“I see,” says Dorn, when Ferris admits to working on “nerve reflexes”, “that’s why you didn’t administer an anaesthetic.”) It is also Ferris who is responsible for the bodies left in poor Killian’s wake – “their heads almost torn from their bodies”. The really unsettling thing about all this is that it’s just a side-plot, with these particulars tossed at the viewer in the most casual way imaginable. The film’s inappropriate title, by the way, is the newspaper nickname bestowed upon Killian in reference to his extraordinary climbing abilities (he scales a near-sheer cliff in the course of the raid). Not that gorillas are known for their climbing abilities....but I guess “The Gibbon Man” didn’t give off quite the right vibe.

Hand Of Death (1976)

During the Qing Dynasty, betrayal from within their own ranks sees the disciples of the Shaolin Monastery and their master slaughtered and the few survivors scattered through the land. Yun Fei (Tan Tao-liang) is given the mission of killing the treacherous Shih Shao-feng (James Tien Chung), who has made himself master of a strategically located town and surrounded himself with both Manchu officers under the leadership of Tu Ching (Sammo Hung Kam-po) and a personal bodyguard of eight fighters, each skilled in a particular style of deadly combat. Hand Of Death is one of those films that gains importance retrospectively. It was one of the period martial arts films made early in his career by John Woo, and unites him for the only time with both Sammo Hung and Jackie Chan (who, this early in his career, is billed as Chen Yuang-long). Jackie has a supporting good guy role as a woodsman who has “played dumb” for three years while waiting for a chance to avenge his elder brother, killed by Shih’s men; while Sammo, dressed in less than flattering Manchu robes and afflicted with the scariest set of fake teeth you ever will see, is Shih’s chief flunky and a right bastard. John Woo himself plays Chang Yi, the leader of a local revolt whom Yun Fei must escort to safety. Hand Of Death is, frankly, a fairly clunky effort, particularly during the early martial arts scenes, which look more like blocking exercises than the real deal. (It doesn’t help that the print I saw is heavily overdubbed, with every arm movement, sword passage and spear thrust accompanied by thunderous WHOOOMP WHOOMP noises.) Things improve as the film goes on, thankfully, and the two major battles between Tan Tao-liang and James Tien Chung are both very enjoyable. Despite its age and setting, Hand Of Death is a typical John Woo film, with men finding redemption, women nearly non-existent, and most of the likeable characters dead by the end. For myself, the highlight of the film is when Yun Fei, having been left hanging upside-down and bound hand and foot after being beaten by Shih’s guards, manages to free himself by undoing the ropes around his feet with his teeth. Damn. I wish I had abs like that....

Invader (1996)

More than twenty years after it was sent to Mars and subsequently disappeared, a Viking 2 lander is located in the Californian desert in a highly restricted military zone. The lander is transported to an abandoned army testing facility, where NASA scientist Case Montgomery (Cotter Smith) calls in exo-biologist Dr Grazia Scott (Deidre O’Connell) to help him investigate. The two, along with Case’s NASA colleague, Michael Perkett (Leland Orser), examine the lander and determine that it has been modified, with extra housings attached to the outside. Gracia analyses the dust from the outside of the lander, and confirms that it has indeed been on Mars – and that its presence on Earth can only be the result of extraterrestrial intervention. As the scientists are struggling to come to terms with this realisation, the military arrives. Colonel Pratt (Robert Wisdom) announces that the lander is a matter of national security and that the scientists are forbidden to have any further contact with it. They respond by barricading themselves in with it. A furious Pratt orders his men to cut open the door. As Case tries to download the contents of the lander’s computer into NASA’s system, Grazia hears a noise....and something erupts from one of the housings on the lander. Grazia shrieks for the men outside not to open the door, but they take no notice; and the next moment, an alien life-form is loose within the facility.... Yes, Invader is yet another post-Alien dark-corridors-and-ducts film – but for once you shouldn’t let that put you off. Lacking a budget, a name cast, expensive special effects, impressive sets – well, lacking pretty much everything, really – the film-makers compensated as best they could by serving up – an intelligent script. No, honestly! Perhaps I can best praise Invader by telling you what it doesn’t have: career professionals who behave like tantrum-throwing children; characters advancing the plot by acting stupidly; a male and a female scientist who have, or had, a personal relationship; a psychotic and/or homicidally hard-line senior military officer; explosions in place of ideas. It’s also unusually free of references to other films, even the one it’s clearly inspired by. Well, almost free. There’s an alien autopsy scene that suggests a fondness for John Carpenter’s version of The Thing, and the two scientists are called “Montgomery” and “Scott”, which might be an allusion, or just simple word association. No, what we have here is a thoughtful and interesting little film – with the emphasis on “little”. The budget for this thing must have been nearly non-existent, and what money they did have obviously went on the alien, which in its adult form is pretty damn cool. (In the end they give us too clear a look at it for its own good, but the visual power of that shot, as the newly escaped alien stops and stares up at the full moon in the night sky, more than makes up for any revealed shortcomings.) The story progresses through logical steps, some good tension is generated, and the characters react intelligently as their circumstances alter. I particularly like the evolving relationship between Grazia Scott and Colonel Pratt: initially the two diametric poles, with fairly clichéd viewpoints (she wants to save it for science and communicate with it, he wants to blast it off the planet in the name of national security), both of them soften their stances as the emergency worsens, develop respect for one another’s views and abilities, and end up working together to solve a crisis. Invader does a lot right – a lot – and then.... And then it goes and ruins everything, with an incredibly abrupt and downbeat ending. Well, perhaps “ruins” is putting it a bit strongly; within the context of the story, the ending is actually valid; but it sure isn’t the one we wanted. The performances of the three leads are all solid and convincing, with Deidre O’Connell making a very refreshing female scientist. I also like Raoul O’Connell (related?) as poor Private Jeffers, who’s having the worst day of his entire life.... Invader also features a baby-faced Ryan Phillippe as – get this – “Private Ryan”!

The Unknown Movies Page provides both a review (under the film’s alternative title, Lifeform) and an explanation for the ending. To which I can only respond – “Bugger....”

King Of The Damned (1935)

In a Devil’s Island-like penal colony, Deputy Commandant Montez (Cecil Ramage) learns of valuable mineral deposits on the island, and takes advantage of the illness of his superior, Commandant Courvin (C.M. Hallard), by turning the convicts into a personal road-building and mining crew. Courvin’s daughter, Anna (Helen Vinson), who is also Montez’s fiancé, travels to the colony to nurse her father, unaware that the island is teetering on the brink of a full-scale revolt led by the erudite Convict 83 (Conrad Veidt). Based upon a play by John Chancellor, King Of The Damned works better as a straight drama than as a political allegory, which, given the year of its production, the behaviour of the convicts post-revolt and the colony being Spanish (at least by implication) rather than the usual French, it was certainly intended to be; the film’s ending is so naive in its optimism, you could just cry. (Then again, perhaps we’re supposed to recognise the characters’ hopes as delusive.) Politics aside, the film is an enjoyable example of this odd sub-genre, particularly when it focuses upon 83 and his torn loyalties (on the very eve of the revolt, he learns that he has been pardoned); while the growing attraction between 83 and Anna – conveyed primarily through a series of covert longing glances – pays off marvellously when the naval officer who comes to rescue her discovers to his bemusement that she doesn’t want to be rescued. (“No, no, you don’t understand....I’m with him.”) Also of note are the scope of the production – the huge number of extras employed here makes the revolt more credible than usual – and the fact that one of the main architects of the revolt is a black convict, who is treated without a breath of separatism or condescension. Alas, conditions in the penal colony were apparently a bit more advanced than those operating in the British film industry at the time: the actor playing the black convict is unbilled, and I have been unable to discover his name.

Lady On A Train (1945)

One of Deanna Durbin’s better efforts to (i) grow up; and (ii) change her image. Travelling from San Francisco to New York, heiress Nikki Collins (Durbin) witnesses a murder from the window of her train, but of course no-one believes her. Learning via a newsreel that the dead man was a shipping magnate who supposedly died after falling from a ladder, Nikki decides to solve the murder herself. Lady On A Train takes a while to get going, and Deanna rather overdoes the scatterbrained heiress routine at the outset, but once Nikki has infiltrated the family estate of the murder victim by posing as the dead man’s fiancée, the film really picks up steam, becoming a veritable parade of vignettes from some wonderful character actors: domineering Elizabeth Patterson, milquetoast Ralph Bellamy, ne’er-do-well Dan Duryea, cat-clutching George Coulouris and all-purpose henchman Allen Jenkins. Oh, and Edward Everett Horton is there, too, being Edward Everett Horton. Best of all though, is the triumvirate of David Bruce as the long-suffering mystery novelist recruited into the investigation against his will by Nikki; Patricia Morison as his even more long-suffering fiancée; and, most long-suffering of all – because she has to listen to her boss’s prose – Jacqueline deWit as his secretary. (“Tear it up, did you say?” “Type it up.” “Oh.”) And, yes, of course Deanna sings – what do you think? A nightclub scene gives her the chance to do a lovely rendition of “Night And Day”, but the highlight is when – it’s Christmas Eve – Nikki sings “Silent Night” down the phone to her father, thereby unknowingly saving her own life by reducing Allen Jenkins, who’s there to murder her, to a blubbering emotional wreck.

Midnight Lace (1960)

After an embassy party, American wife in London Kit Preston (Doris Day) is taking a shortcut home through a fog-shrouded park when a strange, high-pitched voice suddenly speaks to her from the darkness – and threatens her by name. The terrified Kit makes it home to her businessman husband, Tony Preston (Rex Harrison), who manages to convince her that it was probably just a sick practical joke. But then the obscene phone-calls start – and the death threats. The Prestons report the situation to Scotland Yard, but the investigation stalls when Kit is unable to prove her allegations. To her horror, she soon realises that not only are her husband and her Aunt Bea (Myrna Loy) beginning to doubt her word, they may be beginning to doubt her sanity.... Midnight Lace represents a fair entry in the “persecuted woman” school of thrillers, and Day, although occasionally over the top in Kit’s hysteria scenes, does a better job with her mingled fear, frustration and indignation upon realising that even her nearest and dearest are starting to suspect she’s making the whole story up. (Married to a workaholic and still waiting for her honeymoon, Kit “gets a phone-call” every time something interferes with her and her husband’s romantic plans.) Of course, it’s Doris, so we believe her – right? Midnight Lace does a fair job of setting up possible suspects – slimy Roddy McDowall, financially desperate Herbert Marshall, kind passer-by John Gavin, mysterious scarred stranger Anthony Dawson – but no-one experienced in this kind of film should have any difficulty picking the guilty party. John Williams lends good support as yet another easy-to-under-estimate Scotland Yard inspector. (Curiously, both he and Anthony Dawson play almost the same roles in this as they did in Dial M For Murder six years earlier.)

Midnight Shadow (1939)

Wow, my first “race film”.... Lord, what an appalling expression that is. It’s hard to know how to react to these ultra-low budget, all-black movies. On one hand, their absolute lack of any social reality and the knowledge that the majority of these productions emanated from white-run companies seeking to inculcate black audiences with the values that would make them “socially acceptable” gives these films a queasy undercurrent. On the other hand, given the utterly demeaning depiction of black people in most mainstream films of the time, seeing them portrayed as normal, intelligent, responsible human beings is very satisfying. Midnight Shadow is an odd little film that changes gears abruptly about halfway through. It starts out as a serious drama about a girl, Margaret Wilson (Frances Redd), who is being courted by a stage mentalist who calls himself “Prince Alihabad” (John Criner); he’s the kind who wears a turban off-stage as well as on. Dazzled by “the Prince”, Mr Wilson (Clinton Rosemond) foolishly reveals that he owns a very valuable piece of oil-bearing land in Texas, which he intends for Margaret’s dowry. This piece of information, and where the deed to the land is kept, reaches not just the Prince, but Margaret’s disgruntled ex-boyfriend, Buster (Edward Brandon), who is waiting for her in the next room, and a mysterious figure lurking in the bushes outside the house. So it is perhaps not surprising when, the next morning, Mr Wilson is dead, the deed is gone, and all three men are missing.... And here Midnight Shadow takes a sharp left-turn, as the “investigation” falls to the province of two bumbling private detectives, brothers Lightfoot (Buck Woods) and Junior Lingley (Richard Bates), the latter of whom favours a deerstalker and a Meerschaum pipe. Weirdly, the film treats these two almost with a straight face. Although they are – self-evidently – the Odious Comic Reliefs, the head of the Texas oil company they interview answers their questions seriously, not batting an eye at Junior’s get-up; and in the end, they do in fact catch the killer. From the film’s handling of these characters, and the lack of explanation or introduction for them, I’m inclined to assume that either Buck Woods and Richard Bates were an established act whose schtick the audience was expected to be familiar with, or that there was a series of films featuring their antics. Otherwise, the acting in Midnight Shadow is fairly awkward, although not terrible, with Ollie Ann Robinson taking the honours as the tart-tongued Mrs Wilson.

Mister Frost (1990)

Police inspector Felix Detweiler (Alan Bates) visits the country estate of Mister Frost (Jeff Goldblum), apologetically responding to an unlikely report of a dead body on the premises. Frost replies cheerfully that he just finished burying it.... The police investigation that follows discovers twenty-four mutilated bodies, men, women and children. Two years later, Frost is transferred to the experimental St Clare psychiatric hospital, having not spoken a single word through two years of incarceration and examination. However, as soon as he lays eyes upon Dr Sarah Day (Kathy Baker), he announces that he will speak to her, and to her alone. As their sessions begin, Frost announces to Sarah that he is no-one less than Satan himself, and that he intends to use her to remind the world of his existence – by making her believe in him to the point where she will kill him.... About halfway through Mister Frost, it struck me how much the film resembles The Medusa Touch: the co-co-co-country production, and the consequent bewildering mixture of accents and nationalities; the central cop-shrink-patient triangle; and the ever-increasing absurdities of its action. But Mister Frost isn’t nearly so much evil fun as The Medusa Touch. The film suffers fatally from its conviction that it’s saying something terribly important – and from the extent to which it has to stack the deck in order to say it. Satan has come to the world in person, we learn, to fight back against his real enemy: “science”; “science”, which has undermined belief in Good and Evil, with its cursed “explanation for everything”. The problem is that the “science” that Mr Frost is battling here is a paper tiger. The functioning of the hospital to which he is sent is frankly ludicrous; the doctors running it are a bunch of screw-ups and emotional cripples; and Sarah Day herself is not just atheistic, but so sceptical, so smug, so obviously riding for a fall that the film’s outcome is apparent from its opening scenes. (In the film’s blinkered pursuit of its “message”, the possibility that a belief in science and a belief in God might co-exist – which, just for the record, they often do – is never allowed an instant’s consideration.) And even then the ending doesn’t make much sense: it doesn’t seem to occur to Sarah that if Frost, as she comes to believe, is who he claims to be, then the last thing in the world she should be doing is what he says. Jeff Goldblum has a fine old time as Frost – has there ever been an actor that didn’t, in that role? – but Alan Bates is strangely lethargic as Detweiler, while the usually reliable Kathy Baker is actually pretty awful as Sarah, particularly during the first half of the film. Her performance improves later on, essentially from the point of the film’s best moment, when Sarah gets under Frost’s skin by telling him, “You’re like a washed-up actor trying to make a comeback – and nobody gives a damn.“

Mr Wong, Detective (1938)

The head of a chemical manufacturing firm is found murdered in his office. The suspects include the “foreigners” (most of whom aren’t) who were determined to stop the shipment of a poisoned gas to be used against their country; the dead man’s business partners, who profit substantially from his death; and the biochemist who accused the dead man of stealing his poison gas formula. Mr Wong, Detective features Boris Karloff’s first outing as “the Chinese detective”, James Lee Wong, and has the strongest story of any entry in the series: the who-dunnit and, in particular, the how-dunnit aspects are quite clever. Two sequences stand out: first, SCIENCE!! – as Wong and some physicist friends try to reconstruct the murder weapon, a glass bubble filled with poison gas (was this before or after Agatha Christie’s “The Face Of Helen”?); and later, when Wong saves his own life by (Agatha again) pulling a “Philomel Cottage”, and convincing the bad guys they’ve been exposed to the gas. This episode has certain differences from the later Wong films: Captain Street’s (Grant Withers) girlfriend is corporate secretary Myra Ross (Maxine Jennings) rather than cub reporter Bobbie Logan, and Wong himself is much more overtly “Chinese”. (The studio may have decided to tone this aspect down.) There is an unavoidable cringe-factor attached to Boris Karloff’s casting as a “Chinaman”, but if you can get past that, we’re left as usual with the fact that this “Chinaman” is smarter, nicer and more successful than any of the Caucasians on display. One of Monogram’s better moments.

Hearing that his good friend D’Arnot (who found him in the jungles of Africa in the first place) is missing after a plane crash in Guatemala, Tarzan (Herman Brix) goes in search of him in company with a British expedition headed by Major Martling (Frank Baker), who is seeking the Green Goddess, a totem worshipped by the natives that (somehow) contains “the most powerful explosive known to mankind”. Also after the Goddess is Raglan (one of the serial’s producers, Ashton Dearholt aka Don Castello, wisely casting himself as the villain), who intends to sell the explosive to munitions manufacturers, while Ula Vale (Ula Holt), searching for her fiancé, who was in the plane with D’Arnot, joins forces with the Martling expedition in order to thwart Raglan. This Edgar Rice Burroughs-produced serial is a real mixed bag. On the plus side, Herman Brix (later Bruce Bennet) probably does the Tarzan/Lord Greystoke transition better than anyone else ever did, being equally at home in loin cloth and evening clothes, while his natural athleticism makes his Tarzan convincing (although his yell is, frankly, a bit of a worry). The serial’s other virtue is its location shooting in Guatemala, which makes a very welcome change from the Californian forests that usually stand in for the “jungle” in these things. As for the rest of it, well, if you’re familiar with 30s serials, you know what to expect. Cheating cliffhangers abound (Annie Wilkes would hate this), as do geographical absurdities (characters travel between Mombasa and Guatemala in a matter of days); and the writers show a distinct tendency to forget their own story as they go along. Heroine Ula Vale starts out searching for her missing fiancé, and ends up all over Tarzan; a blonde – and distinctly hatchet-faced – “jungle goddess” in sub-Flash Gordon outfits turns up for five minutes and is never seen again; and, best of all, when Tarzan leaves Guatemala, he forgets to take his chimp with him!! As for the rest of it, how much entertainment anyone will derive from this serial might depend upon the extent to which they are able to find its racial-imperialist assumptions ludicrous rather than offensive. Personally, I parted company with the story at the point where the Odious Comic Relief – the Odious, Odious Comic Relief – whips a machine-gun from his backpack and slaughters about two hundred natives for having the temerity to object to their temple being plundered.

Unhappily married and coldly promiscuous Edwina Esketh (Lana Turner) accompanies her husband, Lord Allen Esketh (Michael Rennie), to the Indian province of Ranchipur. While Allen is buying horses from the Maharani (Eugenie Leontovich), Edwina meets and embarks upon a passionate affair with the local surgeon-saint, Dr Rama Safti (Richard Burton). Obstacles arise first in human form, with violent opposition from the Maharani and Safti’s best friend, Tom Ransome (Fred MacMurray), and later as Acts of God, with flooding rain, a collapsing dam and an earthquake tearing the lovers apart. While The Rains Of Ranchipur probably comes under the general heading of “unnecessary re-make”, it isn’t completely without merit. Where this version scores points is in its refusal to shy away from the fact that Edwina is, in fact, a thoroughly nasty bit of work, a real use-’em-and-dump-’em type who bought her husband for his title and gets her kicks by humiliating him. Where it stumbles is in not spending nearly enough time – as The Rains Came, conversely, intelligently does – on the critical period between the meeting, and instant physical attraction, of Edwina and Safti, and the time when they are “in love”. Consequently, Edwina’s reformation is never really convincing. However, the film’s frankness about the nature of the relationship between the two is very daring considering when it was made: this is the earliest film I know of to depict consensual physical contact between a white woman and an Asian or a Eurasian man. (Even if it is Burton in brownface. As we B-Masters learned during our “So Sorry” Roundtable, the later a piece of racial impersonation comes, the more offensive it seems; and certainly Burton’s character here jars in a way that Tyrone Power’s did not. Perhaps it’s the colour photography? In truth, they don’t darken Burton too much; just enough to make his blue eyes distractingly obvious.) Also startling is Edwina’s admission that, had she succeeded in seducing Safti at the outset, he would have been just one more notch on her belt, a memory of “the one with brown skin”; and that the Maharani’s rage against Edwina, for all that she refers to Safti as “her son”, is obviously provoked by sexual jealousy. The other interesting aspect of this version is that it was a contemporary production, its events therefore taking place after India’s liberation. Thus we learn that Safti has spent time in jail as a follower of Ghandi; while the Maharani is only a figurehead, a relic of earlier days with no real power. Other updatings do not work as well, particularly not the substitution of a post-war-lost-idealist Tom Ransome for the wastrel-younger-son-packed-off-to-India Ransome of The Rains Came. The Rains Of Ranchipur is, finally, less a good film than a film of good moments. I am particularly fond of the reaction of the Christian missionary who has nursed Edwina through a near-fatal illness to the arrival of Safti at her bedside: a beaming smile and a cheerful, “She’ll be all right now that you’re here!” I do like my missionaries broadminded, don’t you? But the highlight, undoubtedly, is when the news of Edwina’s illness reaches Safti via her cuckolded husband. “In his ignorance,” says Esketh with infinite bitterness, “the messenger came to me instead of to you....”

(Speaking of racial impersonation: the white actor smothered in dark make-up and playing the local chief of police is none other than John Banner.)

A good way to start an argument amongst western buffs is to ask, “Which is the best of the Randolph Scott-Budd Boetticher films?” This tense psychological drama is the one for my money. Bounty hunter Scott is escorting callow killer James Best to Santa Cruz for hanging, knowing that his vengeful elder brother Lee Van Cleef is on their heels. Along the way, Scott enters into an uneasy alliance with former outlaws Pernell Roberts and James Coburn, who can win an amnesty for their crimes if they are the ones to deliver Best. The screenplay (by Burt Kennedy) then proceeds to trap its characters, and the viewer, in a moral quagmire, offering up a villain who has committed one of the vilest acts imaginable....only it was a long time ago, and it kind of slipped his mind; a “hero” who hunts men for a living, and who is so consumed by schemes of revenge that he has lost sight of all ethical considerations; and an honourable outlaw who wants nothing more than to go straight and settle down – and if he has to kill a friend to achieve that goal, well, that’s just too bad.... We know what to anticipate from Scott and Van Cleef; the unexpected pleasure of Ride Lonesome is the work of its supporting cast, with James Coburn (in his debut) a delight as the loyal but thick-headed Wiley, and a remarkably fine and nuanced performance from Pernell Roberts. At only 73 minutes, Ride Lonesome is a masterpiece of efficiency in story-telling, and a perfect riposte to those people who say they dislike westerns because they’re “simplistic”.

The eponymous train speeds between Paris and Rome with a motley collection of travellers on board, among them the perpetrator of a startling art theft (Donald Calthrop). Unfortunately for him, the two confederates that he is betraying (Conrad Veidt and Hugh Williams) are also on the train....and unfortunately for all three of them, the mild-mannered, fussy, eccentric entomologist down the carriage (Frank Vosper) turns out to be one of the leading detectives from the Sûreté. Drawn into the conflict are a number of the other passengers, all of whom have something to hide, including the movie star with a dark past (Esther Ralston), the adulterous wife who’s having second thoughts (Joan Barry), and the avaricious, cold-blooded “philanthropist” (Cedric Hardwicke) and his worm-may-turn secretary (Eliot Makeham). This is the great grand-daddy of all train thrillers and, for screenwriter Sidney Gilliat, a dry run for The Lady Vanishes six years later, which takes everything but its central situation from this film. (Train-ophile Gilliat also worked on the first version of The Ghost Train and the comedy thriller Seven Sinners.) The film is also important for initiating the British career of Conrad Veidt, who simply exudes menacing charm as the leader of the criminal gang. Great fun.

Here’s an embarrassing confession: I love this film! About equidistant between Destry Rides Again and Blazing Saddles sits this good-natured fish-out-of-water comedy, which sees mild-mannered Englishman Jonathan Tibbs (Kenneth More) venturing into the wild, wild west in order to bolster the sales of his family’s long-founded but failing gunsmiths firm and, in the course of a few eventful days, earning himself a reputation as a deadly shot, being appointed sheriff of a frontier town, settling a range war, making peace with and being adopted into the local Indian tribe, and romancing saloon owner Miss Kate (Jayne Mansfield) – all of it more or less accidentally. Kenneth More is perfectly cast as the unflappable Jonathan Tibbs (these days the film benefits from its numerous, and oddly apt, "Mr Tibbs" references), thoroughly convinced that all the west really needs is a lesson in correct manners; and Jayne Mansfield is---well, Jayne Mansfield. Except for her accent, which is disturbingly reminiscent of Michael Beck's in Megaforce. Good support is given by Robert Morley, Henry Hull, Bruce Cabot, William Campbell and – as More’s “father” – Chief Jonas Applegarth; while the freakazoid romantic pairing of More and Mansfield works far better than it has any right to – much like the film itself. (“I couldn’t fall for a local idiot,” fumes Mansfield at one point. “I had to go for the international kind.”) No doubt director Raoul Walsh had made enough westerns by this stage in his career to thoroughly enjoy skewering their clichés....but there’s no feeling of contempt for such films here, just a sense of fun. And without wanting to spoil things for anyone, I may say that the closing exchange between More and Mansfield has been a running joke in my household for years.

WTF!? “Confusing” barely begins to describe this muddled science fiction outing, which actually challenges The Dark for its sheer inability to make up its mind what it’s about and what its monster is. We know how The Dark got the way it is; Lord knows who was responsible for this mess. It’s “The Future” – and global warming has had its way with the world, resulting in a London that’s flooded, polluted, rat-infested and rife with disease. (This may indeed be one of the earliest examples of the environmental warning sub-genre, but this stuff is only there to look kewl in a distinctly sub-Blade Runner sort of way.) A killer is on the loose, ripping out the hearts of his victims; and apparently in the belief that it takes a psychopath to catch a psychopath, chocolate-munching, caffeine-guzzling, heavy ordnance-toting Harley Stone (Rutger Hauer) is brought back from suspension and teamed up with suit-wearing, university-educated, health food nibbling Dick Durkin (Neil Duncan). They’re the original odd couple! And together, they fight crime! Apparently operating under the delusion that this isn’t quite enough clichés for us to be going on with, the film opens with Stone visiting a strip club. Then we learn that Stone’s partner was killed before his eyes by the same killer. And that Stone was having an affair with his partner’s wife. And that Stone is somehow in psychic contact with the killer. You following all this? Pay attention, I’ll be asking questions. After teasing us with everything from a giant rat to an actual satanic manifestation, the film proceeds to serve up a monster so unabashedly copied from Alien, you almost have to admire its chutzpah. Lost in this mess are Michael J. Pollard, playing exactly the same role after all these years; Pete Postlethwaite; and the late, great Ian Dury. Also, Kim Cattrall shows up in her Undiscovered Country ’do and flashes her boobs in a textbook example of the Gratuitous Shower Scene. Look, I’m not saying that Split Second isn’t entertaining. Just don’t try to make sense of it. Your head might explode.

I’m not sure the world really needed yet another riff on “The Most Dangerous Game”, but this one benefits from an absurdly good cast: Rutger Hauer, Gary Busey, F. Murray Abraham, Charles S. Dutton and Ice-T as the “prey”. Taking a cue from the previous year’s Hard Target, Surviving The Game has homeless men being sent into the wilderness on the pretext of being hired as hunting guides, only to learn too late that the job description wasn’t entirely accurate. (Although how anyone could find themselves in the middle of nowhere with Rutger Hauer and Gary Busey and not immediately intuit that they’re in deep doo-doo is beyond me.) There’s nothing here we haven’t seen before, but of all the versions of “The Most Dangerous Game”, this is probably the one where you most want to see the hunters get there’s. Anyway, even if you don’t like it, you can at least enjoy the stunning location photography: this is the rare film that has Washington State played by Washington State, and not by British Columbia. (Understand, this is from someone who watches First Blood for the scenery.) And hey! – Charles S. Dutton dies! Aren’t you astonished?

At a Christmas gathering, an old and crusty King Arthur (Trevor Howard) berates his knights for growing lazy and complacent. The festivities are further interrupted by the Green Knight (Sean Connery), who proposes a game: one of those present will strike at him with an axe. If they succeed in decapitating him with one blow, they win; otherwise, he will get one strike back. To the disgust of both Arthur and the Knight, no-one speaks – until Gawain (Miles O’Keeffe), a mere squire, steps forward. After being knighted by the king, Gawain strikes at the Green Knight and severs his head at a blow – then looks on in horrified disbelief as the body picks the head up and re-attaches it. Impressed by Gawain’s courage, the Green Knight stays his hand, giving the young knight a riddle and a year in which to solve it – and a warning that if he fails, the fate deferred will be meted out.... Released in the wake of successful fantasy productions such as Excalibur and Conan The Barbarian, Sword Of The Valiant is a pretty minor effort. (It’s a Golan-Globus, which speaks for itself.) A definite product of the “one damn thing after another” school of story-telling, the film suffers badly from the fact that, well, Gawain’s adventures just aren’t that interesting. It’s also badly paced – there’s no sense of time passing, or of Gawain’s gruesome fate drawing ever nearer – and we are given no particular reason to care about Gawain and Linet, whose love story is resolved (sort of) with comical abruptness. Cursed with the worst wig in the history of film-making, and wearing a puffy shirt that could make your eyeballs bleed, Miles O’Keeffe turns Gawain into a “hero” to weep for. His first two acts out in the big wide world are to attempt to kill a unicorn for food (!!), and to realise that he should have asked for instructions on how to “relieve himself” before he put the armour on. It goes downhill from there. The film brightens up a bit with the arrival of Brian Vosper as a criminally inclined friar and John Rhys-Davies (of course) as the evil Baron Fortinbras – a graduate, evidently, of the Brian Blessed School of Bluster – but Peter Cushing is criminally wasted as Fortinbras’ chancellor. Trevor Howard gives us an interesting Arthur, though, and the film is probably worth watching just for the chance to see Sean Connery in green face-paint and spangles. (Of course, those of you who have just seen him in a nappy might disagree.)

In the desert of Algiers, a troop of soldiers is under attack by the forces of a mysterious individual known as "El Shaitan", who is leading an Arab revolt against the Foreign Legion. The lives of the last three men, Clancy (Jack Mulhall), Renard (Raymond Hatton) and Schmidt (Francis X. Bushman Jr), are saved when Lt Tom Wayne (John Wayne), from the American embassy in Paris, fires upon the attacking Arabs from his plane. Clancy explains that they were trying to stop a caravan that was running guns. The three grateful soldiers laugh that they are “the Three Musketeers” and Tom their D’Artagnon; the four swear eternal friendship. Tom then travels on to visit his sweetheart, Elaine Corday (Ruth Hall), and her brother, Armand (Creighton Chaney). Armand, however, has a deadly secret: he has been blackmailed into helping El Shaitan, and was with the caravan. El Shaitan declares Tom an enemy, and orders Armand to use him and his embassy connections to bring another shipment of arms into the country. Armand does so, but the ruse is discovered; and Tom, in Paris, finds himself accused as a gun-runner. Escaping back to North Africa, Tom gets the truth out of Armand, who is then killed by El Shaitan. Tom is found standing over the body, and is soon wanted for both gun-running and murder.... The opening credits of this serial insist that it is “a modern version of the famous story”, but any resemblance between this serial and M. Dumas’ novel is, as they say, entirely coincidental. You can also forget anything you ever heard about the iron discipline of the Foreign Legion: when they aren’t either breaking into their CO’s office, or breaking their pal Tom out of military prison, these Three Musketeers spend most of their time in town, eating and drinking and – [*shudder*] – singing in taverns, and brawling in the street; they get positively indignant when asked to perform any actual, you know, duties. The main problem with The Three Musketeers is that is never lives up to its exciting and quite complex first episode, but devolves into repetitive scenes of riding back and forth across the desert, and white people sneaking around dressed up as “Arabs”. Actually, this latter aspect is one of this serial’s more pleasing absurdities, particularly when Tom Wayne, a foot taller than anyone else, and with his military boots and his tie showing, is supposed to be impenetrably disguised, to the point where he can infiltrate the band of Arab rebels without being detected. (Of course, it helps that, although they know Tom is onto them, the rebels never change their password!) At this point in his career, John Wayne is still incredibly awkward, far more at home in his action scenes than in those with dialogue. Ruth Hall is an adequate heroine, mercifully the dashing-across-the-desert kind, rather than the stand-around-screaming kind. (She attempts a French accent for about five minutes during the first episode, then forgets about it.) Lon Chaney Jr, still billed as “Creighton”, gives one of his best early performances as the tormented Armand. Noah Beery Jr also shows up for just long enough to get shot in the back; while that’s legendary stuntman Yakima Canutt under the mask as “El Shaitan” (although it isn’t his voice).

Things I Learned From Watching This Serial^TM: every single Arab in the world is called El Something-or-other.

This serial opens with a little history – kind of – with Benito Juarez leading Mexico to independence and becoming President about thirty years before he actually did. Never mind. They get the next bit right, with Juarez’s followers stabbing him in the back as soon as he turns it. Juarez wants to fund his Republic with gold from the rich San Mendolito mines, but some of the members of the San Mendolito Council have other ideas. The loyal Don Francisco (Guy D’Ennery) warns Juarez that the local Indian population is being stirred to revolt by “Don Del Oro”, the personification of a Yacqui god, but adds that he has gathered “a troop of patriots” to guard the gold shipments. The other council members, meanwhile, secretly toast their plan – and Don Del Oro.... Before long, Don Francisco is tricked into a duel and mortally wounded. His ward, Ramon (William Corson), fights back, but is struck down from behind. Before he can be killed, a masked figure dressed in black intervenes.... The dying Francisco tells Ramon that the masked man, known as Zorro, is actually his nephew, Diego Vega (Reed Hadley). Telling Diego to take his place on the council, Francisco warns him that there are traitors there, but dies before he can reveal the true identity of Don Del Oro. Later that day, Francisco’s sister, Donã Maria (Helen Mitchel), and her ward, Volita (Sheila Darcy), are appalled, and the members of the council pleased, when Ramon introduces the foppish and blasé Don Diego, who grumbles about everything from the fatigue of his journey to having to join the council. That night, however, Zorro gathers Don Francisco’s troop, pledging to fight the traitors and prevent the Yacquis from revolting. The men cheer him, declaring themselves to be “Zorro’s Fighting Legion”.... Whew! And that’s not even the end of the first episode! Most of the serials I’ve been watching up to this point were produced by Nat Levine’s threadbare Mascot Pictures, but Zorro’s Fighting Legion was made by Republic, and has actual – gasp! – production values. (That Republic looks classy by comparison should tell you all about Mascot.) It’s actually a pretty good adaptation of the Zorro story, and Reed Hadley has a blast in his dual role. His Zorro makes an amusingly flawed hero, though, forever tripping over or falling into traps, while his method for summoning his “legion” has to be seen to be believed: in an episode called “The Flaming Z” – no, honestly! – he lights a gigantic ‘Z’ on a hillside, which, apart from nearly burning down the whole area, is seen and simply copied by the bad guys! Other off-beat touches include the accurate adoption of single shot pistols, meaning that most fights consist of one missed shot and then swords drawn, while second-billed Sheila Darcy is only in three episodes as the “heroine”, Volita (whose exclamations of “Saints protect us!” suggest that the writers were confusing their Catholics). Perhaps the greatest mystery here is where Zorro hides his gleaming white horse between adventures: you’d think someone would notice it. The best part of this serial is the cliffhangers: there’s a distinctly different ending to each episode, and most of the “outs” are pleasingly non-cheaty. The weakest part is the secret identity of Don Del Oro: we know it’s one of the councillors, but since they’re pretty much interchangeable, what does it matter? The Halloween costume meant to represent Don Del Oro is a hoot, though. Truthfully, at the beginning of this I was rather on “Don Del Oro’s” side, as he made speeches about the dispossession and exploitation of the Yacquis....only then he started in with that whole “I shall be Emperor of all Mexico! Mwoo-ha-ha-ha-ha!” stuff. Oh, well....