TSPDT placing: #125
Directed by: Jacques Tourneur
Written by: Daniel Mainwaring (novel and screenplay; as Geoffrey Homes), Frank Fenton (uncredited), James M. Cain (uncredited)
Starring: Robert Mitchum, Jane Greer, Kirk Douglas, Rhonda Fleming, Richard Webb, Steve Brodie, Virginia Huston, Paul Valentine, Dickie Moore, Ken Niles
WARNING: Plot and/or ending details may follow!!!
Jacques Tourneur's Out of the Past (1947) has all the required ingredients for the archetypal film-noir: a bold and charismatic hero, wearied by a lifetime of violence and corruption, but reluctantly hauled back into his old world by a past he can't escape; a seductive femme fatale, a seemingly-innocent, pretty enchantress whose loyalty can never be counted upon; a sleazy and vengeful gambler, who's silently holding all the cards that will determine our hero's fate. Daniel Mainwaring's dark and tragic narrative {credited under the pseudonym Geoffrey Homes} combines a linear storyline with reminiscing flashbacks, the latter narrated in a tired, laconic tone of voice by Robert Mitchum {who, after frightening roles in The Night of the Hunter (1955) and Cape Fear (1962), finally convinces me that he can effectively play a hero}. Complete with bleak, shadowy cinematography by Nicholas Musuraca, and no shortage of double- and triple-crossings, Out of the Past – along with Billy Wilder's masterpiece Double Indemnity (1944) – remains one of the purest examples of the film noir style.
If Jeff Bailey (Robert Mitchum) thought he could escape his old enemies by purchasing an old gas station in a small American town, then he was sorely mistaken. A previous employer, Whit Sterling (Kirk Douglas), a seedy and sly gangster, has sent for him, and, more than likely, the meeting has something to do with Kathie (Jane Greer), the beautiful seductress with whom Bailey {back when he was called Jeff Markham} fell in love when he was supposed to be capturing her. Bailey is a smooth, shrewd operator, and recognises that plans have been drawn against him, but he responds to the situation as one whose judgement should never be doubted. The romance described early in the film, as Bailey recounts his doomed love story to local innocent girlfriend, Anne (Virginia Huston), is deceptively touching, and, despite the clear framing device around which the story is structured, I was completely fooled into sympathising with Kathie, only to be left feeling foolish and hollow as her initial betrayal is revealed.
In the United Kingdom, Tourneur's film was released under the title Build My Gallows High, also the name of the novel from which the screenplay was adapted. There are enough sharp, bitterly-ironic snippets of dialogue for me to spend all day listing them, but lines such as "Baby, I don't care," "…if I have to, I'll die last" and "you dirty double-crossing rat!" are pure noir, and serve as an excellent introduction to the style of American film-making that was most prominent from 1941-1958 {basically from John Huston's The Maltese Falcon to Orson Welles' Touch of Evil}. The story comes to a successfully downbeat conclusion, with each of the three main characters meeting a messy and tragic end in a suitably Shakespearian fashion. Though Jeff Bailey was ostensibly our story's hero, he had already committed enough sins by the film's beginning to avoid a happy ending, and his fate was effectively sealed from the moment he chose to revisit his past employer, despite obviously having little choice in the matter. Such is film noir.
8/10
2) Monsieur Verdoux (Charles Chaplin)
3) Out of the Past (Jacques Tourner)
The Cranes are Flying is both an invigorating visual feast and an audacious, humanistic portrayal of war. Unlike many Soviet war-themed films of the time, it was less constrained by the archetypal figure of the traditional war-time hero, and more concerned with the futility, brutality and, indeed, the inevitability of conflict. Love, as a cinematic concept, is too-often idealised as a notion that somehow conquers all and endures endless hardship, and yet the reality is substantially less romantic. In the film, two lovers, Veronika (Tatyana Samojlova) and Boris (Aleksey Batalov), separated by the advent of the WWII {widely known in the Soviet Union as the Great Patriotic War, 1941-1945}, pledge to marry after the war, but tragedy denies the couple their wish. Driven to betrayal by the unending torment and uncertainty of waiting, Veronika agrees to wed Boris' cousin, Mark (Aleksandr Shvorin), a handsome but unworthy youth. The film may conclude with the proud victory of the Soviets, and a patriotic flag-waving parade, but the optimism of this sequence is overwhelmingly eclipsed by the bittersweet tragedy of our young female protagonist, who wanders soullessly through the celebrating crowds.
Perhaps the most remarkable feature of The Cranes are Flying is Sergei Urusevsky's inspired and dynamic hand-held cinematography, which realistically and dizzily captures the chaos and confusion of war, not necessarily in the hail of gunfire and the cries of dying comrades {in fact, only one of the film's sequences joins Boris on the Eastern Front}, but from the perspective of the family and friends who are left behind. In one particularly impressive, oft-cited long shot, the camera follows Veronika as she frantically searches for Boris in a crowd of departing recruits and their families. The hand-held camera smoothly follows the girl off a bus, jostles through the crowd alongside her, capturing momentary snippets of loved ones saying farewell to their sons and husbands, before unexpectedly craning above the crowd as Veronika disappears into the dust of a passing squadron of army tanks, a breathtaking movement that offers scope and urgency to the dramatic episode. Urusevsky first acquired his filming experience as a military cameraman during the war, and obviously fell in love with the storytelling possibilities of handheld photography: "The camera," he once declared, "can express what the actor is unable to portray: his inner sensations. The cameraman must act with the actors."
Howard Hawks, perhaps Hollywood's most versatile master director, was a considerable fan of author Ernest Hemingway, but didn't think all too highly of his 1937 effort, "To Have and Have Not." Taking it upon himself to improve the story, Hawks set his writers upon Hemingway's "bunch of junk," and created what is considered by some to be one of his best films. With its abundance of pistol-clad gangsters and Bogart's legendary noble tough-guy, comparisons with other pulp film-noirs {such as The Maltese Falcon (1941) and Hawks' own The Big Sleep} are perfectly justified, as are the noticeable parallels with Michael Curtiz's 
What ultimately separates a good film like To Have and Have Not from a masterpiece like, say, Casablanca, is the depth of the characters. By the end of the latter film, we feel as though we've known Rick (Bogart) and Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman) for their entire lives, and we feel pain for their romantic sorrows. Howard Hawks has always been more concerned with witty dialogue than character development, and, though there's no doubting the sheer entertainment of his pictures, they are rarely able to strike a chord close to the heart. Most of this film's characters are little more than two-dimensional caricatures, and the camera, in order to avoid distracting from the excellence of the screenplay, does little of any interest. To Have and Have Not is certainly a solid film, but it's not exactly "exciting" film-making, with the exception, of course, of the coupling of Bogart and Bacall, which was a stroke of genius on Hawks' part. Also notable is the musical soundtrack, with Hoagy Carmichael appearing as a hotel piano player to perform “Hong Kong Blues,” and Bacall singing “How Little We Know.”
Meanwhile, Gypo is plagued with guilt for his friend's untimely death, and descends into a bout of heavy-drinking that rivals Don Birnam in The Lost Weekend (1945) in its excessiveness. As Gypo drowns his sorrows in copious volumes of alcohol, trapped in a vicious little circle of depression, his extravagant spending captures the attention of the investigating IRA members. For the one time in his life, Gypo finds himself surrounded by admirers (including an amusing J.M. Kerrigan), who enthusiastically clap him on the back and christen him "King Gypo" for his physical might. However, it's obvious that these people feel no affection for the man, and are simple showing him attention to exploit him for money. The additional £20 brought by Frankie's death could never buy Gypo an assembly of friends – indeed, in a bitter twist of irony, the money was only made possible by the betrayal and loss of one of his only good companions. A relatively simple fellow, Gypo could not possibly have fully considered the consequences of his actions, and is eventually offered forgiveness on account of his "not knowing what he was doing," but his foolishness must not go unpunished. 
Cooper, aged 51 at the time of the film's release, won his second Oscar for his portrayal of Kane, an aging hero who finds that he simply can't run away from a confrontation, not so much because he wants to be heroic, but because he knows that he'll never be able to live with himself. As he marches across the dry, dusty roads of the small town – abandoned by those he considered his friends – Kane's ravaged features exhibit a sad loneliness, the pain of rejection and betrayal all too tragically evident on his face {Cooper was suffering from stomach ulcers and back pain at the time of filming, which presumably assisted the actor in demonstrating such pained emotions}. Also starring is the lovely Grace Kelly in only her second film role, and, though she isn't really given much to do, her mere presence is enough to add some warmth to the picture. The story itself unfolds almost in real-time {105 story minutes compared to 85 minutes of running time}, and Zinnemann exploits this to heighten the tension. The camera frequently cuts to a shot of the nearest clock, which steadily and inevitably ticks away towards noon, every second bringing Kane ever-so-closer to his moment of judgement.
High Noon proved one of the most influential Westerns of its time, and films such as Delmer Dave's 3:10 to Yuma (1957) surely could not have existed if not for its inspiration. However, and I suspect I'll be alone in this assessment, I consider the latter to be the superior picture, not because its better acted or directed, but simply because I felt that Dave did a finer job of drawing the odds against the film's hero. Both pictures achieve excellent suspense by continually keeping one eye fixated on the nearest time-piece, but High Noon lacks an intimidating villain for the audience to fear. Indeed, most of the running-time builds up towards Frank Miller's arrival, but MacDonald unfortunately fails to live up to our worst expectations. High Noon was Carl Foreman's final film before he was affected by the Hollywood blacklist, and many critics view the story as an allegory for the McCarthy era witch-hunts: Kane obviously represents the solitary, stoic American citizen who is unfairly abandoned by his friends and colleagues, and leaves the town as a lonely, embittered soul, disillusioned by the cold, dishonourable community that he had once called home.
By 1950, director Jules Dassin had already released a string of well-received American film-noir thrillers, before falling victim to the Hollywood blacklist. Considered un-backable by the bulk of the European studios, Dassin languished in poverty for a period of five years, before he was offered the opportunity to direct a low-budget French thriller based on Auguste Le Breton's novel. Du rififi chez les hommes (1955) {which loosely translates to "of brawling among men," a suitable description for the destructive male behaviour that devastates their well-laid plans} proved Dassin's redemption of sorts, becoming an incredible critical and commercial success and winning Best Director at the 1955 Cannes Film Festival. Then-critic François Truffaut famously referred to Dassin's film as "the the best film noir I have ever seen," a lofty word of praise if there ever was one. Though the film differs from classic film noir in that the story unfolds in Paris, it contains sufficient elements of the movement to easily qualify. Indeed, Jean Servais' character, Tony le Stéphanois, might conceivably have been played by Humphrey Bogart – he may be a man past his prime, but he's proud, shrewd and decisive, and it'd be a mistake to get in his way.
Rififi takes a few minutes to fully swing into motion, and, though our introduction to the fellow team members is quite interesting, I found little importance in Tony's relationship with former girlfriend Mado (Marie Sabouret). It was possibly included to further flesh out his character, and to interestingly define the role of women in this particularly story, but I felt that Mado simply distracted from the caper that we were all here to see. However, the undisputed centrepiece of the film is undoubtedly the breathless 33-minute heist sequence, which is entirely devoid of all music and dialogue. The crime unfolds in almost complete silence, the thieves' quiet movements barely audible in the hushed atmosphere of the empty jewellry store. Every unexpected sound leaps out at the audience like a dagger, the single resonating note of a piano acting as the men's mortal enemy. Their ingenious heist unfolds like a meticulously-staged ballet {somewhat reminiscent of the extended pickpocketing sequence in Robert Bresson's Pickpocket (1959)}, every man completely and silently aware of his role in the operation. Following the successful jewel theft, composer Georges Auric is finally allowed to spread his musical wings, and Dassin begins to toy sadistically with the fates of his characters.
Dixon Steele (Humphrey Bogart) is a down-on-his-luck screenwriter, an unsuccessful artist who resents being pressured into writing hackneyed, unoriginal scripts, which are guaranteed money-makers for the studios but possess zero artistic integrity. The morning after he brings home a bar hat-check girl (Martha Stewart) to recite the plot of the novel he is to adapt, Steele is hauled into the police department to explain why the girl was found murdered, her strangled body dumped from a moving vehicle. Appearing almost indifferent to the crime, Steele declines all knowledge of the homicide, and his story is shakily corroborated by a neighbour, Laurel Gray (Gloria Grahame), with whom he forms an intimate relationship. As Steele begins to pen his latest screenplay, he uncovers an outlet for his pent-up aggression, however, when Laurel betrays a lingering suspicion that her love might possibly have perpetrated the horrific murder, he threatens to lash out in a fit of violence, only further cementing her misgivings. By the film's end, the tragedy of the couple's relationship is revealed: whether or not Steele actually did commit the murder is almost irrelevant; what ultimately dooms their romance is that he conceivably could have.
In an obvious critique of the Hollywood studio system, Steele bitterly condemns the career of a successful producer, accusing him of remaking the same movie twenty times and of being a "popcorn salesman." The producer, apparently comfortable with his prosperous but creatively-deficient profession, snidely reminds Steele that everyone in Hollywood is inherently a "popcorn salesman," so why fight it? It's this notion of creativity – or, rather, the lack of creativity in film-making – that forms the heart of In a Lonely Place. There's no doubt that Dixon Steele is a talented screenwriter, but his reluctance to allow his work to be influenced by popular opinion makes him feel trapped and alone, as though Hollywood is attempting to stamp out his genius. His frustration with the film-making business is allowed to accumulate steadily within, before being unleashed in adrenaline-charged explosions of aggression and violence. From here is born the dilemma of Laurel's relationship with him: it is Steele's creativity with which she most assuredly fell in love, but this gift is intrinsically linked with the hostility of which she is so frightened.
In the early period of his directing career, Lean collaborated with producer/writer Noel Coward on four occasions, and Brief Encounter is the result of their final partnership. The story was expanded from Coward's one-act place, "Still Life (1936)," and adapted by Anthony Havelock-Allan, Ronald Neame and Lean himself. In a refreshing change from most romantic pictures, Brief Encounter depicts love as a frustrating, tormenting and even violent emotion; though Laura is at first enchanted by her affection for the handsome Alec, the guilt caused by her disloyalty threatens to destroy her emotionally, and the bitter fact that her love is ultimately doomed leads her almost to suicide. Robert Krasker's cinematography is beautifully moody, often using locomotive smoke {multiple pivotal scenes take place at a train station} as an effective aesthetic device. Some have noted the film's apparent ties to the film noir genre, with Lean choosing to shoot much of the film in rain-slicked streets, dimly-lit interiors and unglamorous industrialised train stations; the film's conclusion notes the futility of love, and its tragic, detrimental effect on comfortable family relationships.
More than anything else, Brief Encounter is an exploration of family morality. There's no doubt that Laura loves her husband, but her life with him is so tedious and unstimulating that her weekly shopping journeys into London are all that keep her functioning. Laura's romantic liaison with Alec fills her with an unbridled joy, an emotion that so overwhelms her that it is not until hours later that the ethical implications of her actions finally strike home. The devastating moment when she first finds herself lying to her husband, a minor but all-important detail, is one of the film's most powerful moments, more so when Laura later muses: "It's awfully easy to lie when you know you're trusted implicitly." With its sympathetic attitude towards marital infidelity, a film such as Brief Encounter could never have been made in Hollywood. The Production Code {a.k.a. the Hays Code} strictly prohibited the portrayal of adulterous relationships that were "explicitly treated, or justified, or presented attractively." Nevertheless, the film was David Lean's greatest critical success to date, and his film was nominated for three Academy Awards {Best Actress, Best Director, Best Writing}, in addition to tying for the Grand Prize of the Cannes Film Festival.
Following the defeat of General Custer at the Battle of Little Bighorn, the American frontier is in disarray. Tribes of Native Americans – Cheyenne, Comanche, Apache – are forgetting their petty inter-tribal disputes and banding together in opposition to the invading settlers. Capt. Nathan Cutting Brittles, though somewhat reluctant to retire at such as crucial stage of the conflict, embarks on his final objective, though is hampered by the baggage of two women (Joanne Dru, Mildred Natwick) who must be evacuated before winter sets in. The film's storyline is somewhat inconsequential, never threatening to even approach the emotional depth of 'The Searchers,' and some of the film's events are almost incomprehensible to one who is ill-versed in American history and Westerns in general. However, Wayne's profound characterisation of Capt. Brittles forms the picture's core, and he is, indeed, astonishing in the subtle and thoughtful complexity that he brings to his character. The remaining, less-experienced players, such as Harry Carey Jr. and John Agar, aren't particularly memorable, but serve the story adequately and with presumably-sound authenticity. 
Fortunately, John Ford litters the rather lightweight story with an enjoyable amount of humour, compensating for the relative lack of emotional depth with sheer entertainment. Sgt. Quincannon (Victor McLaglen) provides most of the laughs, particularly during a drunken brawl sequence that sees him fending off seven able-bodied soldiers and still finding time to take another sip of whisky between swings. Also mildly amusing is the friction between lieutenants Flint Cohill and Ross Penell (Agar and Carey, Jr.), both of whom notice that Olivia Dandridge (Joanne Dru) is wearing a yellow ribbon, and hope that it is for them. The story's ending struck me as something of an anti-climax, even though, admittedly, it would have been downright arrogant for Ford to alter history. As the Native Americans congregate in preparation for a direct assault on their enemies, Brittles' stern conversation with Chief Pony That Walks (Chief John Big Tree) promises an incredible climactic battle of epic proportions. However, when John Wayne astutely manages to disrupt the planned attack by scattering the tribes’ horses, I couldn’t help feeling just a bit disappointed.
Jim Stark (Dean) is a rebellious seventeen-year-old, whose tendency to get into trouble with the police forces his family to move neighbourhoods often. He is one of three adolescents in the film whose degrading relationship with their parents – to varying degrees, as I'll explain – attempts to demonstrate and explain the widening rift between generations. Jim finds himself able to talk to his father (Jim Backus), but can next coax a straight answer out of him. Frank Stark is a meek, submissive husband – shown in one scene dressed in a woman's apron to highlight his lack of household authority – and Jim finds it difficult to respect him. Judy (Natalie Wood) can hardly interact with her father (William Hopper), as he resents her approaching maturity and labels her a "dirty tramp" for dressing up and using lipstick. As for the troubled Plato (Sal Mineo), his parents have more or less deserted him, and he is left in the care of an African-American maid who isn't able to control his disturbed personality. By the end of the film, Plato has become the story's "sacrificial lamb," his tragic shooting death the inevitable culmination of the neglect of his parents.
Had a lesser director held the reins during the film's production, it would have been easy for Rebel Without a Cause to erode in quality with the passing of time. A picture dealing with then-contemporary issues such as juvenile delinquency {today a considerably more complex and troubling subject} might now appear dated, but it holds up surprisingly well, both as a societal caution and as artistic entertainment. The first ten minutes do, indeed, feel something like a public service announcement, but the narrative falls into a comfortable rhythm as we come to know and sympathise with the major characters. Likewise, some outdated elements now seem exaggerated and a little silly {the consequences of the "chickie-run" didn't need to be quite so drastic – and Judy completely forgot the death of her boyfriend within hours}, but all is forgiven in view of James Dean's memorable, incredibly heartfelt performance. His anguished cry of "you're tearing me apart!" betrays the confusion and torment suffered by many youths stranded in a household that they can't understand, and whose shortcomings they blame on themselves – Jim's mother (Ann Doran), notably, uses her son's actions as a scapegoat for the failing of her marriage.
Princess Ann (Hepburn) is a royal princess from an unspecified European country. Her past weeks have been dedicated to a gruelling, highly-publicised tour of European capital cities, her every minute tightly scheduled. For the duration of her travels, Ann has been forced to maintain the pretense of an elegant, proper monarch, her time expended on tedious official duties. In an excruciating opening dance sequence, which is later contrasted with the jovial celebrations aboard the barge on the Tiber River, Ann is forced to waltz with a progressively older selection of male dignitaries, each more unattractive than the last. Though we're not explicitly told the princess' age {Hepburn was 24 years old at the time, though her character tries to pass herself off as a school student}, such a lifestyle is understandably ill-suited to such a beautiful young lady. One night, after being given a sedative to quell her restlessness, Ann secretly escapes from her country's embassy and decides to enjoy a stroll through colourful Rome. A gruff newspaper journalist, Joe Bradley (Peck), finds her sleeping on a street bench, and begrudgingly takes her back to his apartment.
Roman Holiday really hits its stride in the second act, once Joe has discovered the Princess' true identity and decides to exploit her innocence for the purposes of an exclusive story. Photojournalist Irving Radovich (Oscar-nominated Eddie Albert, whose performance struck me as surprisingly modern) is dragged along to secretly take photographs, but his apparent inability to take a hint leads to the systematic destruction of his clean clothes. The final touching scene, in which the pair communicate their love and respect for one another through official allusion {"By all means, Rome. I will cherish my visit here in memory as long as I live"}, proves particularly powerful. The closing shot, a backward-moving tracking shot following Joe as he retreats from the girl he loves, has a noticeable sense of tragedy about it. Throughout the shot, we are almost waiting for Princess Ann to emerge in the background to proclaim her adoration, but, alas, she never does. After all, life can not always be a fairy-tale, but sometimes one day is enough.
We first find the Tramp {whom Chaplin liked to call the "little fellow"} at a carnival, completely devoid of money, where a devious pickpocket (Steve Murphy) has stashed his winnings into the Tramp's trouser pocket. As he tries to pickpocket his money back, a policeman catches him, and, completely befuddled, the Tramp finds himself graciously thanking the officer for returning the money that he never knew he had. Needless to say, it doesn't take long before both the Tramp and the pickpocket find themselves frantically fleeing the authorities, and Chaplin takes refuge in a maze of mirrors, where the policemen can certainly see their quarry, but can't decide which of the dozen reflections is real. Following a hot pursuit, the Tramp finds himself scuttling through a circus tent in the middle of a performance, and the audience is left in hysterics by his inadvertently hilarious antics. The The Circus Proprietor (Al Ernest Garcia), desperate for anyone who might save his floundering show, hires the Tramp immediately, but deliberately neglects to inform him that he is the star attraction. 
As was typical in most of Chaplin's pictures, there is also a love interest that forms the story's emotional heart. Merna Kennedy plays one of the circus performers, the ill-treated step-daughter of the show's proprietor. When they first meet, the Tramp scolds the hungered girl for stealing his meagre breakfast, but quickly takes pity on her, and eventually falls in love. Realising that he lacks the means to provide any respectable life for the women he loves, the Tramp graciously surrenders any notions of marrying her, instead convincing Rex (Harry Crocker), a handsome and upright tight-rope walker, to take her hand in marriage. The film's final image, of Chaplin sitting alone in the newly-deserted field where the circus once resided, is almost achingly poignant, a perfect illustration of the lonely lifestyle that he must lead each day. It was Charles Chaplin, in even his early films, who discovered that tragedy and comedy were never too far apart: though The Circus doesn't quite balance the two as evenly as his various masterpieces, such as Modern Times (1936) and The Great Dictator (1940), it remains a joyous slapstick romp, with more than enough heart to go around._01.jpg)
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