TSPDT ranking: #253
Directed by: Nicholas Ray
Written by: Dorothy B. Hughes (story), Edmund H. North (adaptation), Andrew Solt (screenplay)
Starring: Humphrey Bogart, Gloria Grahame, Frank Lovejoy, Carl Benton Reid, Art Smith, Jeff Donnell, Martha Stewart
In 1950, Billy Wilder released his latest masterpiece, Sunset Blvd., a scathing satire on the pitfalls of Hollywood celebrity, delicately drawing a contrast between the deluded and volatile has-been Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) and the scheming wanna-be screenwriter Joe Gillis (William Holden). While Wilder's film deservedly received an overwhelming critical response, and its share of controversy, another impressive, similarly-themed film slipped beneath the radar that same year. For decades, director Nicholas Ray was overlooked and neglected by most film critics, before developing something of a cult following in the 1970s, and films such as Rebel Without a Cause (1955) – which I first watched just a week ago – are now recognised as masterpieces. In a Lonely Place (1950) has only now been lauded as one of the finest entries into the film-noir movement, and Humphrey Bogart's performance has emerged as among the most intense and profound in his distinguished repertoire. A brooding study of aggression, trust and success, Ray's film meticulously deconstructs the Hollywood myth, revealing a frightening world where the man you love could very well be a murderer.
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.
8/10
Currently my #4 film of 1950:
1) Sunset Blvd. (Billy Wilder)
2) Harvey (Henry Koster)
3) Rashômon (Akira Kurosawa)
4) In a Lonely Place (Nicholas Ray)
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)
10 years ago
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