Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me (David Lynch, 1992)

Sheryl Lee in Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me

Cast: Sheryl Lee, Ray Wise, Mädchen Amick, Dana Ashbrook, Phoebe Augustine, Eric DaRe, Grace Zabriskie, Moira Kelly, James Marshall, Chris Isaak, Kiefer Sutherland, David Lynch, Harry Dean Stanton, Kyle MacLachlan, David Bowie, Pamela Gidley, Miguel Ferrer. Screenplay: David Lynch, Robert Engels, based on the television series by Lynch and Mark Frost. Cinematography: Ronald Victor García. Production design: Patricia Norris. Film editing: Mary Sweeney. Music: Angelo Badalamenti.

Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me was widely panned when it was released, but it has since developed a stout corps of admirers, some of whom think it's Lynch's masterpiece. I think I would have been among the naysayers when it first appeared, partly because I was never a follower of the TV series for which it's a prequel, an account of the last days of Laura Palmer, the teenager whose murder precipitated so much confusion and intrigue in the town of Twin Peaks. The film begins with another murder, that of Teresa Banks, another teenager in another town, and the investigators are not the familiar Dale Cooper and Harry S. Truman of the TV series, but Chester Desmond (Chris Isaak) and Sam Stanley (Kiefer Sutherland), who are sent on their mission by FBI Regional Bureau Chief Gordon Cole (David Lynch) in scenes that have an off-beat enigmatic style: They're hilariously weird and played in a dead-pan artificial manner. But Lynch switches tone and style when we reach Twin Peaks a year later, shifting to his usual plausible nightmare mode. For devotees of the series, there are cameo appearances by familiar characters as well as some allusions that went over my head. But at its essence, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me is a straightforward story of a lost girl, caught up in a web of sex and drugs and adolescent rebellion. It seems to me that Lynch does this much better in other films, like Blue Velvet (1986) and Mulholland Dr. (2001), that aren't encumbered with the mythos generated by a popular TV series.

Hedwig and the Angry Inch (John Cameron Mitchell, 2001)

John Cameron Mitchell in Hedwig and the Angry Inch

Cast: John Cameron Mitchell, Miriam Shor, Michael Pitt, Andrea Martin, Maurice Dean Wint, Ben Mayer-Goodman, Alberta Watson, Stephen Trask, Theodore Liscinski, Rob Campbell, Michael Aronov, Gene Pyrz. Screenplay: John Cameron Mitchell, based on the musical by Mitchell and Stephen Trask. Cinematography: Frank G. DeMarco. Production design: Thérèse DePrez. Film editing: Andrew Marcus. Music: Stephen Trask.

If nothing else, Hedwig and the Angry Inch is a landmark in queer culture, a rock musical about a non-binary performer that moved from Off-Broadway to movies to a Broadway production with big-name stars like Neil Patrick Harris and Darren Criss. But is it anything else? Does it deserve to be celebrated as something other than a colorful anomaly in the usually gender-stable milieu of theater and film? Does it speak to anything enduring about humanity? I think it probably does, largely because it extended my sympathies to a portion of humanity of which I'm not a part, but that's fortunately not for me to decide. I enjoyed it, which may just be enough.

Barking Dogs Never Bite (Bong Joon-ho, 2000)

Lee Sung-Jae and Doona Bae in Barking Dogs Never Bite

Cast: Lee Sung-Jae, Doona Bae, Kim Ho-jung, Byun Hee-Bong, Go Su-hee, Kim Roe-ha, Kim Gin-goo, Im Sang-soo, Seong Jeong-seon. Screenplay: Bong Joon-ho, Song Ji-ho, Derek Son Tae-woong. Cinematography: Cho Yong-kyou. Production design: Lee Hang. Film editing: Lee Eun Soo. Music: Jo Sung-woo.

After watching several films by Bong Joon-ho, I should know to expect the unexpected, but even his very first feature, Barking Dogs Never Bite, threw me for a loop. What to make of a film whose protagonist, an unemployed academic kept sleepless by the demands of his pregnant wife and a barking dog in his apartment building, captures what he thinks is the offending animal and, failing in his attempt to throw it off the roof or to hang it by its leash, shuts it into a cabinet, but after finding that it was the wrong dog, unable to bark because of a throat operation, returns to the basement to release it, only to find that it's being stewed and eaten by the janitor? Moreover, after this experience, he does find the barker and this time succeeds in throwing it off the roof. And eventually the janitor finds the carcass and eats it too. Would it be fair to say that a failure of tone if not taste has taken place? But tone is something, to judge by Bong's other films, the director thumbs his nose at. Suffice it to say that there's something to offend almost everyone in Barking Dogs Never Bite, which seems to delight in treating animal cruelty as a subject for comedy. The film actually begins with the proclamation that no animals were harmed in its production, which doesn't exactly get Bong off the hook for his depiction of animal abuse. But what it does is remind us that this is "only a movie," or that we should approach the film with the awareness that there's a reason it's going to shock or offend us. The reason, I think is that Bong wants us to question our reactions, to examine why our responses are the way they are. Does the death of the small animal flung from the roof offend us more or less than the death of its somewhat addled human owner? Barking Dogs Never Bite doesn't succeed in part because it meanders a bit into the lives of its ancillary characters, such as the young woman who accidentally witnesses the killing of the second dog and pursues the killer, filled with dreams of being celebrated as a hero on television when she captures him. And then there's the protagonist's attempt to raise enough money to bribe a dean into giving him a professorship. It often seems as if Bong had ideas for at least three movies that he tried to blend into one. Still, as an expression of an ironic vision by a gifted artist, the movie can't be dismissed simply as a failure. Rather, it's an astonishing feature film debut by a director who would find his footing soon enough. 

Terminator 2: Judgment Day (James Cameron, 1991)

Cast: Arnold Schwarzenegger, Linda Hamilton, Edward Furlong, Robert Patrick, Joe Morton, Earl Boen, S. Epatha Merkerson, Castulo Guerra, Jenette Goldstein, Xander Berkeley, Danny Cooksey. Screenplay: James Cameron, William Wisher. Cinematography: Adam Greenberg. Production design: Joseph C. Nemec III. Film editing: Conrad Buff IV, Mark Goldblatt, Richard A. Harris. Music: Brad Fiedel.

In 1983, President Ronald Reagan announced his support of the Strategic Defense Initiative, a complex system that would use satellites to detect the launch of nuclear missiles and then destroy them in mid-flight with automatically launched anti-ballistic missiles. Critics of SDI called it unrealistic, fanciful, and ultimately destablizing for international peace. It became known by a nickname familiar from the movies: "star wars." The following year, James Cameron released a film called The Terminator in which a cyborg arrived from the future to make sure that a potential leader of a rebellion against his fellow cyborgs and other creatures of artificial intelligence never gets born. It wasn't immediately clear to most people at the time that Cameron's film contained a sly reference to what many people feared might be a consequence of Reagan's SDI: out-of-control automated weaponry. By 1991, when Cameron released the sequel to that film, Terminator 2: Judgment Day, that reference had become explicit: The "Skynet" of the sequel is clearly a fantasized version of SDI, in which the AI creations began a war against humans with a nuclear strike that killed three billion people in 1997. Today, that historical subtext is probably lost on most viewers of the movie, as Reagan's "star wars" has faded from memory, except in some think tanks and Pentagon brainstorming sessions. But to those of us who lived through the Reagan years, the reference in the movie was more than just subtext. There are some actual digs at supporters of SDI in the film, as when Miles Dyson (Joe Morton), the scientist behind Skynet, attempts to defend technological research and John Connor (Edward Furlong) retorts that the kind of research that proceeds without considering the consequences produced the hydrogen bomb. One of the most ardent proponents of SDI, who sold Reagan on the idea, was Edward Teller, the physicist who became known as "the father of the hydrogen bomb," a title he never fully rejected. But even without the historical underpinnings, Terminator 2 is a kind of landmark in popular entertainment: an exciting concoction of violence and special effects, with old-fashioned touches of humanity and wit that lots of today's CGI blockbusters no longer find necessary. Cameron never seems content just to dazzle us but to make us think and feel. If there's too much feeling in his Titanic (1997) and not enough thought in Avatar (2009), there's the right amount of both in Terminator 2.  

Magnet of Doom (Jean-Pierre Melville, 1963)

Jean-Paul Belmondo and Charles Vanel in Magnet of Doom

Cast: Jean-Paul Belmondo, Charles Vanel, Michèle Mercier, Malvina Silberberg, Stefania Sandrelli, Todd Martin, E.F. Medard, Barbara Sommers, André Certes, Andrex, Jerry Mengo, Delia Kent, Ginger Hall. Screenplay: Jean-Pierre Melville, based on a novel by Georges Simenon. Cinematography: Henri Decaë. Production design: Daniel Guéret. Film editing: Monique Bonnot, Claude Durand. Music: Georges Delerue.

I don't know what the title Magnet of Doom means -- the original French title is L'aîné des Ferchaux, which means "The elder Ferchaux" -- but its elusive quality seems about right for Jean-Pierre Melville's shaggy dog of a movie. Ostensibly a thriller, a genre of which Melville was a master, Magnet of Doom meanders as much as the road trip which its central characters, Michel Maudet (Jean-Paul Belmondo) and Dieudonné Ferchaux (Charles Vanel), set out upon. Especially in its peregrinations through the United States, it reminds me a bit of Wim Wenders's Alice in the Cities (1974) and even more of Jim Jarmusch's Stranger Than Paradise (1984), two films that I suspect owe a bit to Melville's movie, and even more to Henri Decaë's cinematography for it. The story, such as it is, details the flight from prosecution in France of crooked banker Ferchaux, accompanied by Michel, a young man he hires as a secretary. Since Michel is a lean, lithe ex-boxer played by lean, lithe ex-boxer Belmondo, there's a touch of homoeroticism in Ferchaux's choice of secretary, especially since the interview is perfunctory and it becomes clear that Michel doesn't really know how to type -- he does it with two fingers. Mostly Michel's job is to drive Ferchaux on his trip through the States to New Orleans. At the outset, Michel is taciturn and submissive, doing Ferchaux's bidding without question. But after they make a stop at a bank in New York City where Ferchaux has a safe-deposit box full of cash that he loads into a suitcase, Michel begins to assert himself a little: One of his first stops on their trip is in Hoboken, N.J., so he can see the birthplace of Frank Sinatra, whom he idolizes. And after they pick up an improbably pretty hitchhiker named Angie, played by Stefania Sandrelli, he begins to turn the tables on Ferchaux, ordering the older man into the back seat and stopping to go for a swim in a river with Angie. Ferchaux regains control, however, by flinging the cash from the suitcase off a cliff, holding on to a wad of money that he can use to maintain dominance. Michel and Angie clamber down the hill to retrieve what they can of the money. But when they stop at a service station and Michel goes to the restroom while Ferchaux dozes, Angie absconds with the suitcase containing the recovered cash and hitches a ride with a trucker. Michel gives chase and outruns the truck, gets the money back, and orders the trucker to leave and Angie to resume hitchhiking. The rest of the film is a series of power plays between Ferchaux and Michel as they wait in a cabin near New Orleans for the arrival of the money Ferchaux has arranged to be sent to him upon the closing of his main account in New York, after which they plan to avoid extradition by taking up residence in Venezuela. But the older man begins to suffer health problems and Michel starts to collaborate with the authorities who are pursuing Ferchaux. This summary makes the film sound more cut-and-dried than it is, however. The pacing is, if not off, at least off-beat, sometimes engaging, sometimes lethargic, and sometimes frustrating. Melville's take on America makes it worth watching, and the performances of Belmondo and Vanel are as good as one might anticipate. It's the kind of film you watch just to try to anticipate what's going to happen next, and you usually can't.

The Children's Hour (William Wyler, 1961)

Audrey Hepburn, James Garner, and Shirley MacLaine in The Children's Hour

Cast: Audrey Hepburn, Shirley MacLaine, James Garner, Miriam Hopkins, Fay Bainter, Karen Balkin, Veronica Cartwright, Mimi Gibson, Debbie Moldow, Diane Mountford, William Mims, Sally Brophy, Hope Summers. Screenplay: John Michael Hayes, Lillian Hellman, based on a play by Hellman. Cinematography: Franz Planer. Art direction: Fernando Carrere. Film editing: Robert Swink. Music: Alex North.

Time has not been kind to Lillian Hellman's The Children's Hour, either the play or the second film adaptation. It had been filmed once before, also under the direction of William Wyler, as These Three, in 1936, only two years after it had become a Broadway sensation. At that time, the central accusation that the two schoolmistresses, Karen and Martha, were lesbians had to be changed to a heterosexual moral transgression -- that both were lovers of the same man, Dr. Joe Cardin. Despite this bowdlerization, there are many who think that the earlier movie is the better one, largely because it puts the emphasis on what Hellman said was the play's theme: "the power of a lie." In our contemporary climate, the idea that Karen and Martha might be lovers has much less power to shock, so that to our eyes, the furor that arises from a child's confused and devious accusation seems excessive. But perhaps more to the point is an artistic one: In today's LGBT community the idea that a work of fiction dealing with non-heterosexual relationships has to end in the death of one or more of its supposed transgressors has been labeled a "kill the queers syndrome." Even more recent films such as Boys Don't Cry (Kimberly Peirce, 1999) and Brokeback Mountain (Ang Lee, 2005), though praised for dealing candidly with transgender characters and gay relationships, have been faulted for too easily resolving their plots by having their central characters murdered by bigots. The Children's Hour falls more blatantly into this trap with Martha's suicide, which seems not to come out of anything integral to the character but instead out of the need for a dramatic conclusion to the play and film. It's a film with good performances, though its actors sometimes have to struggle against their star personae. James Garner was so familiar as a smart aleck on the TV series Maverick that he feels a little miscast as Dr. Cardin, Karen's fiancé, who is unable to convince her that he may indeed have believed in the rumor about her relationship with Martha. Audrey Hepburn, too, carries the aura of winsome romantic comedy heroine into her performance as Karen, but is more successful at overcoming the image. Of the three leads, Shirley MacLaine is the most successful, since she doesn't have to deal with a too-precisely established screen persona, and she brings real depth to Martha's conflicts, including her simmering resentment of Karen's supposed abandonment of their plans in order to marry Joe, and her anguished recognition of her possibly repressed lesbianism. But the real standouts in the cast are the supporting players, Miriam Hopkins (who had played Martha in These Three) as the flibbertigibbet Aunt Lily and Fay Bainter, Oscar-nominated for her role as Amelia Tilford, whose credulity when her niece tells her the lie about Karen and Martha brings about the crisis. Wyler's direction is, as always, precise and professional, and the art direction of Fernando Carrere and the cinematography of Franz Planer make the primary setting, the girls school, follow the film's changes in mood, from innocent to grim.

Experiment in Terror (Blake Edwards, 1962

Lee Remick and Ross Martin in Experiment in Terror

Cast: Lee Remick, Glenn Ford, Ross Martin, Stefanie Powers, Roy Poole, Ned Glass, Anita Loo, Patricia Huston, Gilbert Green, Clifton James, Al Avalon, William Bryant, Dick Crockett, James Lanphier. Screenplay: Gordon Gordon, Mildred Gordon, based on their novel. Cinematography: Philip H. Lathrop. Art direction: Robert Peterson. Film editing: Patrick McCormack. Music: Henry Mancini.

Experiment in Terror is a moody but slackly paced thriller that was the first film directed by Blake Edwards after his smash hit Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961). He would follow it up with another dark but more successful movie, Days of Wine and Roses (1962), also starring Lee Remick, but he became best known for his lighter work, especially the series of Peter Sellers comedies that began with The Pink Panther in 1963. Experiment in Terror begins well, with Kelly Sherwood (Remick) arriving home from her job in a San Francisco bank only to be trapped in her garage by a man who threatens to kill her or her sister if she doesn't help him steal $100,000 from the bank. It's an intense, well-played scene, filmed with some harrowing long-take closeups of Remick and the shadowy figure of the man, who speaks with a kind of raspy wheeze. This is all she can really tell the FBI when she defies the man's order not to contact the police. The agent who takes her call, John Ripley (Glenn Ford), immediately sets in motion an attempt to identify and trap the man, whose identity becomes clearer to us only as it becomes clearer to the G-men. He's "Red" Lynch, played very creepily by Ross Martin, a character actor familiar from TV, on which he had a recurring role in a series created by Edwards, Mr. Lucky, in 1959 and 1960, and would later gain more fame as Artemus Gordon on the late '60s series The Wild Wild West. In the course of the film, Red terrorizes and murders another woman before finally getting shot down on the pitcher's mound after a Giants-Dodgers game at the late, unlamented Candlestick Park in San Francisco, one of several locations used to good effect in the film. Unfortunately, a lot of the burden of the film falls on Ford, who gives a bland, colorless performance as Ripley, and Edwards doesn't build suspense effectively. Some of the fault of the film may lie in its screenplay by the married writing couple known as The Gordons, adapting their own novel. What life the film has comes from Remick and Martin, from Philip H. Lathrop's views of San Francisco, and from a score by Edwards's frequent collaborator, Henry Mancini.

Sons and Lovers (Jack Cardiff, 1960)

Dean Stockwell and Wendy Hiller in Sons and Lovers

Cast: Dean Stockwell, Wendy Hiller, Trevor Howard, Mary Ure, Heather Sears, William Lucas, Conrad Phillips, Ernest Thesiger, Donald Pleasance, Rosalie Crutchley, Sean Barrett. Screenplay: Gavin Lambert, T.E.B. Clarke, based on a novel by D.H. Lawrence. Cinematography: Freddie Francis. Production design: Thomas N. Morahan. Film editing: Gordon Pilkington. Music: Mario Nascimbene.

Dean Stockwell has had an interesting career, or rather three careers. He started as a child actor in movies like Anchors Aweigh (George Sidney, 1945) and The Boy With Green Hair (Joseph Losey, 1948), then matured into a handsome actor of considerable resources, holding his own in the company of Katharine Hepburn, Ralph Richardson, and Jason Robards in Sidney Lumet's 1962 filming of Eugene O'Neill's Long Day's Journey Into Night. He never quite made it as a movie star, however, and did most of his work in television before re-emerging in the 1980s as an off-beat character actor, most memorably in Paris, Texas (Wim Wenders, 1984), Blue Velvet (David Lynch, 1986), and Married to the Mob (Jonathan Demme, 1988), earning an Oscar nomination for the last film. Sons and Lovers is probably Stockwell's most impressive work as a young leading man. He maintains a credible British accent and stands up well to such legendary actors as Wendy Hiller and Trevor Howard. The film itself is more solid than impressive. It was originally envisioned by producer Jerry Wald with Montgomery Clift as Paul Morel, but fell afoul of the Production Code enforcers' strictures on extramarital sex: For the story to make any sense, or at least to cohere to something like D.H. Lawrence's vision of the characters, Paul has to deflower the repressed Miriam (Heather Sears) and have a passionate affair with Clara (Mary Ure), who is married but separated from her husband. So the film was shelved and Clift grew too old for the role. When the Code was on its last legs, Wald revived the project and commissioned a fresh screenplay. The film version tosses out a lot of the novel, but tries to evoke Lawrence's vision of the somewhat Oedipal relationship of Paul and his mother (Hiller) and her still-simmering sexual attraction to Paul's father (Howard), as well as the frigidity instilled in Miriam by her pious mother (Rosalie Crutchley). The relationship with Clara is a bit more sketchy, suggesting that social pressure rather than psychosexual incompatibility leads to its breakup. All of these relationships encumber the film with a lot of talk, though Freddie Francis's cinematography gives it a good deal of visual interest. Francis won a well-deserved Oscar for his deft use of the often unwieldy CinemaScope aspect ratio, coming up with some impressive compositions, sometimes placing the actors off to the side in long-shots and often posing one figure in the foreground and another recessed into the frame. It may also be noted that the director, Jack Cardiff, was himself an Oscar-winning cinematographer.

Okja (Bong Joon-ho, 2017)

Ahn Seo-hyn in Okja

Cast: Ahn Seo-hyun, Tilda Swinton, Paul Dano, Jake Gyllenhaal, Byun Hee-bong, Giancarlo Esposito, Steven Yeun, Lily Collins, Yun Jee-moon, Shirley Henderson, Daniel Henshall, Devon Bostick, Choi Woo-shik, Choi Hee-seo. Screenplay: Bong Joon-ho, Jon Ronson. Cinematography: Darius Khondji. Production design: Lee Ha-jun, Kevin Thompson. Film editing: Yang Jin-mo. Music: Jung Jae-il.

In comparison with the other films by Bong Joon-ho I've seen, Parasite (2019) and Snowpiercer (2013), Okja seems to me a bit of a misfire, like a kids' movie gone dark, Charlotte's Web crossed with The Shape of Water. It often feels over-frantic, when what I want it to do is score its points against corporate hype and hypocrisy cleanly and without shouting them at us. The film centers on the Mirando Corporation's attempt to develop and market a "superpig," which involves creating animals in a lab and then farming the superpiglets out around the world, seeing which environment is most successful. The winner is judged to be the superpig -- which looks like a cross between a pig, a dog, and a hippopotamus -- raised by Mija (Ahn Seo-yeun) and her grandfather (Byun Hee-bong) on their small farm in the mountains of South Korea. The kids' movie part of the film is the affection of the girl for her pig, but of course things go awry when the corporation, headed by the air-headed Lucy Mirando (Tilda Swinton), decides to declare Okja the best of all superpigs -- followed, of course, by introducing all manner of superpig food products, something that Mija never suspects. Lucy's henchmen include Johnny Wilcox, a star of TV animal programs, played a little too frantically against type by Jake Gyllenhaal, and the  suave corporado Frank Dawson, in a more understatedly sinister performance by Giancarlo Esposito. Things go awry when an animal-rights organization, a caricature of PETA (which often seems to caricature itself), staffed by enthusiasts who give themselves pseudonyms like Jay (Paul Dano) and K. (Steven Yeun), take Okja's side and plot to expose the mistreatment of the superpigs in Mirando's terrifying abattoir. There's also a subplot about Lucy and her supposedly more evil sister, Nancy, also played by Swinton, but it feels unnecessary. There is some fun to be had in the film, with its elaborate chase scenes, but I found myself a little exhausted by its end.

Raffles (George Fitzmaurice, 1930)

Kay Francis and Ronald Colman in Raffles

Cast: Ronald Colman, Kay Francis, David Torrence, Frederick Kerr, Bramwell Fletcher, Alison Skipworth, John Rogers, Wilson Benge, Frances Dade. Screenplay: Sidney Howard, based on a novel by E.W. Hornung and a play by Eugene Wiley Presbrey. Cinematography: George Barnes, Gregg Toland. Art direction: Park French, William Cameron Menzies. Film editing: Stuart Heisler.

Samuel Goldwyn's 1930 version of the old chestnut Raffles, about a gentleman jewel thief known as "the amateur cracksman," was reportedly made as both as a silent film and a talkie simultaneously. It's easy to spot scenes that would work in both versions, such as the one in which Raffles (Ronald Colman) woos Gwen (Kay Francis) in an automobile: We see them through the windshield, but we don't hear what they're saying -- just the sound of the engine running. Colman was one of the silent stars who made the transition to talkies easily, possessing not only good looks but also a speaking voice to match, and his performance in Raffles looks and sounds natural and easy-going. The film, unfortunately, still suffers from some of the sluggishness of early talkies, with dialogue that doesn't flow but chugs along, with pauses between lines that feel as if they're waiting for a title card to be inserted. It's a pre-Production Code film, so Raffles doesn't have to be punished for his crimes at the end -- he simply escapes, with the Scotland Yard inspector who has almost nabbed him admitting in the film's curtain line, "One can't help liking him." The movie was nominated for an Oscar for sound recording, and the nominee, Oscar Lagerstrom, was attentive to background noises like footsteps and car engines, though the version of the film available today is notable for the rumbles and whispers of the soundtrack, unsweetened by a music score.

Murder by Contract (Irving Lerner, 1958)

Herschel Bernardi, Phillip Pine, and Vince Edwards in Murder by Contract

Cast: Vince Edwards, Phillip Pine, Herschel Bernardi, Caprice Toriel, Michael Granger, Kathie Browne, Joseph Mell, Frances Osborne, Steven Rich, Davis Roberts, Don Garrett, Gloria Victor. Screenplay: Ben Simcoe. Cinematography: Lucien Ballard. Art direction: Jack Poplin. Film editing: Carlo Lodati. Music: Perry Botkin Sr.

Irving Lerner's lean, clever Murder by Contract is a favorite of Martin Scorsese's, and you can detect its influence in his work, especially in the character of Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver (1976). Claude, the central character of Lerner's movie, is a loner and an enigma, who like Travis works off some of his sociopathic urges by exercise. Brawny, brooding Vince Edwards, who gained some fame in the 1960s as brawny, brooding Dr. Ben Casey on television, plays the hit man Claude, who is both a sociopath and a misogynist -- he refers to women as "pigs" and freaks out when he discovers that his latest target is a woman: "The human female is descended from the monkey, and monkeys are about the most curious animal in the world. If anything goes on, it just can't stand not to know about it. Same thing with a woman." We first meet Claude in a wonderfully elliptical scene in which he's applying to a Mr. Moon (Michael Granger) for a job. We aren't told what the job is, and we never even meet the man named Brink who is the actual employer, but our suspicions, if we have them, are confirmed when Claude is put to the test in a couple of contract killings. Succeeding in them, he's sent to Los Angeles, where he connects with a pair of Brink's henchmen, George (Herschel Bernardi) and Marc (Phillip Pine), who help him set up for the murder of the key witness in an upcoming trial. But Claude keeps his cool, stalling George and Marc, insisting on touring L.A. before finally setting up for the kill. The result is some entertaining scenes in which Claude frustrates the hot-headed Marc but wins over the more intelligent George. Marc mockingly refers to Claude as "Superman," which is more apt in the Nietzschean sense than in the DC Comics sense -- some have even called Murder by Contract an "existentialist film noir." The movie falls apart a bit at the end, which feels anticlimactic, though it's hard to see how it could have topped the very good beginning and middle. Ben Simcoe is the credited writer, but Ben Maddow, who wrote the screenplay for John Huston's The Asphalt Jungle (1950) and probably the best movie made from a novel by William Faulkner, Intruder in the Dust (Clarence Brown, 1949), is said to have worked on the script.

Anchors Aweigh (George Sidney, 1945)

Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra in Anchors Aweigh

Cast: Gene Kelly, Frank Sinatra, Kathryn Grayson, José Iturbi, Dean Stockwell, Pamela Britton, Rags Ragland, Billy Gilbert, Henry O'Neill, Carlos Ramirez, Edgar Kennedy, Grady Sutton, Leon Ames, Sharon McManus. Screenplay: Isobel Lennart, Natalie Marcin. Cinematography: Charles P. Boyle, Robert H. Planck. Art direction: Randall Duell, Cedric Gibbons. Film editing: Adrienne Fazan. Music: George Stoll.

Anchors Aweigh is not in the top tier of MGM musicals. It doesn't have the smooth integration of story with music found in Vincente Minnelli's Meet Me in St. Louis (1944) and An American in Paris (1951) or Stanley Donen and Gene Kelly's Singin' in the Rain (1952). What it does have is Kelly in his breakthrough film, blazing with his uniquely muscular dancing style in some great set pieces, not only the famously beloved sequence in which he dances with Jerry the Mouse, but also in the charming "Mexican Hat Dance" with little Sharon McManus and the spectacular "La Cumparsita" that has him doing stunt leaps and swinging from a curtain to a balcony occupied by Kathryn Grayson. Kelly did the choreography for these numbers, and they depend heavily on long takes that show the dancing to best advantage. But the film also has Frank Sinatra, still in his skinny idol-of-the-bobby-soxers phase, which earned him top billing -- Grayson is billed second and Kelly third. He's in fine voice, and the phrasing that would make him one of the best singers who ever lived is already in evidence; he was also coached by Kelly into being a more-than-passable dancing partner. Unfortunately, the film also has Grayson, the least charming and talented of the run of Hollywood sopranos that began with Jeanette MacDonald and encompassed singers like Grace Moore, Lily Pons, and Deanna Durbin before fizzling out with Jane Powell. Plus there's José Iturbi, the pianist and conductor whose movie stardom remains a mystery (at least to me); he hashes up the Liszt Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 in a number shot at the Hollywood Bowl where he's accompanied by a stage full of young pianists. The plot, such as it is, hangs on Kelly and Sinatra getting Grayson, with whom both have fallen in love, an audition with Iturbi at MGM and then figuring out which of them will get Grayson. The whole thing unaccountably earned an Oscar nomination for best picture, but it also landed Kelly his only nomination as best actor. It was also nominated for cinematography and for Jule Styne and Sammy Cahn's song "I Fall in Love Too Easily," which Sinatra introduced, and it won for George Stoll's scoring.

The Lineup (Don Siegel, 1958)

Eli Wallach and Robert Keith in The Lineupw

Cast: Eli Wallach, Robert Keith, Richard Jaeckel, Warner Anderson, Mary LaRoche, William Leslie, Emile Meyer, Marshall Reed, Raymond Bailey, Vaughn Taylor, Cheryl Callaway, Robert Bailey. Screenplay: Stirling Silliphant. Cinematography: Hal Mohr. Art direction: Ross Bellah. Film editing: Al Clark. Music: Mischa Bakaleinikoff.

The Lineup is a police procedural based on a popular radio and TV series that centers on uncovering a drug-smuggling ring that uses unwitting tourists to bring in heroin concealed in works of art and toys sold to them in Asian countries. The title seems to be a bid to draw in viewers of the TV show: The one lineup in the film is incidental to the procedural part of the story, which is really the less interesting part of the movie. Actors Warner Anderson and Marshall Reed play the detectives in charge of things with the stiff "just the facts, ma'am" manner characteristic of cop shows of the day, but things only begin to get interesting when we meet the villains. Eli Wallach gets top billing as Dancer, a twitchy psychopath under the guidance of the more cerebral Julian (Robert Keith), who doesn't like to get his hands dirty and has never shot a gun, but collects people's last words, reported to him by Dancer. They're joined by Sandy McLain (Richard Jaeckel), the driver supplied to them by the head of the operation, known as The Man (Vaughn Taylor). Sandy is an alcoholic -- Julian refers to him as a "dipsomaniac" -- who keeps a pint handy in his suit pocket, but knows how to drive a car fast through San Francisco streets. And it's those streets that perhaps supply the most interest in the film today, with fascinating location shots including some now-vanished landmarks: the Embarcadero Freeway, which was never finished and was torn down after the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake, and the Sutro Baths, a museum and ice-skating rink that was destroyed by an arsonist's fire in 1966. Hal Mohr's camera and Don Siegel's direction make the most of these and other settings. Sometimes the settings seem to drive the plot: There's not much reason to have one of the victimized tourists be an administrator of the San Francisco Opera other than to have a scene shot in the handsome lobby of the Opera House, and Dancer and Julian have a hideout in Daly City that affords a sweeping view of the San Francisco airport and the bay beyond. Still, The Lineup is a swift-moving entertainment with a lot of action and suspense.

Excalibur (John Boorman, 1981)

Helen Mirren and Nigel Williamson in Excalibur

Cast: Nigel Terry, Helen Mirren, Nicholas Clay, Cherie Lunghi, Nicol Williamson, Robert Addie, Gabriel Byrne, Keith Buckley, Katrine Boorman, Liam Neeson, Corin Redgrave, Niall O'Brien, Patrick Stewart, Clive Swift, Ciarán Hinds. Screenplay: Rospo Pallenberg, John Boorman, based on a book by Thomas Malory. Cinematography: Alec Thomson. Production design: Anthony Pratt. Film editing: John Merritt. Music: Trevor Jones.

John Boorman's Excalibur may be the best of the many movie versions of the Arthurian legend, or perhaps just the most faithful to the traditional stories as told from Malory to Tennyson to T.H. White. It doesn't go for spoof like Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court or Monty Python and the Holy Grail (Terry Gilliam and Terry Jones, 1975) or for hipness like the BBC-TV series Merlin. It's content to be straightforward sword-and-sorcery stuff with an underlying motif that traces the decline of magic,  represented by Merlin (Nicol Williamson) and Morgana (Helen Mirren), as Christianity takes hold in mythical Britain. Most of all, the film makes clear how much Arthurian legend -- with its undercurrents of incest and of political treachery -- underlies more recent excursions into the realm of fantasy like The Lord of the Rings and Game of Thrones series. That said, Excalibur is beginning to show its age: Trevor Jones's score is pieced out with heavy dollops of Wagner leitmotifs from the Ring and Tristan und Isolde and the now over-familiar borrowing from Carl Orff's Carmina Burana, the special effects are creaky, Alec Thomson's cinematography leans too heavily on fog filters, and the costumes are a little too spangly and cheesy. I wouldn't be surprised to see a remake on the horizon, but it should stick fairly closely -- while eliminating some of the clunkers in the dialogue -- to the screenplay by Boorman and Rospo Pallenberg, which has a solid and consistent take on the characters. Meanwhile, it's fun to spot some up-and-coming actors like Patrick Stewart and Liam Neeson in smallish roles.

When Worlds Collide (Rudolph Maté, 1951)

Richard Derr and Barbara Rush in When Worlds Collide

Cast: Richard Derr, Barbara Rush, Peter Hansen, John Hoyt, Larry Keating, Rachel Ames, Stephen Chase, Frank Cady, Hayden Rorke, Sandro Giglio. Screenplay: Sidney Boehm, based on a novel by Edwin Balmer and Philip Wylie. Cinematography: W. Howard Greene, John F. Seitz. Art direction: Albert Nozaki, Hal Pereira. Film editing: Arthur P. Schmidt. Music: Leith Stevens.

This is the way the world ends: not with a bang but with a bunch of white folks rocketing off to another planet that looks like it was painted by Chesley Bonestell. Well, that's the way it ended in 1951. Today, one hopes that the survivors would be a good deal more diverse and the preparations for their flight a good deal better organized. (Actually, today it looks like it will end with a lot of coughing and political posturing.) When Worlds Collide is very much of its era, sacrificing plausibility for sentiment (small boys and puppies) and romance (tinged with much self-sacrifice). It's a movie that can't be taken seriously for a minute, which is part of its enduring charm for many people. I find that, after many years of serious science fiction, the charm has worn thin. I hunger for some serious treatment of science and for some semblance of actual human behavior. Even though I was 11 years old in 1951, I can't believe that we were dumb enough to swallow what the movie gives us.

The Handmaiden (Park Chang-wook, 2016)

Kim Min-hee and Kim Tae-ri in The Handmaiden

Cast: Kim Min-hee, Kim Tae-ri, Ha Jung-woo, Cho Jin-woong, Kim Hae-sook, Moon So-Ri. Screenplay: Jeong Seo-kyeong, Park Chan-wook, based on a novel by Sarah Waters. Cinematography: Chung Chung-hoon. Production design: Ryu Seong-hie. Film editing: Kim Jae-Bum, Kim Sang-beom. Music: Jo Yeon-wook.

The fine line between explication and exploitation is carefully negotiated by Park Chan-wook in The Handmaiden. To one critic, Laura Miller, comparing Park's film to the Sarah Waters novel, Fingersmith, on which it's based, the film's  scenes of Lady Hideko and Sook-he in sexual congress are "disappointingly boilerplate" and filled with "the tired visual clichés of pornographic lesbianism." But to Jia Tolentino, they're expressive of the liberation of the female characters: "The effect is thrilling -- it's the most satisfying bit of wish-fulfillment and fantasy in a movie that is pornographic in more ways than one." Pornography, as Justice Potter Stewart once ruled, lies in the eye of the beholder; you can't define it but you know it when you see it. I, for one, don't see it in The Handmaiden: The scenes that disappointed Laura Miller and satisfied Jia Tolentino seem to me more athletic than erotic, though I side with Tolentino's conclusion that they're integral to the film's portrayal of a kind of liberation. Lady Hideko and Sook-he have freed themselves from the demands of men, from the creepy audience at Hideko's readings from her uncle's collection of sadistic erotica, and from the faux Count Fujiwara's manipulations of both women. In the end, The Handmaiden seems to me more successful as an ingenious erotic thriller than as a tribute to female liberation, but perhaps the truth is that the film is neither one nor the other, but rather a finely articulated blend of both.

The Burglar (Paul Wendkos, 1957)

Jayne Mansfield and Dan Duryea in The Burglar

Cast: Dan Duryea, Jayne Mansfield, Martha Vickers, Peter Capell, Mickey Shaughnessy, Wendell K. Phillips, Phoebe Mackay, Stewart Bradley, John Facenda, Sam Elber. Screenplay: David Goodis, based on his novel. Cinematography: Dan Malkames. Art direction: Jim Leonard. Film editing: Herta Horn, Paul Wendkos. Music: Sol Kaplan.

The Burglar is a low-budget crime movie that doesn't always get its rhythms right, but nevertheless holds one's attention better than lots of slicker and more sophisticated movies. It was the first feature for director Paul Wendkos, who went on to a long career mostly in television, and though he doesn't show a lot of skill in directing actors, he knows where to put the camera, using close-ups effectively, and making the most of the Philadelphia and Atlantic City locations where The Burglar was shot. The story centers on Nat Harbin, the titular burglar, and the aftermath of the heist he and his cronies pull off, drilling into the safe where a wealthy "spiritualist" has stashed a priceless emerald necklace. The burglary is interrupted when a police car, which has spotted Harbin's car parked outside the mansion, pulls up, but Harbin persuades the cops that he had engine trouble and plans to spend the night in the car until he can find a mechanic in the morning. Harbin's fellow thieves include a pair of jittery low-lifes, Baylock (Peter Capell) and Dohmer (Mickey Shaughnessy), as well as a young woman, Gladden (Jayne Mansfield), who cases the mansion before the burglars break into it. Gladden, whose peculiar name is questioned but never explained in the film, grew up with Harbin after he ran away from home as a boy and was picked up while hitchhiking by a kind of Fagin figure named Gerald (Sam Elber), who taught him the tricks of the burgling trade. When Gerald dies, Harbin honors his request to look after Gladden. The two of them have maintained a kind of brother-sister relationship. After completing the burglary, Harbin insists on a cooling-off period before they make an attempt to fence the stolen necklace, but Baylock and Dohmer impatiently resist him. Dealing with his loose-cannon colleagues is only one of Harbin's problems after the police use a sketch artist to develop an image of him, based on the descriptions by the cops who had spotted him with his car. Moreover, one of the cops turns out to be a bad guy, working in cahoots with a young woman named Della (Martha Vickers), who picks Harbin up in a bar to try to get a fix on where he has stashed the loot. And so it goes, getting bloodier by the minute, until the climax in a house of horrors attraction at the Atlantic City Steel Pier. Duryea gives a solid performance, and it's good to see Vickers, best known as the thumb-sucking Carmen Sternwood in Howard Hawks's The Big Sleep (1946). Capell and Shaughnessy are a bit too hyper as Harbin's cronies, and Mansfield, never valued for her acting skill, was probably chosen for the scene in which she lies on the beach in a two-piece bathing suit.

George Washington Slept Here (William Keighley, 1942)

Jack Benny, Ann Sheridan, and Hattie McDaniel in George Washington Slept Here

Cast: Jack Benny, Ann Sheridan, Charles Coburn, Percy Kilbride, Hattie McDaniel, William Tracy, Joyce Reynolds, Lee Patrick, Charles Dingle, John Emery, Douglas Croft, Harvey Stephens, Franklin Pangborn. Screenplay: Everett Freeman, based on a play by Moss Hart and George S. Kaufman. Cinematography: Ernest Haller. Art direction: Max Parker. Film editing: Ralph Dawson. Music: Adolph Deutsch.

One of the running gags on Jack Benny's radio and TV shows was about how terrible his movie The Horn Blows at Midnight (Raoul Walsh, 1945) was. But that film, more a box office failure than a bad movie, has more to be said for it than George Washington Slept Here, a retread of one of Moss Hart and George S. Kaufman's lesser comedies, a play so forgotten -- except by amateur theatrical groups -- that it has never received a Broadway revival. When it came to performing in movies, Benny was always handicapped by his familiar radio personality, the skinflint who, when challenged by a stickup man, "Your money or your life," could be counted on to pause for a well-timed moment and say, "I'm thinking it over!" In adapting Kaufman and Hart's play for the screen, Everett Freeman actually switched the lead characters' roles to accommodate the Benny persona: In the play, the husband was the one eager to renovate a rundown 18th-century farmhouse, and the wife was the one who came up with wisecracking comments whenever the project teetered on disaster. But in the film, Benny is the long-suffering, wisecracking (and a little too frequently pratfalling) victim of his wife's passion for the antique. There's even an interpolated allusion to Benny's radio show when his character comments that something sounds worse than Phil Harris's orchestra -- a reference to the ongoing feud between Benny and his show's bandleader. Unfortunately, the whole film is a rather frantic spin on the familiar "money pit" comedy about building a dream house -- subsequent films like Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House (H.C. Potter, 1948) and The Money Pit (Richard Benjamin, 1986) borrowed heavily from it. This is one of those films in which ordinarily sensible performers are forced to play characters who verge on idiocy -- poor Ann Sheridan, an underrated actress, has to behave like a nitwit in her efforts to keep the renovation happening, and Benny has to pretend to be jealous of her involvement with the antique dealer helping her with the project. Several characters have been lifted from the play -- the bratty Raymond, the preening summer stock actors -- without much justification for their presence in the plot. In short, it's a mess.

Nightfall (Jacques Tourneur, 1956)

Anne Bancroft and Aldo Ray in Nightfall

Cast: Aldo Ray, Anne Bancroft, Brian Keith, James Gregory, Rudy Bond, Frank Albertson, Jocelyn Brando. Screenplay: Stirling Silliphant, based on a novel by David Goodis. Cinematography: Burnett Guffey. Art direction: Ross Bellah. Film editing: William A. Lyon. Music: George Duning.

Nightfall is a well-made thriller strengthened by ingenious plotting: It never lets the viewer know too much too soon, keeping the motives and even the identities of its characters hidden until the right time to reveal them. Beefy Aldo Ray plays the protagonist, whom we know as Jim Vanning until his past is disclosed. Vanning, it turns out, is on the run, accused of murder but also trying to dodge the real killers, a pair of bank robbers played by Brian Keith and Rudy Bond, who think that Vanning has absconded with the loot from their heist. But Vanning doesn't know that he's also being tailed by an insurance investigator, played by James Gregory. In a bar, Vanning meets Marie Gardner, played by Anne Bancroft a few years before The Miracle Worker (Arthur Penn, 1962) won her an Oscar and made her a star. She's a model and he's a freelance magazine illustrator, so they hit it off, not so fortunately for her because at that point the robbers show up, ready to beat the location of the money out of Vanning. Marie gets caught up in the plot as Vanning eludes the thugs and hides out with her. Eventually, they go on the run, joined by the insurance investigator, who is perfectly happy to help Vanning recover the money and prove his innocence. It all moves along swiftly, thanks to Jacques Tourneur's direction, and handsomely, thanks to the  cinematography of Burnett Guffey, who is equally adept at filming the noir shadows of the city and the bright snowy landscape of Wyoming where the chase winds up.

Kings Row (Sam Wood, 1942)

Ann Sheridan and Ronald Reagan in Kings Row

Cast: Ann Sheridan, Robert Cummings, Ronald Reagan, Betty Field, Charles Coburn, Claude Rains, Judith Anderson, Nancy Coleman, Kaaren Verne, Maria Ouspenskaya, Harry Davenport, Ernest Cossart, Ilka Grüning. Screenplay: Casey Robinson, based on a novel by Henry Bellamann. Cinematography: James Wong Howe. Production design: William Cameron Menzies. Film editing: Ralph Dawson. Music: Erich Wolfgang Korngold.

Fifteen years before the producers of Mark Robson's version of Peyton Place tangled with the enforcers of the Production Code, the producers of Kings Row went through a similar ordeal. Like the Grace Metalious novel on which the later film was based, Henry Bellamann's Kings Row was a sensational picture of small town sordidness and hypocrisy that had to be sanitized against the pecksniffery of the censors. Screenwriter Casey Robinson had to eliminate incest, a gay character, and any hint that the young residents of Kings Row were actually having sex and enjoying it. Robinson's evasions were artful, though sometimes at the expense of the characters: Dr. Tower's murdering his daughter, Cassandra, and then committing suicide seems a little less credible when the incestuous relationship of father and daughter is excised. Still, Kings Row holds up well enough, thanks in large part to solid production values, especially James Wong Howe's cinematography and one of Erich Wolfgang Korngold's best scores. Today, the movie is probably most remembered for giving Ronald Reagan one of his best roles, one that he was so proud of that he borrowed his most famous line from the film, "Where's the rest of me?", as the title of his autobiography. He's well supported by Ann Sheridan, and the cast also includes such always watchable character actors as Claude Rains, Charles Coburn, Judith Anderson, and the hammy but lovable Maria Ouspenskaya. Unfortunately the film's leading role went to Robert Cummings, never the most skillful or charismatic of actors. He's not terrible, but he brings no credibility to the role of Parris Mitchell, supposedly a gifted medical student and amateur pianist. It's this void at the center of the movie that perhaps makes people remember it as a Ronald Reagan film.

Parasite (Bong Joon-ho, 2019)

Choi Woo-sik, Song Kang-ho, Jang Hye-jin, and Park So-dam in Parasite

Cast: Song Kang-ho, Choi Woo-sik, Park So-dam, Jang Hye-jin, Lee Sun-kyun, Jo Yeo-jeong, Jung Ji-so, Jung Hyun-jun, Lee Jeong-eun, Park Myeong-hoon, Park Keun-rok. Screenplay: Boon Jong-ho, Han Jin-won. Cinematography: Hong Kyung-pyo. Production design: Lee Ha-jun. Film editing: Yang Jin-mo. Music: Jung Jae-il.

Comedy that turns violent seldom works. I'm thinking in particular of my recent viewing of Peter Medak's The Ruling Class (1972), which goes abruptly from a giddy satire of upperclass manners into a dark tale about homicidal mania, losing the audience's assent to its original vision. So why does Parasite, which takes a similar turn, work so well that it won over international audiences and walked off with three of the most prestigious Oscars, for picture, director, and screenplay? It's a story of how the Kim family, eking out a living in a sub-basement, conned their way into the household of the wealthy Park family, who live in a classy house designed by a famous architect, but are then undone by a secret built into the house itself. I think it works because Bong Joon-ho's vision is dark from the start, but his touch is light, making us appreciate what drives the Kims -- poverty and class resentment -- and what makes the Parks so vulnerable -- snobbery and vanity. Both families need a comeuppance, the Kims for their lack of scruples, the Parks for their sense of entitlement. Maybe the comeuppance is overkill, but Bong has kept his characters at a slight distance throughout the film, so that we don't feel the shock of loss when they meet their fates. The ambivalence we may feel about them is summed up in the title: Parasite could refer to either family, the Kims who exploit the Parks, the Parks who ride the crest of societal privilege unaware that their good fortune is built on the misery of others.

Lust for Life (Vincente Minnelli, 1956)

Kirk Douglas and Anthony Quinn in Lust for Life

Cast: Kirk Douglas, Anthony Quinn, James Donald, Pamela Brown, Everett Sloane, Niall McGinnis, Noel Purcell, Henry Daniell, Madge Kennedy, Jill Bennett, Lionel Jeffries, Laurence Naismith, Jeanette Sterke. Screenplay: Norman Corwin, based on a novel by Irving Stone. Cinematography: Russell Harlan, Freddie Young. Art direction: E. Preston Ames, Cedric Gibbons, Hans Peters. Film editing: Adrienne Fazan. Music: Miklós Rózsa.

After watching Julian Schnabel's take on Vincent Van Gogh in At Eternity's Gate (2018), I thought it made sense to go back and see Hollywood's portrait of the artist, Vincente Minnelli's Lust for Life. Schnabel is himself an artist, of course, so it's not surprising to find his film focused on the aesthetics of madness (along with propounding a theory that Van Gogh didn't commit suicide but was the victim of an accidental gunshot). Minnelli and screenwriter Norman Corwin are less successful in finding a coherent image of Van Gogh than Schnabel and his co-screenwriters Jean-Claude Carrière and Louise Kugelberg were, partly because the latter were working with one of the most insightful actors of our time, Willem Dafoe, while Minnelli's Van Gogh is played by Kirk Douglas, who brings to the role a physical resemblance to the artist but is never quite strong enough to craft an integrated characterization. Lust for Life seems to suggest that Van Gogh's problems stemmed from a lack of reciprocated love -- from his father, the church he tries to serve, the several women in his life, the art-buying public, the citizens of Arles, and his fellow artists -- most notably Paul Gauguin, played (perhaps overplayed) by Anthony Quinn in an Oscar-winning performance. The film is visually stunning, although the transformation of the landscapes that Van Gogh sees into what he painted is handled more subtly and intelligently in Schnabel's film. Minnelli seems content merely to juxtapose place with painting. The sensational events in Van Gogh's life, especially the amputation of an ear, are treated sensationally in Minnelli's film, which only suggests that Van Gogh did it out of frustration with Gauguin, as if pleading for that artist's attention. We also get a sentimental deathbed scene, a kind of reconciliation with Vincent's brother, Theo (James Donald). Lust for Life is a watchable but flawed and inconsistent film -- even the name of the artist gets a variety of pronunciations, from "Van Gokh" to "Van Gog" to "Van Goh."

Pushover (Richard Quine, 1954)

Kim Novak in Pushover

Cast: Fred MacMurray, Kim Novak, Philip Carey, Dorothy Malone, E.G. Marshall, Allen Nourse. Screenplay: Roy Huggins, based on novels by Thomas Walsh and Bill S. Ballinger. Cinematography: Lester White. Art direction: Walter Holscher. Film editing: Jerome Thoms. Music: Arthur Morton.

Pushover is a noirish cops-and-robbers movie that gave Kim Novak her first big role -- the only reason some people remember it. But it's a good deal better than that bit of trivia would suggest -- a well-paced, well-acted film that begins with a skillfully directed bank robbery, played entirely without dialogue. Then it cuts to mink-clad Lona McLane (Novak) coming out of a movie theater -- Pushover was made for Columbia, so the posters and marquee titles are those of 1954 Columbia releases. She finds that her car won't start, but a guy (Fred MacMurray) offers to help, then takes her back to his apartment while it's being repaired. They hit it off immediately and begin an ongoing affair. It turns out that their meeting is a set-up: The guy, Paul Sheridan, is a cop, and Lona is the mistress of one of the bank robbers, Harry Wheeler (Paul Richards), who killed a bank guard making his getaway. Sheridan is part of a team staking out Lona's apartment -- which they can see into from another apartment across a courtyard -- in expectation that she'll make contact with Wheeler. But Sheridan is a bad cop, and he soon enlists Lona in a plot to double-cross Wheeler and take the loot from the robbery. It's this dual role -- cop and robber -- that generates much of the film's suspense, as things go wrong, one by one, with their plans and Sheridan has to keep coming up with alternate plans to foil the cops with whom he is supposed to be working. One of the complications involves the occupant of the apartment next to Lona's, a nurse, Ann Stewart (Dorothy Malone), whom Sheridan's partner, Rick McAllister (Philip Carey), begins watching through his binoculars more avidly than he does the real object of the surveillance. The voyeurism in Pushover is reminiscent of Hitchcock, and though that master might have made a richer film of the material, Richard Quine does a good job of it.

Peyton Place (Mark Robson, 1957)

Lana Turner and Diane Varsi in Peyton Place

Cast: Lana Turner, Lee Philips, Diane Varsi, Hope Lange, Arthur Kennedy, Lloyd Nolan, Russ Tamblyn, Terry Moore, David Nelson, Barry Coe, Betty Field, Mildred Dunnock, Leon Ames, Lorne Greene. Screenplay: John Michael Hayes, based on a novel by Grace Metalious. Cinematography: William C. Mellor. Art direction: Jack Martin Smith, Lyle R. Wheeler. Film editing: David Bretherton. Music: Franz Waxman.

Take the sex away from Grace Metalious's lurid novel Peyton Place and what you have left is a portrait of small-town narrow-mindedness and hypocrisy, very much in the tradition of fiction by much better writers, from Mark Twain to Sherwood Anderson, Sinclair Lewis, and William Faulkner. Squeezed by the strictures of the Production Code, the film version of the novel becomes a kind of reworking of Thornton Wilder's Our Town. There was narrow-mindedness and hypocrisy in Wilder's Grover's Corners, but only in the background. It bubbles to the surface in the adaptation of Metalious's novel, which replaces Wilder's heroine, the romantic Emily Webb, who loves her family and her town, with the embittered Allison MacKenzie (Diane Varsi), who hates not only the gossip-ridden town but also her mother, Constance (Lana Turner), for having withheld the information that Allison is the product of Constance's liaison with a married man. The film version of Peyton Place turns what in the novel was sexual molestation of a girl by her father into a rape by her stepfather, side-stepping the incest issue a bit, and converts an abortion into a miscarriage. The randy teenagers of the novel do nothing more shocking in the film than make out a bit and go skinny-dipping. The film hints a little that the shy mama's boy Norman Page (Russ Tamblyn) may be gay -- he refers to himself as a "sissy" once -- but relieves him of that stigma by having him join the paratroopers when war breaks out and come home bold and no longer shy. (It would never occur to Hollywood or its audiences of the day that a gay man could be bold and masculine.) In short, Peyton Place makes today's viewer do a lot of decoding. Which, aside from the fact that at 157 minutes it's overlong and a lot of the dialogue is heavy-handedly expository (and sometimes just banal), doesn't fatally undermine it as entertainment. There are some very good performances: Varsi, Turner, and Tamblyn received Oscar nominations, as did Arthur Kennedy as the slavering rapist stepfather, and Hope Lange as his victim-stepdaughter. Metalious, of course, hated it all the way to the bank.

Drive a Crooked Road (Richard Quine, 1954)

Mickey Rooney and Dianne Foster in Drive a Crooked Road

Cast: Mickey Rooney, Dianne Foster, Kevin McCarthy, Jack Kelly, Harry Landers, Paul Picerni, Dick Crockett. Screenplay: Blake Edwards, Richard Quine, based on a story by James Benson Nablo. Cinematography: Charles Lawton Jr. Art direction: Walter Holscher. Film editing: Jerome Thoms. Music: George Duning.

Mickey Rooney, usually the most ebullient, not to say overbearing, of actors, gives a subtle, reined-in performance in Drive a Crooked Road as a shy, quiet auto mechanic and amateur race-car driver who is seduced into becoming the getaway driver for bank robbers. But the film is also subtextually about sex in that most ostensibly repressed of decades, the 1950s. Rooney's Eddie Shannon works in a repair shop where the fellow mechanics gather at the windows and hoot lasciviously at any passing "dame." One mechanic even slobbers on the plate glass. They poke fun at Eddie, whom they call "Shorty" for obvious reasons, because he doesn't follow suit, questioning him on his sex life. The pack behavior suggests that any male who doesn't behave the way they do must be "queer." And then one day a beautiful woman named Barbara Mathews (Dianne Foster) shows up at the auto shop wanting her car checked out and asks for Eddie by name. She flirts with him, and though he responds with shy embarrassment, she calls on him again the next day, after he has repaired her car, to say that she can't start it. So he pays Barbara a visit at her apartment, fixes the connection that had somehow come loose, and gets flirted with a bit more. Gradually, she breaks down his reticence and, though even at the height of their relationship he's still so awkward that he doesn't even kiss her good night, he's hooked. We know by now that she's up to something, and we find out that her real boyfriend, Steve Norris (Kevin McCarthy), who had seen Eddie in an auto race, needs a driver who can negotiate the backroads between Palm Springs and the highway to Los Angeles, so he and his friend Harold (Jack Kelly) can rob a bank and make their getaway before the police have time to set up a roadblock. Barbara has grown ashamed of deceiving Eddie, but she's forced to go through with the plan of persuading him to take part in the job. This can't end well for anyone, and surprisingly for a Hollywood film of the era, it doesn't. Drive a Crooked Road lags a bit in its storytelling and doesn't build the suspense it should, but the performances are good. And the sexual subtext is what makes the film fascinating. In the depiction of Eddie's repressed sexuality, there's a suggestion that he may be afraid that he really is gay, just as there are suggestions that Steve and Harold may be more than just friends. The rampant machismo of the garage mechanics is also present in Steve's treatment of Barbara, whom he expects to do his bidding come what may. Sometimes hindsight makes a film more interesting than it was when it was released.

The Strange Love of Martha Ivers (Lewis Milestone, 1946)

Lizabeth Scott, Barbara Stanwyck, and Van Heflin in The Strange Love of Martha Ivers

Cast: Barbara Stanwyck, Van Heflin, Kirk Douglas, Lizabeth Scott, Judith Anderson, Roman Bohnen, Darryl Hickman, Janis Wilson, Ann Doran, Frank Orth, James Flavin, Mickey Kuhn, Charles D. Brown. Screenplay: Robert Rossen, John Patrick. Cinematography: Victor Milner. Art direction: Hans Dreier, John Meehan. Film editing: Archie Marshek. Music: Miklós Rózsa.

The Strange Love of Martha Ivers doubles up on Lorenz Hart's line about "the double-crossing of a pair of heels" to give us a quartet of duplicity. There are no really good guys in the movie, though it tries to persuade us that tough guy Sam Masterson (Van Heflin) and lost girl Toni Marachek (Lizabeth Scott) are more to be admired than ruthless Martha Ivers O'Neil (Barbara Stanwyck) and her weakling alcoholic husband, Walter (Kirk Douglas). After all, teenage Martha (Janis Wilson)  did kill her imperious aunt (Judith Anderson) and, with the connivance of young Walter (Mickey Kuhn) and his father (Roman Bohnen), not only cover up the murder but also frame someone else for the job. So when Sam returns to Iverstown after 18 years, Martha and Walter naturally think that he witnessed the murder and is there to blackmail them. Actually, young Sam (Darryl Hickman) beat it out the door before the aunt was conked on the head and fell downstairs, so he's ignorant -- until well into the film -- of their crime. It's not exactly clear why Sam, who makes a living by gambling, has drifted back in town, but he's not there long before he hooks up with Toni, fresh out of prison for a theft she didn't really commit, and the two of them get dragged unwittingly into the machinations of Martha and Walter. The movie was Douglas's film debut, so he receives fourth billing after Scott. He feels a little miscast as the manipulated Walter. For one thing, he was nine years younger than Stanwyck, but he also had, even then, a stronger hold on the screen than Heflin. This is, I think, a movie that doesn't have the courage of its own nastiness, trying to make us think that Sam and Toni really deserve a happy ending when it's more likely that they will eat each other alive. Trivia note: The sailor in the car with Sam when he has his accident is played by future writer-producer-director Blake Edwards. 

Burning (Lee Chang-dong, 2018)

Yoo Ah-in, Jun Jong-seo, and Steven Yeun in Burning

Cast: Yoo Ah-in, Steven Yeun, Jun Jong-seo, Kim Soo-Kyung, Choi Seung-ho, Mun Seong-kun, Min Bok-gi, Lee Soo-Jeong, Ban Hye-ra, Cha Mi-Kyung, Lee Bong-ryeon. Screenplay: Oh Jungmi, Lee Chang-dong, based on a story by Haruki Murakami. Cinematography: Hong Kyung-pyo. Production design: Shin Jum-hee. Film editing: Kim Da-won, Kim Hyun. Music: Mowg.

Not surprisingly, given that it's based on one of his short stories, Burning gave me the unsettled feeling I get from reading Haruki Murakami's fiction: the sense that the world is stranger than it appears when we go about our daily routines. And that looking too closely at its anomalies can be dangerous. Certainly, if Lee Jong-su (Yoo Ah-in) had never paused to reacquaint himself with Shin Hae-mi (Jun Jong-seao), a friend from his childhood now grown up, he would never have been drawn into the mystery that surrounds her and Ben (Steven Yeun), the acquaintance she brings back from a trip to Africa. But who's to say that Jong-su's life, marked by his mother's abandoning the family when he was a child and by his father's trial for an act of angry violence, would have taken an easy course? The tension that builds throughout Burning is born of peeling back the layers of the quotidian. If we all did that, we probably wouldn't encounter elusive cats, disappearing women, Korean Gatsbys, and compulsive acts of arson the way Jong-su does, but Lee Chang-dong makes it entirely plausible that we might, which results in a brilliant, challenging, haunting film.

Executive Suite (Robert Wise, 1954)

William Holden and June Allyson in Executive Suite

Cast: William Holden, June Allyson, Barbara Stanwyck, Fredric March, Walter Pidgeon, Louis Calhern, Paul Douglas, Shelley Winters, Nina Foch, Dean Jagger, Tim Considine. Screenplay: Ernest Lehman, based on a novel by Cameron Hawley. Cinematography: George J. Folsey. Art direction: Edward C. Carfagno, Cedric Gibbons. Film editing: Ralph E. Winters.

It has been called "Grand Hotel in the boardroom" more than a few times, because what it has in common with Edmund Goulding's 1932 best picture winner is that it was made by MGM and features an all-star cast. Executive Suite doesn't have much else in common with the earlier film, which was an entertaining stew of intrigue among the glamorous guests of a Berlin hotel. This is a story about power plays in a Pennsylvania furniture manufacturing company, which is about as glamorous as it sounds. The company's president has died without leaving a designated successor. We even see him die -- or rather, we die with him, as the film opens with a subjective camera as Avery Bullard leaves his Manhattan office to take a plane to Pennsylvania for a meeting with his vice-presidents. Through his eyes we see employees greet him as he leaves his office, the elevator doors closing on him, and finally the sidewalk as he collapses from a stroke. A passerby filches the wallet he drops, empties it of cash, and tosses it in a trashcan, thereby postponing the identification of his body. So much for any real action in the movie: The rest is talk, as the company's vice-presidents gather for the meeting and then gradually learn of his death. But one person knew of Bullard's death before them: George Caswell (Louis Calhern), a member of the company's board of directors who from his office window saw Bullard's body taken away by an ambulance and now uses this knowledge to try to pull a fast one with the company's stock. Eventually, there will be a struggle among the vice-presidents to take over Bullard's job as president. It will pit Loren Shaw (Fredric March), the bean-counting company controller, against Don Walling (William Holden), the v.p. for development who is excited about a new manufacturing technique he and his staff have been working on. And that's about as dramatic as it sounds. We all know that Walling will triumph over Shaw, probably because Walling has a nice, faithful wife played by June Allyson and a son who plays Little League baseball, and Shaw doesn't. It looks for a long time like Shaw will win, partly because he is in cahoots with Caswell, promising to make his stock deal work in exchange for his vote. Walling has to win over the other members of the board, who include old-timer Fred Alderson (Walter Pidgeon), who is on his side from the start; Walter Dudley (Paul Douglas), the v.p. for sales who is carrying on an affair with his secretary (Shelley Winters), making him susceptible to blackmail by Shaw; and most crucially of all, the daughter of the company's founder, Julia Tredway (Barbara Stanwyck), who had been involved in a frustrating love affair with Bullard and now threatens to dump her stock in the company. In the end, Walling triumphs with a big speech about the company's ideals and how they're being undermined by Shaw's insistence that the only thing that matters is the stockholders' return on investment, which has led to the construction of cheap and shoddy products. It's a sentimental fable about the "good capitalist" that mercifully doesn't indulge in the red-baiting that might have been expected in a film of the 1950s but ultimately rings false. Ernest Lehman's screenplay does what it can with Cameron Hawley's novel, Robert Wise directs as if it were a better film than it is, and Nina Foch won an Oscar for her role as the company's capable executive secretary, the only woman in the film who isn't completely under the thumb of the men. A trivia note: The narrator and the off-screen voice of Tredway is future NBC newman Chet Huntley.

Human Desire (Fritz Lang, 1954)

Gloria Grahame and Glenn Ford in Human Desire

Cast: Glenn Ford, Gloria Grahame, Broderick Crawford, Edgar Buchanan, Kathleen Case, Peggy Maley, Diane DeLare, Grandon Rhodes. Screenplay: Alfred Hayes, based on a novel by Émile Zola. Cinematography: Burnett Guffey. Art direction: Robert Peterson. Film editing: Aaron Stell. Music: Daniele Amfitheatrof.

Glenn Ford's boyish nice-guy looks and personality always seemed to me to make him an odd choice for tough-guy roles like the ones he played in Gilda (Charles Vidor, 1946) and The Big Heat (Fritz Lang, 1953). Lang apparently didn't have a problem with that disjunction: Having cast Ford opposite Gloria Grahame in Human Desire, he reteamed them in the latter film, with good effect. Still, Ford's limitations are apparent when you compare him with Jean Gabin, who played much the same role, a railroad engineer caught up in seamy doings, in Jean Renoir's earlier version of the Émile Zola novel, La Bête Humaine (1938). Gabin had a solidity that Ford lacks. Human Desire is, for the most part, a good contribution to the film noir genre, especially Burnett Guffey's cinematography, which uses the railway yard shadows to good effect. The screenplay has a few good lines -- "All women are alike. They just got different faces so the men can tell them apart." -- but it cheats with a happy ending for Ford's character that's at odds with the spirit of both Zola's novel and Renoir's version of it. Daniele Amfitheatrof's score is laid on too heavily, as if the filmmakers didn't trust the actors or the screenplay to carry the burden of what's being done and said.