No Man of Her Own (Wesley Ruggles, 1932)

Clark Gable and Carole Lombard in No Man of Her Own

Cast: Clark Gable, Carole Lombard, Dorothy Mackaill, Grant Mitchell, Elizabeth Patterson, George Barbier, J. Farrell MacDonald, Tommy Conlon, Walter Walker, Paul Ellis, Charley Grapewin. Screenplay: Maurine Dallas Watkins, Milton Herbert Gropper, Edmund Goulding, Benjamin Glazer, based on a novel by Val Lewton. Cinematography: Lee Tover. Film editing: Otho Lovering. Costume design: Travis Banton. 

If actors weren't cattle, as Alfred Hitchcock is reported to have said, they were at least property, and their studios treated them as such. Clark Gable was becoming one of MGM's most valuable properties when he was loaned out to Paramount to make the only film in which he starred with Carole Lombard, who later became his wife. It was part of a complicated talent swamp initiated by Marion Davies, who had clout with MGM because of her relationship with William Randolph Hearst, who produced films for her that were distributed by MGM. Davies wanted Bing Crosby for a movie, so Paramount traded him to MGM for Gable and No Man of Her Own. Lombard became his co-star only because Miriam Hopkins didn't want to take second billing to Gable. The studio mountains labored to bring forth a cinematic mouse: a passable romantic comedy remembered only for the star teaming. Gable and Lombard are very good in it, though he comes off somewhat better than she does. Lombard was best in movies that gave her license to clown, like Twentieth Century (Howard Hawks, 1934) and My Man Godfrey (Gregory La Cava, 1936). In No Man of Her Own she's simply a woman who knows what she wants, and it isn't necessarily Gable, it's just to get out of the dull little town where she's the librarian. Gable on the other hand is in a role tailor-made for him: "Babe" Stewart, a raffish professional poker player who's as adept at wooing women as he is at cheating at cards. On the verge of getting caught by the detective (J. Farrell MacDonald) who's been tailing him, he skips town and winds up in the burg that Lombard's Connie Randall wants to escape. She catches his eye -- in one pre-Code scene she climbs a ladder and he looks up her skirt -- and with improbable speed they get married. Eventually she finds out that he's not the stockbroker he pretends to be, but nothing fazes her. He gets in trouble again, but just as he's about to take it on the lam, deserting her, he finds of course that he really loves her. The story lacks snap and tension: It was cobbled together from several sources, nominally from a novel by Val Lewton called No Bed of Her Own, a title the Hays Office nixed, but also from another story in Paramount's files. What life the film has comes from Wesley Ruggles's direction and from its performers, including Dorothy Mackaill as Babe's former partner in card-sharping. Lombard and Gable work well together, but reportedly didn't strike any off-screen sparks at the time -- they were both married to other people. They met again at a party four years later and were married in 1939.   

 

Demonlover (Olivier Assayas, 2002)

Connie Nielsen in Demonlover

Cast: Connie Nielsen, Charles Berling, Chloë Sevigny, Dominique Reymond, Jean-Baptiste Malartre, Gina Gershon, Edwin Gerard, Thomas M. Pollard, Abi Sakamoto, Naoko Yamazake, Nao Omori. Screenplay: Olivier Assayas. Cinematography: Denis Lenoir. Production design: François-Renaud Labarthe. Film editing: Luc Barnier. Music: Jim O'Rourke, Sonic Youth. 

Demonlover is a kind of message movie, and we all know the Hollywood truism about those: "If you want to send a message, call Western Union." But Olivier Assayas is not a Hollywood director, and his message comes through loud and clear. It's a familiar one: In the hands of globalized corporate capitalism, the internet has the potential to become a corrupting and alienating force. The film opens with a bunch of corporate capitalists luxuriating in business class on a flight to Japan to negotiate the rights to pornographic anime produced by a studio there. On the flight, Diane (Connie Nielsen) slips a drug into the Evian water being drunk by her superior at the Volf Corporation, Karen (Dominique Reymond), who collapses when they land in Tokyo. Diane then takes her place in the negotiations. It soon becomes clear that Diane will stop at nothing to seal a deal, but also that she's a double agent working for Volf's competitor, Mangatronics. Once Diane and her partner, Hervé (Charles Berling), land the rights, they begin negotiations with Demonlover, an internet company represented by Elaine Si Gibril (Gina Gershon), which also runs a site called The Hellfire Club on the dark web that specializes in torture porn and perhaps even snuff films. Diane's aim is to acquire Demonlover for Mangatronics instead of Volf, and she'll stop at nothing to do so. Unfortunately for Diane, her assistant, Elise (Chloë Sevigny), is also a corporate spy, and the spy vs. spy plot takes a bloody turn. Assayas isn't content to tell this story in conventional thriller fashion, so what we get involves a lot of disorienting camerawork and editing, and the movie makes its point with a somewhat disjointed ending. It was a critical and commercial flop, but the awareness that its message was prophetic has caused it to be reevaluated. 

Back Street (John M. Stahl, 1932)

Irene Dunne and John Boles in Back Street

Cast: Irene Dunne, John Boles, George Meeker, Zasu Pitts, June Clyde, William Bakewell, Arletta Duncan, Doris Lloyd, Paul Weigel, Jane Darwell, Shirley Grey, James Donlan, Walter Catlett, James McWade. Screenplay: Gladys Lehman, Lynn Starling, based on a novel by Fannie Hurst. Cinematography: Karl Freund. Art direction: Charles D. Hall. Film editing: Milton Carruth. 

The 1932 version of Back Street (the first of three films Hollywood made from Fannie Hurst's novel) suggests that there are some things you couldn't say even in a pre-Code movie. Ray Schmidt (Irene Dunne) and Walter Saxel (John Boles) have fallen in love, but he's engaged to a woman of whom his mother approves. He thinks that if his mother meets Ray, she might be inclined to let him break off the engagement and marry her instead. But on the day of the scheduled meeting, Ray's sister, Fred (June Clyde), comes to her in distress: The man she's been seeing is leaving town and she desperately needs Ray's help in persuading him to stay. If he doesn't, she tells Ray, she'll kill herself -- and she opens a window to prove the point. Why is Freda so desperate? The answer becomes apparent with an exchange of Meaningful Glances: She's pregnant. The word or any of its variants is never spoken. So Ray misses the meeting with Mother and loses the chance to marry Walter. Years pass and Ray and Walter meet again, after he's married and become a wealthy businessman. He sets her up in an apartment as his mistress, which she tolerates for a time until she realizes what she's lacking in life and begs him, "Walter, give me a child." Walter is shocked at the very idea. The mechanics of an illicit sexual relationship, including the veiled subject of contraception, are summed up in the reticence around Freda's plight and Ray's plea to Walter, which sounds a bit like she wants him to go down to the baby store and pick one off the shelf. Euphemisms aside, your acceptance of the movie depends to some degree on whether you enjoy watching Dunne, an actress who can slip into coyness and archness. The film gives her a gamut to run, from the flirtatious Ray who likes to drink beer with the fellows in the early part of the film, to the nobly suffering kept woman of the later part. Boles is a little stiff in his role, though that rather suits the character. On the whole, Back Street is a solid "woman's picture" of the kind that would be treated with more life and color by filmmakers like Douglas Sirk in the 1950s. 

The Raven (Lew Landers, 1935)

Bela Lugosi and Boris Karloff in The Raven

Cast: Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff, Lester Matthews, Irene Ware, Samuel S. Hinds, Spencer Charters, Inez Courtney, Ian Wolfe, Maidel Turner. Screenplay: David Boehm. Cinematography: Charles J. Stumar. Art direction: Albert S. D'Agostino. Film editing: Albert Akst. Music: Clifford Vaughan. 

The Criterion Channel includes The Raven in its collection of pre-Code horror movies, but in fact the movie started filming after the Production Code was introduced, and director Lew Landers had to negotiate over details in the script. The enforcers were nervous about "excess horror," and in particular wanted the film not to show any details of the operation that Dr. Vollin (Bela Lugosi) performs on Bateman's (Boris Karloff) face. Even so, censors took aim at what they called "horror for horror's sake," and The Raven was banned in several countries. The defense from Universal Studios that the movie was a tribute to Edgar Allan Poe impressed nobody. It's still a fairly creepy movie, largely because the filmmakers managed to include some torture devices from Poe's stories like "The Pit and the Pendulum." The poem "The Raven" mainly gives Dr. Vollin an excuse to explain to everyone that the bird is a symbol of death, but it also prompts a rather silly dance recital by the object of Vollin's obsession, Jean Thatcher (Irene Ware). Vollin is a neurosurgeon who saves Jean's life after she's injured in an automobile accident. She's engaged to another surgeon, Dr. Halden (Lester Matthews), and when her father, Judge Thatcher (Samuel S. Hinds), stymies Vollin's interest in Jean, Vollin takes his revenge. He has a collection of torture devices and an old house outfitted with gimmicks like a bedroom on an elevator and a secret room whose walls close in on people trapped in it. Karloff's Bateman is a bank robber who escaped from San Quentin and is on the run, so in the guise of giving him plastic surgery to change his identity, Vollin instead disfigures him, and then makes him play servant at a house party to which Halden, the Thatchers, and various other guests are invited. Madness ensues. The movie's chief virtue is brevity -- it runs 61 minutes -- so it never gets tedious even though it also never gets either scary or plausible.   

Sapphire (Basil Dearden, 1959)

Yvonne Buckingham in Sapphire

Cast: Nigel Patrick, Michael Craig, Paul Massie, Bernard Miles, Yvonne Mitchell, Olga Lindo, Earl Cameron, Gordon Heath, Jocelyn Britton, Harry Baird, Orlando Martins, Rupert Davies, Freda Bamford, Robert Adams, Yvonne Buckingham. Screenplay: Janet Green, Lukas Heller. Cinematography: Harry Waxman. Art direction: Carmen Dillon. Film editing: John D. Guthridge. Music: Philip Green. 

The police procedural/whodunit faces several problems inherent to the genre when it comes to not giving away the ending: One is that the "who" is never the one the police suspect. Another is that it's also never the one you first suspect. And a third is that if either the victim or the prime suspect (or both) belongs to a socially marginalized community -- racial, religious, sexual, etc. -- then the perpetrator is not going to be a member of that community. So when a Black woman who is passing for white is found dead on Hampstead Heath, the first suspect is her fiancé, a white man. Still, as the evidence mounts, there are more and more reasons to suspect him until suspicion arises and evidence is found that the murderer was a Black man. Is Basil Dearden's procedural Sapphire going to be an exception to the rules of the genre? Dearden's film has not aged well. Its portrait of British racism is outdated, and even the jazzy musical underscoring by Philip Green is of another era. At one point, the score even resorts to a "dun-dun-DUNN" sting when a somewhat minor revelation occurs. In short, it's a lot like an old-fashioned one-hour TV procedural. The chief inspector, played by Nigel Patrick, is one of those British cops who keep their cool at any turn, while his assistant (Michael Craig) is a hothead who jumps to conclusions that are invariably wrong. There are moments of real energy in the film, especially when the cops are invading the turf of London's Black community, though the movie's point of view is as secure in middle-class respectability as the victim's father (Earl Cameron), a physician dressed in tweeds.   

 

Dust Devil (Richard Stanley, 1992)

Robert John Burke in Dust Devil

Cast: Robert John Burke, Chelsea Field, Zakes Mokae, John Matshikiza, Rufus Swart, William Hootkins, Terry Norton, Marianne Sägebrecht. Screenplay: Richard Stanley. Cinematography: Steven Chivers. Production design: Joseph Bennett. Film editing: Paul Carlin, Jamie Macdermott, Derek Trigg. Music: Simon Boswell. 

Dust Devil is a mess, but it's sometimes a gorgeous mess, as in the moment when its characters, after a long time in the Namibian desert, reach the edge of the Fish River Canyon. Richard Stanley aspires to myth and magic but falls short, possibly because his story and his actors aren't capable of delivering them. No matter, because it's a film that often perplexes and startles through images and incidents that may not fit into a satisfactory whole but have their own lingering power. Robert John Burke plays a Dust Devil, the physical embodiment of desert winds, who makes his way through the desert preying on humans, though to what purpose is never really clear. One of his prey is Wendy (Chelsea Field), a woman who has fled her abusive husband (Rufus Swart) and picks up the hitchhiking Dust Devil on her way toward the sea. The Dust Devil himself is being tracked by police sergeant Ben Mukurob (Zakes Mokae), on suspicion of having murdered another woman and torched her house. Mukurob is skeptical of the counsel given him by a Namibian medicine man, a Sangoma called Joe Niemand (John Matshikiza, who also narrates the opening), that the killing was the work of a Dust Devil. The interactions of the three, Wendy, Mukurob, and the Dust Devil, form the narrative, which sputters a little toward the end, but cinematographer Steven Chivers's visions of the desert keep the film going. Dust Devil was originally a two-hour movie, but underwent several cuts along the way. The Criterion Channel's version runs about 87 minutes, but there's also a "final cut" version of 108 minutes and a "director's cut" of 103 minutes.  
 

The Quick and the Dead (Sam Raimi, 1995)

Gene Hackman in The Quick and the Dead

Cast: Sharon Stone, Gene Hackman, Russell Crowe, Leonardo DiCaprio, Tobin Bell, Roberts Blossom, Kevin Conway, Keith David, Lance Henriksen, Pat Hingle, Gary Sinise. Screenplay: Simon Moore. Cinematography: Dante Spinotti. Production design: Patrizia von Brandenstein. Film editing: Pietro Scalia. Music: Alan Silvestri. 

I miss Gene Hackman. When he retired in 2004, it had seemed for a while that he was in every other movie being made: In 2001, for example, he made five, including one of his best comic performances in Wes Anderson's The Royal Tenenbaums. In the year he made The Quick and the Dead he was also in Tony Scott's Crimson Tide and Barry Sonnenfeld's Get Shorty. He's certainly the best thing about Sam Raimi's mock-spaghetti Western, in a role that echoes his Oscar-winning one in Unforgiven (Clint Eastwood, 1992). He brings the same infuriating self-satisfied smirk to his performance as John Herod, the ruthless boss of the town of Redemption as he did in the role of the ruthless sheriff "Little" Bill Daggett in Eastwood's movie. Hackman's great gift was the ability to give memorably watchable performances without overwhelming a film's ensemble, and the ensemble for The Quick and the Dead is a good one, even if they're playing slightly skewed versions of Western stereotypes. Sharon Stone, who was one of the producers of the movie, plays the stranger who rides into town; Russell Crowe is the outlaw who wants to give up killing; and Leonardo DiCaprio is the gun-happy kid. The setup is that Herod is staging a tournament, pairing off gunslingers in one-on-one shootouts until only one is left standing. You can guess immediately who the final four will be. It's by no means a landmark film, but Raimi's direction gives it the right pace, and the actors, including good character turns by Pat Hingle, Lance Henriksen, and Keith David, make it watchable, as does Dante Spinotti's cinematography.  

Safe in Hell (William A. Wellman, 1931)

Dorothy Mackaill in Safe in Hell

Cast: Dorothy Mackaill, Donald Cook, Ralf Harolde, Morgan Wallace, John Wray, Ivan Simpson, Victor Varconi, Nina Mae McKinney, Charles Middleton, Clarence Muse, Gustav von Seyffertitz, Noble Johnson, Cecil Cunningham, George F. Marion. Screenplay: Joseph Jackson, Maude Fulton, based on a play by Houston Branch. Cinematography: Sidney Hickox. Art direction: Jack Okey. Film editing: Owen Marks. 

Seamy and salacious, Safe in Hell is sometimes cited as an example of what finally scared Hollywood into accepting the Production Code, except that you could hardly find a more conventionally moral fable than this tale of a call girl who gives up her sinful ways when her sailor comes back from sea and proposes marriage. Unfortunately, the man who done her wrong intervenes and Gilda (Dorothy Mackaill) is forced to flee to a Caribbean island populated mostly by men of the wrong sort. Still, she manages to hold on to her renewed virtue and rise to self-sacrificing heights at the end. Mackaill is terrific in the role, making me wonder why she's not well-known today. It's probably because most of her work was done in silent films and she was turning 30 when sound came in, putting her at a disadvantage against younger actresses like Bette Davis and Barbara Stanwyck when it came to landing lead roles. Director William A. Wellman had a steady hand with this kind of tough-edged melodrama, introducing touches of comedy like the crowd of lecherous barflies who live in the hotel Gilda moves into while waiting the return of Carl (Donald Cook), her sailor. When she moves into her room on the balcony at the top of the stairs, they turn around their chairs to face it, eager for whatever action may occur. They're not disappointed: Piet Van Saal (Ralf Harolde), the man she thought she killed, forcing her to flee to the island, turns up alive, and the island's lawman, its "jailer and executioner" in his words, the unsavory Mr. Bruno (Morgan Wallace), also takes an interest in her. It's a middling movie, mostly of historical interest, particularly in the appearance of two important Black actors, Clarence Muse and Nina Mae McKinney, in roles that don't call for them to kowtow too much to the whites or speak the standard dialect concocted for Black people in the movies. McKinney, best known today for her performance as Chick in King Vidor's Hallelujah (1929). gets to introduce the song "When It's Sleepy Time Down South," which became a jazz standard when Louis Armstrong popularized it. Muse, who plays a hotel porter, was one of its composers, along with Leon René and Otis René. 

Wolf's Hole (Vera Chytilová, 1987)

Cast: Miroslav Macháček, Tomás Palatý, Stepánka Cervenková, Jan Bidlas, Rita Dudusová, Irena Mrozková, Hana Mrozkovy, Norbert Pycha, Simona Racková, Roman Fiser, Frantisek Stanek, Radka Slavíková, Jitka Zelenková, Petr Horacek. Screenplay: Vera Chytilová, Daniela Fischerová. Cinematography: Jaromir Sofr. Production design: Ludvik Siroky. Film editing: Jirí Brozek. Music: Michael Kocáb. 

If Wolf's Hole sometimes feels a little, well, cryptic, that may be in part because we're not attuned to the cultural idiom of a 1980s Czech filmmaker like Vera Chytilová. But it may also be because she's being intentionally crypic, slyly making her film a portrait of life under an authoritarian regime by doing just enough to trick the censors. It's ostensibly a horror movie about teenagers on a ski trip who find themselves at odds with the adults supervising them. The adults are an older man who wants them to call him "Daddy" (Miroslav Macháček) and his younger assistants, Dingo (Tomás Palatý), and Babeta (Stepánka Cervenková). They quickly reveal themselves as truly eccentric people -- if "people" is what they are. To reveal any more is to deprive the new viewer of a nice "Say what?" moment. There's not a lot of skiing done on this trip. Instead, the teens are subjected to a good number of indignities, culminating in Daddy's order that they must pick one from their group to die. It's an itchy kind of movie without a lot of horror movie shocks but instead a fine way of keeping everyone, both the characters and the audience, off balance. 

The House on Telegraph Hill (Robert Wise, 1951)

Valentina Cortese and Richard Basehart in The House on Telegraph Hill

Cast: Valentina Cortese, Richard Basehart, William Lundigan, Fay Baker, Gordon Gebert, Steven Geray, Herb Butterfield, Natasha Lytess, Kei Thin Chung, John Burton, Katherine Meskill, Mario Siletti. Screenplay: Elick Moll, Frank Partos, based on a novel by Dana Lyon. Cinematography: Lucien Ballard. Art direction: John DeCuir, Lyle R. Wheeler. Film editing: Nick DeMaggio. Music: Sol Kaplan.

The key to a successful thriller is to keep the audience from asking those questions you're not supposed to ask: Why did X do that instead of that? What caused Y to act that way? Would a sane person really behave that way? And when the film ends, have all the loose threads been accounted for? The House on Telegraph Hill just barely manages to dodge those questions, except at the end. It's sometimes rather clumsily put together. For example, we are led to believe at the beginning that the film is being narrated in voiceover by the protagonist, Viktoria Kowalska (Valentina Cortese). But in mid-film we watch a conversation that Viktoria could not have overheard. We later find that the voiceover is actually Viktoria telling her story to investigators, but the momentary break in point of view is jarring. The ending, too, feels rushed. We have invested enough time in the story that we need a clearer outcome for Viktoria and others. The premise is a familiar one, given a postwar spin: A woman pretends to be someone she isn't and suffers the consequences. In Viktoria's case, she was a prisoner in the Belsen concentration camp, where she befriended Karin Dernakova (Natasha Lytess), who died there after telling Viktoria that she had a son who had been sent at the start of the war to live with her aunt in San Francisco. When the camp is liberated, Viktoria, who has no family of her own left in Poland, finds it expedient to assume the identity of Karin, whose papers she has been given for safekeeping. Viktoria is well-meaning; she doesn't really plan to defraud anyone, but through a rather rushed-through series of circumstances, she winds up in San Francisco pretending to be the mother of Karin's child, Chris (Gordon Gebert). Not only that, she also marries Chris's guardian, Alan Spender (Richard Basehart). So now she finds herself in an elegant mansion on the top of Telegraph Hill, playing mother to a boy who stands to inherit a fortune. And of course she also finds herself in danger. Cortese's performance makes some of this credible, but it was her only important film in America: She married her co-star, Basehart, and returned to Italy. He went with her, but except for Federico Fellini's La Strada (1954) and Il Bidone (1955), his European films were undistinguished, and he returned to the States after their divorce in 1960. The House on Telegraph Hill is plenty watchable, if only because of cinematographer Lucien Ballard's use of the San Francisco location.     

eXistenZ (David Cronenberg, 1999)

Jude Law and Jennifer Jason Leigh in eXistenZ

Cast: Jennifer Jason Leigh, Jude Law, Ian Holm, Willem Dafoe, Don McKellar, Callum Keith Rennie, Christopher Eccleston, Sarah Polley, Robert A. Silverman, Oscar Hsu, Kris Lemche, Vik Sahay, Kirsten Johnson, James Kirchner. Screenplay: David Cronenberg. Cinematography: Peter Suschitzky. Production design: Carol Spier. Film editing: Ronald Sanders. Music: Howard Shore. 

It would be easy to ascribe the "body horror" of David Cronenberg's films to an adolescent desire to gross people out, but eXistenZ shows, more than perhaps any other of his movies, a deeper satiric intent. It establishes his kinship to authors like Swift and Kafka and D.H. Lawrence: a recognition of our alienation from the organic. I think the moment that shocked me most in the early part of the film came when I saw the console, the controller for the VR game that Allegra Gellar (Jennifer Jason Leigh) is demonstrating to her audience of potential players. Instead of a box of metal and plastic, it's a flesh-colored blob. It connects to the players not with headsets or helmets but with an UmbiCord, which is exactly what it sounds like: a fleshy rope that attaches to the player's spine, not with anything like a USB port but with an implanted orifice that's very like an anus. Throughout the film, we are confronted with the moist, the slimy, the irregular, from a gun that's flesh and bone and shoots teeth to a Chinese restaurant's "special" that makes the gorge rise. Cronenberg is intent on reminding us that though we are flesh and blood, we shy from the fact. When Ted Pikul (Jude Law) recoils from having a port implanted in his spine, he objects to the vulnerability of an opening directly into his body, whereupon Allegra simply opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue, reminding him that we already have physical openings to the world. On this premise, Cronenberg builds his intricate, recursive story, one that defies summary but carries a multitude of meanings. Yes, it's a satire on the videogame industry, and yes, it's a commentary on our notions of reality itself. It's often compared to The Matrix (Lana Wachowski, Lilly Wachowski), which came out the same year, but I think it's a superior, more layered film.  

21 (Robert Luketic, 2008)

Kate Bosworth and Jim Sturgess in 21 

Cast: Jim Sturgess, Kevin Spacey, Kate Bosworth, Aaron Yoo, Liza Lapira, Jacob Pitts, Laurence Fishburne, Jack McGee, Josh Gad, Sam Golzari, Helen Carey, Bob Phillips. Screenplay: Peter Steinfeld, Allan Loeb, based on a book by Ben Mezrich. Cinematography: Russell Carpenter. Production design: Missy Stewart. Film editing: Elliot Graham. Music: David Sardy. 

Harvard has a very fine medical school, no doubt. But so do NYU, Penn, Johns Hopkins, UCSF, Columbia, Stanford, Duke, and the University of Washington, to name a few. And 21 asks us to believe that its protagonist, Ben Campbell (Jim Sturgess), is so set on going to Harvard's, and only Harvard's, that he will betray his friends, lie to his mother, and put his life in jeopardy to raise the money he needs to attend. He's already been admitted, of course. He has straight A's at MIT and a genius IQ. Moreover, he's an ideal candidate for financial support: He has a single mother and has to work part time. But according to the screenplay, there's only one scholarship available and it has scores of other applicants. So Ben will find himself roped into a card-counting system devised by a rather shady MIT professor of statistics, Micky Rosa (Kevin Spacey), who takes a group of hand-picked students and trains them in a foolproof system of beating the odds at the blackjack tables in Las Vegas. The premise is valid: Ben Mezrich reported on an actual MIT Blackjack Team in his 2003 book Bringing Down the House. But the makers of 21 aren't interested in the actuality of Mezrich's book, maybe because it involves a lot of boring stuff like mathematics. So they cobbled it into a routine con-game drama, with some Vegas glamour, a little romance, some snaky double-crossing, a little violence, and a moderately happy ending. The actual MIT team was mostly Asian, so there are some token Asians in the cast, but the movie's story centers on the good-looking white guy and the dishy blonde. That the Vegas casinos wouldn't spot this gang of pretty people as phonies defies belief. At best, 21 is a passable time-waster.

Mystery of the Wax Museum (Michael Curtiz, 1933)

Fay Wray and Glenda Farrell in Mystery of the Wax Museum

Cast: Lionel Atwill, Fay Wray, Glenda Farrell, Frank McHugh, Allen Vincent, Gavin Gordon, Edwin Maxwell, Holmes Herbert, Claude King, Arthur Edmund Carewe, Thomas E. Jackson, DeWitt Jennings, Matthew Betz, Monica Bannister. Screenplay: Don Mullaly, Carl Ericson, Charles Belden. Cinematography: Ray Rennahan. Art direction: Anton Grot. Film editing: George Amy. 

The ever-imperiled Fay Wray gets higher billing, but the real star of Mystery of the Wax Museum is Glenda Farrell, playing an intrepid (what else?), tough-talking (ditto) newspaper reporter, Florence Dempsey. Flo's boss, Jim (Frank McHugh), gives her her walking papers, so she sets out to find a sensational story to save her job. She uncovers the sinister plot of Ivan Igor (Lionel Atwill), who is opening a new wax museum in New York. Igor had a similar museum in London, but it was losing money, so his partner in the business, Joe Worth (Edwin Maxwell), burned it down to collect the insurance. Igor was trapped in the conflagration but survived. Handicapped by his wounds, he trains new sculptors to re-create the glories of the old museum. One of the trainees is Ralph Burton (Allen Vincent), whose fiancée, Charlotte Duncan (Wray), turns out to be the spitting image of Igor's most prized sculpture in the old museum, an effigy of Marie Antoinette. Naturally, Igor plans to "sculpt" Charlotte into a new Marie: His method of capturing images is, let's say, not the traditional one. By a bit of breaking and entering, Flo manages to discover the macabre truth behind the wax museum's images. The plot gimmick -- a reporter uncovers a madman's schemes -- is exactly that of Doctor X (1932), Michael Curtiz's other venture into horror movie territory filmed in two-strip Technicolor, which also starred Atwill and Wray. Mystery of the Wax Museum is the better movie, with Farrell giving a better performance as the snoopy reporter than Lee Tracy in the earlier movie. It also has a neater plot, and a real creep factor in the spooky statues -- most of which are actors standing very still. Makeup artists Ray Romero and Perc Westmore and costume designer Orry-Kelly deserve special mention.

The Furies (Anthony Mann, 1950)

Barbara Stanwyck, Walter Huston, and Judith Anderson in The Furies

Cast: Barbara Stanwyck, Walter Huston, Wendell Corey, Judith Anderson, Gilbert Roland, Thomas Gomez, Beulah Bondi, Albert Dekker, John Bromfield, Wallace Ford, Blanche Yurka. Screenplay: Charles Schnee, based on a book by Niven Busch. Cinematography: Victor Milner. Art direction: Henry Bumstead, Hans Dreier. Film editing: Archie Marshek. Music: Franz Waxman. 

The Furies takes place in a West that never was: Would any real cattleman name his ranch "The Furies"? But that's because the film aims at the mythic, and darn near succeeds. The Furies of myth were goddesses of vengeance, also known as the Eumenides, which means "the gracious ones" -- they were so terrible that humans tried to placate them by calling them by a nice name. In the film, all of the women are to some degree vengeful: Barbara Stanwyck's Vance Jeffords chafes against the notion that because she's a woman, she can't run a ranch; Judith Anderson's Flo Burnett tries to get her hooks into Vance's father and bypass Vance's claim to his estate; Beulah Bondi's Mrs. Anaheim is the real power behind her banker husband; and the most vengeful of them all, Blanche Yurka's Mother Herrera, seeks justice for the hanging of her son. For a Western, it's also awfully talky, with some lines that sound like film noir: "I don't think I like love," says Vance. "It puts a bit in my mouth." Others are obvious attempts to sidestep cliché: Vance's father, T.C. (Walter Huston), tells her she has a "dowry if you pick a man I can favor, one I can sit down at the table with and not dislodge my chow." I suspect that a lot of the dialogue, as well as a lot of the slightly overcomplicated plot, comes from its source, a novel by Niven Busch, adapted by Charles Schnee: Busch knew his way around tough dialogue, having written the screenplay for one of film noir's classics, The Postman Always Rings Twice (Tay Garnett, 1946). Anthony Mann keeps the action from overwhelming the talk and the mythologizing, greatly helped by Stanwyck and Huston (in his final film) as the sparring but inextricably bonded Jeffordses. The movie could have used a stronger love interest than Wendell Corey as Rip Darrow, the man who wants to get the better of T.C., and woos Vance as part of the plot. Corey and Stanwyck don't strike sparks; she's more in tune with Gilbert Roland as Juan Herrera, the squatter on The Furies who has been her friend since childhood -- a subplot that's in some ways more interesting than the financial struggles to get hold of the ranch. Initially a box office failure, the film has grown in stature over the years as a showcase for some of the best work of Stanwyck, Huston, and Mann. 

The Rapture (Michael Tolkin, 1991)

Kimberly Cullum and Mimi Rogers in The Rapture

Cast: Mimi Rogers, David Duchovny, Patrick Bauchau, Darwyn Carson, James Le Gros, Will Patton, Carole Davis, Sam Vlahos, Stéphanie Menuez, Marvin Elkins. Screenplay: Michael Tolkin. Cinematography: Bojan Bazelli. Production design: Robin Standifer. Film editing: Suzanne Fenn. Music: Thomas Newman.  

European filmmakers are less skittish about dealing with religious belief than Americans are: Think of the three B's, Bergman, Buñuel, and Bresson, for example. But apart from biblical epics, which we don't see much of anymore, American movies usually avoid putting characters in situations that test their faith. Michael Tolkin's The Rapture is such an obvious exception to the rule that I think it has been a bit overpraised as a result. It succeeds as much as it does on the strength of Mimi Rogers's performance as Sharon, a woman whose life is empty: She works in a grindingly routine job as a telephone operator and escapes from it by going out at night with a friend, Vic (Patrick Bauchau), picking up other couples for sex. She begins a relationship with Randy (David Duchovny), the male half of one of the couples they meet, but remains as bored and depressed as ever. At work she overhears people talking about a religious group to which they belong, and how good it makes them feel, so she investigates and soon becomes a devout member of a sect that believes the Rapture is at hand, that the end of the world is nigh and the true believers will be transported directly to Heaven. She finds comfort in the belief, converts Randy to it, and they marry and have a child, only to face a real crisis of belief. Up to this point, The Rapture is a solid and mostly convincing portrayal of the way religious belief can sometimes become a last resort. Unfortunately, Tolkin chose to end the film with a low-rent Apocalypse that tests the movie's budget and the audience's credulity as much as it does Sharon's faith.  

Dishonored (Josef von Sternberg, 1931)

Marlene Dietrich in Dishonored

Cast: Marlene Dietrich, Victor McLaglen, Warner Oland, Gustav von Seyffertitz, Lew Cody, Barry Norton. Screenplay: Josef von Sternberg, Daniel Nathan Rubin. Cinematography: Lee Garmes. Art direction: Hans Dreier. Costume design: Travis Banton. Film editing: Josef von Sternberg. Music: Karl Hajos, Herman Hand. 

Of the seven films Josef von Sternberg made with Marlene Dietrich, Dishonored is probably the weakest. Dietrich is not to blame: Photographed by Lee Garmes and dressed by Travis Banton, she looks as good as she ever did, and the movie gives her a chance to show her talent for comedy for the first time, when she pretends to be a rather bumptious girl from the country. But the story concocted by Sternberg and co-scripted with Daniel Nathan Rubin, a not particularly distinguished playwright, lacks wit and tension. Sternberg's direction allows the pace of the film to go slack, and his decision to edit the film himself doesn't help: His lap dissolves, for example, linger too long on the old scene as the new one fades in, causing visual confusion. Moreover, Dishonored features Victor McLaglen, of all actors, as the romantic lead. McLaglen was skilled as a heavy or a clumsy goof, and John Ford directed him to an Oscar for The Informer (1935), but he's out of place as the Russian spy who gets entangled with Dietrich's Austrian spy. For some reason, he spends a lot of the film flashing a rictus-like grin. Sternberg's story is based on the career of Mata Hari, about whom MGM made a competing movie starring Greta Garbo and Ramon Novarro the same year. Dietrich plays a war widow who has turned prostitute to survive, and is recruited for the Austrian Secret Service by its chief (Gustav von Seyffertitz) when she proclaims, "I've had an inglorious life. It may become my good fortune to have a glorious death." Through her career as Agent X-27 she is accompanied by a cat who is so faithful -- she even carries it in the open cockpit of an airplane -- that it suggests a witch's familiar. She's also a pianist, who encodes secrets in musical notation. (Not that she's a good pianist: At one point she plays the usually quietly serene opening of Beethoven's "Moonlight" sonata as if it were the "Appassionata.") Dishonored is no sillier than most of the Sternberg-Dietrich movies, but it doesn't wear its silliness with style the way the best of them do. 

The Brood (David Cronenberg, 1979)

Cindy Hinds in The Brood

Cast: Oliver Reed, Samantha Eggar, Art Hindle, Henry Beckman, Nuala Fitzgerald, Cindy Hinds, Susan Hogan, Gary McKeehan, Michael Magee, Robert A. Silverman, Joseph Shaw, Larry Solway, Reiner Schwarz. Screenplay: David Cronenberg. Cinematography: Mark Irwin. Art direction: Carol Spier. Film editing: Alan Collins. Music: Howard Shore. 

Creepy children have become a staple of horror movies ever since Patty McCormack terrorized everyone as Rhoda Penmark in The Bad Seed (Mervyn LeRoy, 1956). The key here is the depiction of evil lurking behind a façade of innocence. Actually, the creepy child in The Brood is not Candice Carveth (Cindy Hinds), an otherwise ordinary 5-year-old, except as a vehicle for bringing out the creepy childlike creatures that are the movie's menace. It's a good, bloody, somewhat queasy film that plays on all sorts of phobias, including our suspicions about psychiatrists, and our tolerance for bodily functions. It proved too much for some of its early critics, including Roger Ebert, who dismissed it as an exploitation film, "reprehensible trash," and a bore. It may be the first, and perhaps the second -- given that one person's trash is another person's genre classic -- but it's certainly not the last. David Cronenberg is an insidious filmmaker, who constantly plays on our nerves without resorting to cheap jump scares. He makes you back off at times: In the scene that made most people feel at least faintly nauseated, I found myself saying, "It's only corn syrup and food coloring." We may also debate whether the film is fair to the psychiatric profession and even if there's a touch of antifeminism, but that means he's left you with something to think about. To dismiss The Brood as exploitative is to overlook the satire with which it's laced. 

Nine Queens (Fabián Bielinsky, 2000)

Ricardo Darín and Gastón Pauls in Nine Queens

Cast: Ricardo Darín, Gastón Pauls, Leticia Brédice, Ignasi Abadal, Tomás Fonzi, Oscar Núñez, Celia Juárez, Elsa Berenguer, Leo Dyzen. Screenplay: Fabián Bielinsky. Cinematography: Marcelo Camorino. Production design: Daniela Passalaqua. Film editing: Sergio Zottola. Music: César Lerner.

Marcos (Ricardo Darín), a seasoned con artist, spots Juan (Gastón Pauls) making what looks like a rookie mistake trying to con a cashier making change for him in a convenience store. So, being in need of a partner, he takes Juan under his wing for a day. Both men are down on their luck and in need of substantial sums of money, so when Juan proves to be adept, the two launch on a major scam: selling a sheet of forged collectible postage stamps known as the Nine Queens to a wealthy mark. That's the setup for an entertaining genre piece with attractive performances and more than a few surprise twists. Writer-director Fabián Bielinsky guides his cast through some lively scenes, many of which were shot on the streets of Buenos Aires. Lacking the budget for a full complement of extras, Bielinsky surrounded his stars with a small cadre of hired actors to act as a buffer against lookie-loos; the result has energy and veracity. (Moviemaking is often a con game itself.) Naturally, the movie hinges on who's conning whom: the sharpie Marcos, the less-experienced Juan, or their mark, the wealthy stamp collector (Ignasi Abadal), who just happens to be staying in a hotel where Marcos's sister, Valeria (Leticia Brédice) works? (There's some family tension around an inheritance that Marcos cheated Valeria out of.) The ending is a jaw-dropper that works as long as you don't ask the questions that you aren't supposed to ask. Nine Queens was remade in the United States as Criminal (Gregory Jacobs, 2004), with John C. Reilly and Diego Luna in the roles played by Darín and Pauls.  

New Rose Hotel (Abel Ferrara, 1998)

Asia Argento and Willem Dafoe in New Rose Hotel

Cast: Christopher Walken, Willem Dafoe, Asia Argento, Annabella Sciorra, John Lurie, Kimmy Suzuki, Miou, Yoshitaka Amano, Gretchen Mol, Phil Neilson, Ken Kelsch, Ryuiki Sakamoto. Screenplay: Abel Ferrara, Christ Zois, based on a story by William Gibson. Cinematography: Ken Kelsch. Production design: Frank DeCurtis. Film editing: Jim Mol, Anthony Redman. Music: Schoolly D. 

Abel Ferrara's New Rose Hotel is more an exercise in style than a satisfactory movie. The plot is simple: Fox (Christopher Walken) and X (Willem Dafoe) are agents for a Japanese technology firm plot tasked with raiding a top scientist from a German company. They do so by hiring a beautiful prostitute called Sandii (Asia Argento) to seduce the scientist, whom they will set up in a laboratory in Marrakech. The plot goes awry when one of the agents falls in love with Sandii and overlooks some evidence that she may be working for the German company, putting the agents in danger. Padding this plot into a 93-minute movie means a lot of filler, including an extended opening scene set in a kinky nightclub where some lugubrious songs get sung and the necessary exposition gets spilled. Then there are some irrelevant sex scenes while the scheme is being set up, and after it fails there are extended flashbacks that add little to our understanding of what has happened. The three leads are capable and watchable, but the film leaves us with no revelations about corporate rivalry in the age of technology that we haven't seen in better movies. 

No Way Out (Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1950)

Linda Darnell, Sidney Poitier, and Richard Widmark in No Way Out

Cast: Sidney Poitier, Richard Widmark, Linda Darnell, Stephen McNally, Mildred Joanne Smith, Harry Bellaver, Stanley Ridges, Dots Johnson, Ossie Davis, Ruby Dee, Amanda Randolph, Maude Simmons. Screenplay: Joseph L. Mankiewicz, Lesser Samuels. Cinematography: Milton R. Krasner. Art direction: George W. Davis, Lyle R. Wheeler. Film editing: Barbara McLean. Music: Alfred Newman.

Although its treatment of race relations in America seems naive today, No Way Out stands up as a solid drama about an issue that in the post-war years was finally receiving the attention from Hollywood filmmakers that it had too long deserved. It also launched the career of Sidney Poitier as well as, in smaller roles, Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee. The plot hinges on the novelty of a Black doctor, Luther Brooks (Poitier), serving as an intern in hospital in a large city. When two brothers, Ray (Richard Widmark) and Johnny Biddle (Dick Paxton) are admitted to the prison ward of the hospital after being shot by the police during a robbery, Brooks notices that Johnny's symptoms are not just that of a leg wound; suspecting some sort of mental impairment, Brooks does a spinal tap, during which Johnny dies. Ray Biddle has already demonstrated his racist animosity toward Brooks, and claims that he killed his brother. An autopsy would confirm Brooks's suspicion that Johnny's death was caused by an undiagnosed brain tumor, but Ray won't allow it, and he's backed up by his brother George (Harry Bellaver) and initially by Johnny's ex-wife, Edie (Linda Darnell). She once had an affair with Ray, but she loathes him and has done what she can to escape the poor-white neighborhood, Beaver Canal, where she grew up and the Biddles still live. Ray spurs the rabble-rousers of Beaver Canal to start a race riot, but they are met with resistance from the Black neighborhoods. The film is a little over-plotted: The crux of the plot, the autopsy, gets resolved in a way that isn't entirely convincing, and the confrontation of Brooks and Ray Biddle arrives in what's almost a coda, as an anti-climax. Widmark is allowed to overact in the role of Ray, and Poitier has yet to acquire the confident presence that made him a star. The best performance in the film comes from a deglamorized Darnell, who gives Edie a real toughness and vulnerability, suggesting that her inclination to do the right thing is at war with her experience growing up in Beaver Canal. The film's portrayal of raw racism still has the power to shock: We rarely hear white actors use the N-word today, even when their roles as bigots might seem to require it, and I flinched when a white woman spat in the face of Poitier's character. It's weaker in the treatment of racial violence: No one on either side seems to have any guns. 

 

Thirteen Women (George Archainbaud, 1932)

Irene Dunne and Myrna Loy in Thirteen Women

Cast: Irene Dunne, Myrna Loy, Ricardo Cortez, Jill Esmond, Mary Duncan, Kay Johnson, Florence Eldridge, C. Henry Gordon, Peg Entwistle, Harriet Hagman, Edward Pawley, Blanche Friderici, Wally Albright. Screenplay: Bartlett Cormack, Samuel Ornitz, based on a novel by Tiffany Thayer. Cinematography: Leo Tover. Art direction: Carroll Clark. Film editing: Charles L. Kimball. Music: Max Steiner. 

Myrna Loy was born Myrna Williams in Helena, Montana, but you wouldn't know it from the way Hollywood often cast her at the start of her career in the '20s and '30s. Her role in Thirteen Women is probably the purest example of her work as the stereotypical sinister Eurasian. She plays Ursula Georgi, whom the cop played by Ricardo Cortez scorns as "Half-breed type. Half Hindu, half Javanese, I don't know." (Actually, Cortez himself knew something about crossing ethnic lines: He was born Jacob Krantz in New York, but Hollywood changed his name to capitalize on the vogue for Latin lovers like Rudolph Valentino and Ramon Novarro, and later claimed first that he was French and later that he was born in Vienna.) Ursula seeks revenge on the women who belonged to a sorority at a girls' college and blackballed her when she sought admission. She seeks out a phony seer known as Swami Yogadachi (C. Henry Gordon), whose horoscope readings the girls sought out, and hypnotizes him into sending them poison-pen readings that predict dire events. Two of the girls, the sisters June (Mary Duncan) and May Raskob (Harriet Hagman), have become trapeze artists, and June is so unnerved by the fake reading that she lets May fall to her death during a stunt and goes mad as a consequence. As others fall prey to Ursula's schemes, some of the survivors gather at the home of Laura Stanhope (Irene Dunne), who thinks that their hysteria over the deaths is absurd. Laura is the single mother of a son, Bobby (Wally Albright), who is one of those cloyingly cute movie children -- he calls her "Mumsy." But even Laura's calm vanishes when Ursula makes Bobby her next target. In addition to being stupidly racist, the movie is sheer hokum, a cockamamie blend of revenge thriller and police procedural, and it was not much of a success at the box office, even after RKO cut 14 minutes from it after test screenings -- one of the reasons why we learn the fates of only 10 of the 13 women. One of the performances cut to only four minutes was that of Peg Entwistle, who played Hazel, the one who kills her husband and goes to prison. Entwistle was reportedly so despondent about her movie career that she climbed to the top of one of the letters on the Hollywood sign (reports vary on whether it was the H or the D) and jumped to her death. As for Loy, this was her last outing as a Eurasian vamp: The Thin Man (W.S. Van Dyke, 1934) changed her screen image to that of the witty and soignée wife, most often of William Powell.    

The Devil, Probably (Robert Bresson, 1977)

Antoine Monnier in The Devil, Probably

Cast: Antoine Monnier, Tina Irrisari, Henri de Maublanc, Laetitia Carcano, Nicolas Deguy, Régis Hanrion, Geoffroy Gaussen, Roger Honorat. Screenplay: Robert Bresson. Cinematography: Pasqualino De Santis. Production design: Eric Simon. Film editing: Germaine Artus. Music: Philippe Sarde. 

I admire Robert Bresson's films. How can one not? But his next-to-last, The Devil, Probably, tried my patience. The unrelieved inexpressiveness of his characters becomes monotonous to the verge of seeming like a parody of a film about people suffering from existential depression. We are shown the causes of their malaise in footage of environmental devastation ranging from images of the victims of mercury poisoning in Minimata, Japan, to the clubbing of baby seals, to tests of nuclear bombs. But we have all seen and reacted to those images ourselves, and somehow manage not to walk around without at least the occasional smile or laugh. Does Bresson mean to suggest that we are somehow at fault in not becoming suicidal, like his protagonist, Charles (Antoine Monnier)? The film is an implied response to the familiar statement by Camus: "There is only one really serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide." Charles can find no reason to continue living in a world that disgusts him. Intellectually, the film is a work of real brilliance, but it fails to communicate its ideas in a way that engages me dramatically and emotionally. We suspect from the beginning, when we see newspaper headlines about a young man who is first thought to have committed suicide but later to have been murdered, that they're about one of the characters in the film, and we soon realize that it's Charles. So the only dramatic tension in the film centers on the specific way in which this foreknowledge will manifest itself. And so I'm torn. The Devil, Probably is a work I can admire on an intellectual level, but despite some remarkable sections, like Charles's visit to a psychoanalyst, or a scene on a bus that not only tantalizes by what happens in it but also provides the title of the film, it seems to me to fall short as a work of cinematic art. That said, just thinking about it makes me eager to see it again.    

Body Parts (Eric Red, 1991)

Lindsay Duncan, Jeff Fahey, and Kim Delaney in Body Parts

Cast: Jeff Fahey, Lindsay Duncan, Kim Delaney, Zakes Mokae, Brad Dourif, John Walsh, Paul Ben-Victor, Peter Murnik. Screenplay: Patricia Herskovic, Joyce Taylor, Eric Red, Norman Snider, based on a novel by Pierre Boileau and Thomas Narcejac. Cinematography: Theo van de Sande. Production design: Bill Brodie. Editing: Anthony Redman. Music: Loek Dikker. 

How can a movie with a car chase, a fight in a barroom, and an abundance of gore turn out so dull? Body Parts is based on an old trope, that of severed members taking on a life of their own. Adaptations of W.W. Jacobs's 1902 story "The Monkey's Paw" are so numerous they have a Wikipedia page of their own and Maurice Renard's 1920 novel Les Mains d'Orlac, about a concert pianist who receives the transplanted hands of a murderer, has been filmed several times, including Robert Wiene's 1924 silent The Hands of Orlac and Karl Freund's 1935 Mad Love, starring Peter Lorre. The many adaptations of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein also play on the notion of reanimated body parts. But it's not that the idea behind Eric Red's movie has been done to death, so to speak, it's that Eric Red and the various screenwriters who worked on the movie find so little new and interesting to do with it. It's adapted from a 1965 novel, Choice Cuts, by the writing team known as Boileau-Narcejac, who provided the source material for some much better movies: Diabolique (aka Les Diaboliques, Henri-Georges Clouzot, 1955) and Vertigo (Alfred Hitchcock, 1958). The acting isn't bad. As Bill Chrushank, a psychiatrist who receives the arm of a murderer after losing his own in an auto accident, Jeff Fahey does a solid job of suggesting the ways the transplant brings out the worst in what may have been his own latent tendencies to violence. Lindsay Duncan plays the surgeon who does the transplant as a cold-blooded scientist with just a touch of hauteur that turns malevolent when her breakthrough technique is threatened. Brad Dourif overacts a little as the artist who receives the other arm and finds that it actually feeds his imagination and produces darkly disturbing paintings that sell. And Kim Delaney does what she can with the role of Chrushank's wife, who bears the brunt of his emotional transformation. But Red's direction never builds suspense, giving us time to anticipate the shocks we expect the material to provide. There's also a completely unearned "happy ending" that saps any lingering tension from what has gone before. 

Station West (Sidney Lanfield, 1948)

Dick Powell and Jane Greer in Station West

Cast: Dick Powell, Jane Greer, Agnes Moorehead, Tom Powers, Gordon Oliver, Steve Brodie, Guinn "Big Boy" Williams, Raymond Burr, Regis Toomey, Burl Ives. Screenplay: Frank Fenton, Winston Miller, based on a novel by Luke Short. Cinematography: Harry J. Wild. Art direction: Albert S. D'Agostino, Feild M. Gray. Film editing: Frederic Knudtson. Music: Heinz Roemheld. 

Station West is an odd duck of a Western. Oh, there's the usual stagecoach and saloon stuff, some gunplay, and a big fistfight. But it also has the kind of snappy dialogue you associate with film noir, and nobody is exactly what they seem. It's also threaded through with songs performed by an uncredited Burl Ives, who plays a hotel owner who's also a kind of Greek chorus, commenting on the action with his ballads. One of the refrains of his songs, "A man can't grow old where there's women and gold," is sung often enough that we get the point. The women are played by Jane Greer and Agnes Moorehead, and they give no quarter. Greer is Charlene, known as Charlie, and she owns most of the business in the town, but not the gold mine, which belongs to Mrs. Caslon, played by Moorehead. And then a stranger named Haven (Dick Powell) comes to town. He's really an undercover agent from military intelligence investigating the deaths of two soldiers who were guarding a shipment of gold from Mrs. Caslon's mine that got hijacked. Powell's character is a boots-and-sixguns variation on his Philip Marlowe in Murder, My Sweet (Edward Dmytryk, 1944), quick with a quip, catnip to the women, able to take a licking and keep on sleuthing. Somehow this mash-up of film noir and horse opera works. There's nice camera work, too, from Harry J. Wild, who knows how to use shadows effectively.    

Arrebato (Iván Zulueta, 1979)

Will More in Arrebato

Cast: Eusebio Poncela, Cecilia Roth, Will More, Marta Fernández Muro, Helena Fernán-Gómez, Carmen Giralt, Max Madera. Screenplay: Iván Zulueta. Cinematography: Ángel Luis Fernández. Film editing: José Luis Peláez. Music: Negativo. 

Pedro Almodóvar became the face of post-Franco Spanish filmmaking in the United States, where we often overlook the powerful influences on his work by other Spanish directors. He was, for example, a great admirer of Iván Zulueta's Arrebato, for which he dubbed the voice for Helena Fernán-Gómez's character, Gloria, and he later cast its lead actor, Eusebio Poncela, in his films Matador (1986) and Law of Desire (1987). Certainly it's possible to see how the uncompromising work of Zulueta in Arrebato, his second and last feature-length movie, may have liberated the imaginations of Almodóvar and his fellow Spanish filmmakers after the death of Franco in 1975. It's a movie about the intoxication of making movies, and about intoxication and its consequences. Zulueta, who was a heroin addict, gives us a film about a similarly addicted filmmaker, José Sirgado (Poncela), who just after finishing the production of a horror movie receives a package in the mail from Pedro (Will More), a man he has met only twice before. It contains an audio tape, a reel of Super 8 film, and a key to Pedro's apartment. And so begins a complex tale in which José becomes entwined in Pedro's very odd life and obsessions, at the end of which José becomes obsessed himself, absorbed into the strange experiences that Pedro has documented on film. Arrebato (which means "rapture") is an often muddled and maddening film, but muddle and madness are what it's about. It flopped commercially, but gathered a following at midnight movie screenings in Madrid, which eventually led to its video release and a wider audience.  

The Cheat (George Abbott, 1931)

Tallulah Bankhead in The Cheat

Cast: Tallulah Bankhead, Harvey Stephens, Irving Pichel, Jay Fassett, Ann Andrews, William Ingersoll, Hanaki Yoshiwara, Willard Dashiell, Edward Keane, Robert Strange. Screenplay: Harry Hervey, based on a silent film scenario by Hector Turnbull. Cinematography: George J. Folsey. Film editing: Emma Hill. 

Tallulah Bankhead is the only reason to see the cornball and somewhat racist The Cheat today. Bankhead made only a handful of films, and only one or two of them -- chiefly Alfred Hitchcock's Lifeboat (1944) -- are any good. The Cheat was an old Paramount property, originally directed by Cecil B. DeMille in 1915, that was dragged out of mothballs to be remade for Bankhead. She plays Elsa Carlyle, happily married to the broker Jeffrey Carlyle (Harvey Stephens), but given to spending and gambling beyond their means. Faced with a debt she can't pay, she turns to a wealthy socialite just returned from spending time in "the Orient," Hardy Livingstone (Irving Pichel). Livingstone has picked up all sorts of sinister Asian artifacts and manners, and keeps dolls representing his sexual conquests in a cabinet. He brands the dolls with his own insignia. It soon becomes clear that he plans to add an effigy of Elsa to his collection, and when she spurns his advances he brands her, too, with a hot iron applied just above her breast. (Some production stills and posters show Bankhead baring a shoulder instead of her chest.) She shoots Livingstone, but only wounds him, and when Carlyle arrives, followed by the police, he claims to have fired the pistol. A trial ensues. Even contemporary reviewers found the movie old-fashioned and noted that the audiences laughed in all the wrong places. There's some impressive camerawork directed by George J. Folsey, but also a rather kitschy Thai-Balinese dance number choreographed by Ruth St. Denis. Bankhead does what she can with the material, which isn't enough, and she and director George Abbott returned to Broadway, where they had more success. 

Forever Amber (Otto Preminger, 1947)

Linda Darnell and George Sanders in Forever Amber

Cast: Linda Darnell, Cornel Wilde, Richard Greene, George Sanders, Glenn Langan, Richard Haydn, Jessica Tandy, Anne Revere, John Russell, Jane Ball, Robert Coote, Leo G. Carroll, Margaret Wycherly. Screenplay: Philip Dunne, Ring Lardner Jr., Jerome Cady, based on a novel by Kathleen Winsor. Cinematography: Leon Shamroy. Art direction: Lyle R. Wheeler. Film editing: Louis R. Loeffler. Music: David Raksin. 

Once a famous "dirty book," Kathleen Winsor's Forever Amber wouldn't raise eyebrows or blood pressures in the average book club of today, but it was one of Hollywood's hottest properties in the 1940s. The bidding war was won by 20th Century Fox, which followed the example of Gone With the Wind by announcing a search for the actress who would play the glamorously wicked Amber St. Clair. Though the part originally went to Peggy Cummins, producer Darryl F. Zanuck finally decided that she looked too young to play the mature Amber, and when she was sidelined by illness just as filming began, she was replaced by Linda Darnell. John Stahl, the original director, left the film at the same time, and Otto Preminger stepped in. He disliked the book and asked for a script rewrite, but Preminger also delighted in trying to get things past the censors, who were all over the project. The result is a middling costume drama with too much material from the book to fit comfortably in its two-hour run time. Amber is an ambitious lass raised in a Puritan household who, when Charles II is restored to the throne, latches on to a handsome Cavalier, Bruce Carlton (Cornel Wilde), and heads for London. When Carlton is commissioned as a privateer by the king (George Sanders) and sets sail, Amber, who is pregnant with Carlton's child, is left with a little money that gets swindled away from her and lands in Newgate, the debtors' prison. She gives birth, escapes from prison, makes a living by thievery, goes on stage, attracts the eye of the king, marries an elderly earl, nurses a returned Carlton through the plague, inherits the earl's fortune when he dies during the Great Fire, and becomes the king's mistress. All of this immoral behavior should mean, under the Production Code, that she gets punished accordingly, but somehow the movie manages to finesse that with only a little emotional stress at the end. Forever Amber got condemned by the Catholic church banned in a few places, but it was evidently bowdlerized enough to survive and make money. The truth is, it's a little dull. It comes to life occasionally when Sanders is on screen being royally wicked, but Darnell, with a blonde dye job and wig, never gets a chance to do more than be cautiously wicked and suffer prettily. The Technicolor is also rather dark and muddy, although that may be the result of an aging print. 
 

Chameleon Street (Wendell B. Harris Jr., 1989)

Wendell B. Harris Jr. in Chameleon Street

Cast: Wendell B. Harris Jr., Timothy Alvaro, William Ballenger, Thomas Bashaw, Alfred Bruce Bradley, Margaret Branch, Rick Davenport, Amina Fakir, Anita Gordon, Gary Irwin, Jeff Lamb, Angela Leslie, Bruce Seyburn, Jennifer Turner. Screenplay: Wendell B. Harris Jr. Cinematography: Daniel S. Noga. Art direction: Timothy Alvaro. Film editing: Matthew Mallinson. Music: Peter S. Moore.

 An altogether astonishing movie, Wendell B. Harris Jr.'s Chameleon Street is raw, clumsy, funny, mordant, and almost as interesting for what happened to the movie itself as for anything that happens on the screen. It was born of its writer-producer-director-star's fascination with a real life con man, William Douglas Street Jr., who managed to pass himself off as a reporter, a doctor, a lawyer, an athlete, and a Yale student. Only once did Street try to make real money with this talent; the rest of the time he did it because he could, which ultimately wound up sending him to prison. Harris's exploration of Street's career is a kind of docudrama, and it won him the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance. What it didn't win him was fame as a filmmaker, which Sundance had done for directors like Quentin Tarantino, David O. Russell, Paul Thomas Anderson, and Steven Soderbergh, among others. Hollywood showed its interest only in buying the rights to remake the movie, but not to distribute it. At the Sundance festival, Chameleon Street's chief competitor for the award was To Sleep With Anger, a film by another Black director, Charles Burnett, that was picked up for distribution by the Samuel Goldwyn Company. It's a more conventional movie, featuring stars like Danny Glover, while Harris's film is largely performed by non-professional actors. After three decades of underground circulation, Chameleon Street was restored in 2021, distributed and released on video. It can now be seen as a pointed look at the Black experience and as a commentary on the quest for identity and status, not only within the film but in the film's history. 

Blood for Dracula (Paul Morrissey, 1974)

Udo Kier in Blood for Dracula

Cast: Udo Kier, Joe Dallesandro, Arno Jürging, Vittorio De Sica, Maxime McKendry, Milena Vukotic, Dominique Darel, Stefania Casini, Silvia Dionisio. Screenplay: Paul Morrissey. Cinematography: Luigi Kuveiller. Production design: Enrico Job. Film editing: Jed Johnson, Franca Silvi. Music: Claudio Gizzi. 

The great Vittorio De Sica had a career that extended from the sublime -- directing Bicycle Thieves (1948) and Umberto D. (1954), acting in Madame De ... (Max Ophus, 1953) -- to the ridiculous -- appearing in Paul Morrissey's Blood for Dracula. De Sica plays the Marchese Di Fiore, an Italian aristocrat in financial straits who lives in a decaying mansion with his wife (Maxime McKendry) and four daughters. He has been forced to dismiss all of his servants except one, the surly Mario Balato (Joe Dallesandro), a Marxist who eagerly anticipates a revolution like the one that has just taken place in Russia. Di Fiore's only hope is to marry off one of his daughters to a wealthy suitor. The oldest, Esmeralda (Milena Vukotic), and the youngest, Perla (Silivia Dionisio), are considered not suitable, but the two middle girls, Saphiria (Dominique Darel) and Rubinia (Stefania Casini) are prime marriage material. So who should arrive in their village but a well-to-do Romanian count named Dracula (Udo Kier). In this version of the Dracula story, the count can drink only the blood of virgins. The villagers back in Romania have gotten wise to this fact, and no women go near his castle. So he figures that the Italians, being devout Roman Catholics, will have seen to it that virginity prevails, so he journeys there with his assistant, Anton (Arno Jürging), in search of a bride. He's delighted to learn of Di Fiore's marriageable daughters, so he makes a play for the girls, only to discover that neither is a virgin -- Mario has seen to that. Sampling his would-be brides makes the count violently ill, giving Kier an opportunity to go over the top in portraying Dracula's reaction. The film is about what you'd expect if you've seen its companion piece, Morrissey's Flesh for Frankenstein (1973): a good deal of nudity on the part of the actresses and Dallesandro, some bloody deaths, a lot of barely acceptable acting, and a wide variety of accents: Italian, German, French, British, and Brooklyn. De Sica, who wrote his own dialogue, makes his character one of the saving graces of the movie, along with cinematography, settings, and a score that are better than it deserves.