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.