The Sniper (Edward Dmytryk, 1952)

Arthur Franz in The Sniper

Cast: Arthur Franz, Adolphe Menjou, Gerald Mohr, Marie Windsor, Frank Faylen, Richard Kiley, Mabel Paige, Marlo Dwyer, Geraldine Carr. Screenplay: Harry Brown, Edna Anhalt. Edward Anhalt. Cinematography: Burnett Guffey. Production design: Rudolph Sternad. Film editing: Aaron Stell. Music: George Antheil.

Edward Dmytryk's The Sniper is a solid manhunt thriller that maybe gets a little heavy-handed in its promotion of treatment over incarceration for sex offenders, but also contains a few nice surprises. One of them is cinematographer Burnett Guffey's location shooting in San Francisco (except for an amusement park scene filmed in Long Beach), providing a nice record of how the city looked in 1952. Another is an almost unrecognizable Adolphe Menjou, who shaved his mustache to play the police detective in charge of capturing Edward Miller (Arthur Franz), who is gunning down women, driven by some undocumented childhood trauma. Menjou typically played well-groomed upper-middle-class types who looked like they were born wearing three-piece suits -- he was repeatedly voted one of America's best-dressed men -- but in The Sniper he manages to look rumpled for once. Menjou was an outspoken right-wing Republican who testified before the House Un-American Activities Committee that Hollywood was full of communists, making his appearance in The Sniper surprising, given that Dmytrk was one of the "Hollywood Ten," who had been blacklisted after refusing to testify before HUAC. Dmytryk recanted and in 1951 named names before the committee, which presumably put him back in Menjou's good graces. The film was produced by Stanley Kramer, and the speech written by his co-producers Edna and Edward Anhalt, and delivered by Richard Kiley, about the need for preventive treatment for potential criminals is characteristic of Kramer's fondness for message movies. The Sniper has a low-key ending, another surprise for a film whose genre typically provides an audience-pleasing catharsis.  

Fading Gigolo (John Turturro, 2013)

Woody Allen and John Turturro in Fading Gigolo

Cast: John Turturro, Woody Allen, Vanessa Paradis, Liev Schreiber, Sharon Stone, Sofia Vergara, Bob Balaban, Michael Badalucco, Tonya Pinkins. Screenplay: John Turturro. Cinematography: Marco Pontecorvo. Production design: Lester Cohen. Film editing: Simona Paggi. 

A lot about John Turturro's Fading Gigolo, from story to casting, doesn't work, but like other films he wrote and directed, it's so sweetly eccentric that I don't mind. The premise is this: When the bookstore he owns goes out of business, Murray (Woody Allen) persuades his friend Fioravante (Turturro) to go to work as a male prostitute, with Murray as his procurer. Of course, if you believe that a man in his mid-50s, as Turturro was when he made the film, is going to become a success as a gigolo, then you're well prepared to accept other improbabilities that the script throws at you. Like, for instance, that the idea was implanted in Murray's mind by his dermatologist, played by Sharon Stone, who mentions to him that she and her girlfriend (Sofia Vegara) would like to find a man for a three-way and would be willing to pay for it. And that Murray is living with a Black woman (Tonya Pinkins) with three small sons, and when one of them comes down with head lice, he takes the boy to a woman living in a Hasidic neighborhood in Brooklyn for treatment. She's Avigal (Vanessa Paradis), a widow who hasn't allowed a man to touch her since her husband died, though she's caught the attention of Dovi (Liev Schreiber), who works for a neighborhood watch group. And that Murray somehow persuades Avigal that Fioravante is a massage therapist, so when he touches her it releases all her pent-up emotions and they start to fall in love, which attracts the attention of Dovi who has Murray "arrested" by his group and taken before a rabbinic court. And ... you see where this is going. Or not. Although the credited screenwriter is Turturro alone, Fading Gigolo plays almost like a parody of an early Woody Allen film, so much so that it's hard to believe that he didn't have a hand in it. There's even a soundtrack of jazz standards that resembles those of Allen's movies. Turturro pulls off this oddity of a film by never letting it escape into the raunchy territories that the premise threatens to explore. The best reaction to it might be a puzzled smile. 

The Unfortunate Bridegroom (Jiri Krejcik, 1967)

Iva Janzurová in The Unfortunate Bridegroom

Cast: Iva Janzurová, Vladimr Pucholt, Jan Vostrcil, Frantisek Filipovsky, Stella Zazvorková, Jiri Hrzán, Alina Hessová, Pavel Landovsky, Jan Schánilek, Jan Libícek. Screenplay: Jiri Krejcik, Zdenek Mahler. Cinematography: Josef Strecha. Production design: Oldrich Okác. Film editing: Josef Dobrichovsky. Music: Zdenek Liska. 

A farce about a gang rape could never get made today, nor should it. So what does it say about Czechoslovakia in 1967 that Jiri Krejcik's The Unfortunate Bridegroom was a big hit? One thing it may say is that viewers were willing to see the rape as a metaphor for what the government and the police of their country were doing to them. That's the subversive premise underlying this raucous, knockabout comedy in which a young woman's attempt to get a ticket for her commute home leads to the near-undoing of a young man's wedding to his pregnant bride. Comically, it has a more-than-passing resemblance to all sort of madcap comedies from the Marx Brothers to some of the Preston Sturges oeuvre, and it made me laugh more than once (while feeling a little queasy), but I found it a little too frantic for its underlying premise.  

Ken (Kenji Misumi, 1964)

Raizo Ichikawa in Ken

Cast: Raizo Ichikawa, Yusuke Kawazu, Hisaya Morishigi, Akio Hasegawa, Noriko Sengoku, Keiju Kobayashi, Yuko Konno, Junko Kozakura, Yoshio Inaba, Rieko Sumi, Kuniichi Takami. Screenplay: Kazuo Funahashi, based on a novel by Yukio Mishima. Cinematography: Chikashi Makiura. Art direction: Akira Naito. Film editing: Kanji Sukanuma. Music: Sei Ikeno. 

Kenji Misumi's Ken, also known as The Sword, is based on a novel by Yukio Mishima and shares that author's intense focus on Japanese tradition. It centers on Jiro Kokubun (Raizo Ichikawa), the captain of his university's kendo club, which is preparing for a tournament against a rival university. Kendo is swordplay, performed with bamboo swords, and Kokubun is obsessively devoted to the sport -- so much so, in fact, that he almost loses out on the captaincy because his coach fears he's a little too intense. His chief rival for the position, Kagawa (Yusuke Kawazu), is equally proficient, but not so obsessive. Eventually this leads to a conflict between the two young men, especially after Kokubun punishes Kagawa for a minor infraction, using him to set an example of complete devotion to the sport. Kagawa retaliates by asking a pretty classmate, Kiuchi (Noriko Sengoku), to try to seduce the chaste and ascetic Kokubun. But the real crisis comes when the club goes on a training retreat in which Kokubun tries to instill the same devotion to the sport in the rest of the team. It takes place in a seaside town, but Kokubun prohibits swimming in the ocean even though the trainees suffer from the intense heat of summer. Kagawa seizes another opportunity to undermine Kokubun, with terrible consequences. The film sympathizes with Kokubun, turning him into a tragic figure, while at the same time suggesting that his intense virtue, analogous to the bushido code of the samurai, is out of place in a modern context. Handsomely photographed and superbly acted, Ken is the middle film in Misumi's Sword Trilogy, which includes Kiru (1962) and Kenki (1965).  

Forbidden (Frank Capra, 1932)

Adolphe Menjou and Barbara Stanwyck in Forbidden

Cast: Barbara Stanwyck, Adolphe Menjou, Ralph Bellamy, Dorothy Peterson, Thomas Jefferson, Myrna Fresholt, Charlotte Henry, Oliver Eckhardt. Screenplay: Frank Capra, Jo Swerling. Cinematography: Joseph Walker. Film editing: Maurice Wright. 

If you can bring yourself to believe that Barbara Stanwyck's character would spend her life devoted to Adolphe Menjou's, you might like Forbidden. Its writer and director, Frank Capra, didn't, almost apologizing for it in his memoirs. Menjou was a fine character actor with a film career that stretched from 1916 to 1960, but he was no leading man. He was the guy you called on for suave but starchy, not for a lifetime of illicit passion. In Forbidden he's a lawyer and aspiring politician who meets Stanwyck's Lulu on a cruise to Havana. She's a librarian longing for romance, so she spends all her savings on that fateful cruise. They meet cute, of course: He's a little drunk and somehow mistakes her room, No. 66, for his, No. 99. Unfortunately, he's married (she doesn't know this till later) and unwilling to divorce his wife because she was seriously injured in an automobile accident he caused. But they keep seeing each other after they return to the States, she gets pregnant, and through a preposterous series of events winds up letting him and his wife adopt the child she gives birth to. Meanwhile, his political career takes off, although he has made an enemy of a newspaper editor (Ralph Bellamy), who just happens to be Lulu's boss and who wants to marry her. This elaborate contraption of a plot creaks and groans its way to a denouement that's as improbable as the rest of ir. If anything redeems the movie, it's Stanwyck's professionalism, her commitment to creating a character that's almost credible while you're watching her, but really doesn't when you think about it afterward. Capra also directs as if his story makes sense, which is no small feat. 

Ladies of Leisure (Frank Capra, 1930)

Ralph Graves and Barbara Stanwyck in Ladies of Leisure

Cast: Barbara Stanwyck, Ralph Graves, Lowell Sherman, Marie Prevost, Nance O'Neil, John Fawcett, Juliette Compton, Johnnie Walker. Screenplay: Jo Swerling, based on a play by Milton Herbert Gropper. Cinematography: Joseph Walker. Art direction: Harrison Wiley. Film editing: Maurice Wright. Music: C. Bakaleinikoff. 

Barbara Stanwyck's mastery of timing and inflection and her sheer camera presence made her a star, and Frank Capra's Ladies of Leisure was one of the first films to showcase what she could do. It's an engaging film at the start, with Stanwyck as Kay Arnold, tossing off snappy banter with Dot Lamar (Marie Prevost), her roommate and fellow "party girl." Soon there's a meet-cute with Jerry Strong (Ralph Graves), a rich guy who wants to be an artist. He asks Kay to model for him, and even though he's sort of engaged to a woman of his society set and his family disapproves of her indiscreet past, they fall in love. That's when the movie bogs down into sentimentality, Capra's fatal flaw. The only thing that holds it together is Stanwyck's obvious total commitment to making the character work. It's too bad that her leading man isn't capable of making a similar commitment -- Graves just looks a little flummoxed at what happens. Still, there's some breathless and implausible eleventh-hour suspense to liven things up at the end. 

The Linguini Incident (Richard Shepard, 1991)

Rosanna Arquette and David Bowie in The Linguini Incident

Cast: Rosanna Arquette, David Bowie, Eszter Balint, Andre Gregory, Buck Henry, Viveca Lindfors, Marlee Matlin. Screenplay: Richard Shepard. Cinematography: Robert D. Yeoman. Production design: Marcia Hinds. Film editing: Sonya Polonsky, David Dean. Music: Thomas Newman.

Richard Shepard's The Linguini Incident is frequently called "off-beat," but to me it just seems off. Its gags never quite land, its narrative is scattered, its design is drab, and its lead characters, played by Rosanna Arquette and David Bowie, have very little chemistry. Still, it has a cult following that rescued it from obscurity after initial box office and critical failure and inspired a "director's cut" that added ten minutes to its run time. I admit that I laughed a few times, as when Arquette, playing a would-be escape artist who idolizes Houdini, tries to make her way out of a bag in which she's been locked, but even that bit goes on just a few seconds beyond the point at which it's funniest. 

Anatomy of Hell (Catherine Breillat, 2004)

Amira Casar and Rocco Siffredi in Anatomy of Hell

Cast: Amira Casar, Rocco Siffredi, voice of Catherine Breillat. Screenplay: Catherine Breillat, based on her novel. Cinematography: Giorgos Avanitis, Guillaume Schiffman. Production design: Jean-Marie Millon, Pedro Sá. Film editing: Pascale Chavance. 

I don't quite believe anyone who says they found Catherine Breillat's Anatomy of Hell boring. There's certainly enough that's unforeseen in it to hold the attention of even the most jaded viewer. It may be that we expect better of Breillat, who has made her reputation on candid treatments of sex, especially female sexuality, so that the more novel transgressive elements of the film feel less like the work of a major director than of one who's out just to shock and/or disgust. And it may certainly be that the dialogue in the film feels like talk for talk's sake, a tiresome attempt to stimulate the mind as well as the body. The film also seems not to understand sexual pleasure and desire very well, especially where it comes to gay men. I'm not sure that it demonstrates homophobia on Breillat's part, as some have charged, so much as a wrong-headed feint at inclusivity. Still, so few films today give us much to talk about after viewing, so we ought to credit Breillat with an attempt at that at the very least. 

Kiru (Kenji Misumi, 1962)

Raizo Ichikawa in Kiru

Cast: Raizo Ichikawa, Shiho Fujimura, Mayumi Nagisa, Masayo Banri, Jun'ichiro Narita, Matasaburo Niwa, Teru Tomota, Eijiro Yanagi, Shigeru Amachi, Yoshio Inaba. Screenplay: Kaneto Shindo, based on a novel by Renzaburo Shibata. Cinematography: Shozo Honda. Film editing: Kanji Suganuma. Music: Ichiro Saito. 

I knew Kenji Misumi's work mostly from the Lone Wolf and Cub series, which is fairly unabashed in its bloodletting, so I was surprised by the almost meditative tone of Kiru, which is also known as Destiny's Son. It's the story of Shingo Takakura (Raizo Ichikawa) and his search for a father figure. When he comes of age, Shingo asks the man he thinks is his father for permission to go on what you might call walkabout: to spend a year wandering in 19th century Japan. He returns home with a secret: He has learned a mastery of an indefensible sword technique. Unfortunately, this mastery inspires an attack on his home, in which his supposed father is killed, but not before revealing to Shingo his true parentage. That sends Shingo on another pilgrimage in which he meets his biological father and eventually a father figure, Matsudaira (Eijiro Yanagi), the head of a powerful clan whom Shingo serves as a samurai. It's a film full of stylized combat and astonishing scenes that proceeds at a contemplative pace which belies its relative brevity (71 minutes): One tense scene, for example, has no background sound other than the intermittent call of a bird. 

The Cry of Granuaile (Dónal Foreman, 2022)

Dale Dickey in The Cry of Granuaile

Cast: Dale Dickey, Judith Roddy, Andrew Bennett, Rebecca Guinnane, Fionn Ó Loingsigh, Donald Clarke, Bob Quinn. Screenplay: Dónal Foreman. Cinematography: Diana Vidrascu. Art direction: Nina McGowan. Film editing: Dónal Foreman. Music: Nick Roth, Olesya Zdorovetska. 

Dale Dickey is a familiar face: She has 140 film and TV credits spanning almost 30 years. You've probably seen her most often playing hard-bitten frontier, backwoods, or Southern women, but she's demonstrated skill and versatility in all her performances. So it's good to see her in a leading role, playing Maire, an American filmmaker visiting Ireland to try to launch a film about Grace O'Malley, aka Gráinne O'Malley or Gráinne Mhaol or Granuaile, or often just the Pirate Queen. It's a film of little plot beyond the development of the relationship of Maire and her guide, Cáit (Judith Roddy), as they travel through Ireland to see the places where the legend of Granuaile began in the 16th century. It's a picturesque and poetic film in which the remote past rubs up against the feminist present, and mostly held together by the performances of  Dickey and Roddy.